The Modern Cook’s Year

Copyright

4th Estate

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.4thestate.co.uk

This eBook edition published by 4th Estate in 2017

Copyright text © Anna Jones 2017

Copyright photography © Ana Cuba 2017

Art direction by Rachel Vere

Cover photography by Ana Cuba

Anna Jones asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers.

Source ISBN: 9780008172459

Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780008172466

Version: 2019-12-04

For Mum and Dad

Your kindness and love are limitless.

Parents and humans don’t come better.

And in memory of Laura Plane, a shining beacon to how life should be lived.

Your unstoppable kindness, grace and sense of fun sparkle on.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Introduction

Start of the year

Herald of spring

First warm days

Summer

Autumn

Winter

Basics

Index

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Introduction

There is something so joyful about eating food at its very best. Damsons as the nights draw in, apricots when the nights are at their longest, watermelon on a searing hot day, squash at Halloween. It is about an ingredient at its peak, the apex of its flavour, but more than that it’s about a time, a place and the memories of summers, Christmases and days past that are wrapped up in every bite of food we eat.

In London, where I live, the ebb and flow of the year is so apparent, the seasons come and go with force and how we eat changes dramatically. As a young chef, learning to cook with the seasons was truly the most miraculous discovery. Every Saturday would start with strong coffee alongside almost every London chef at Borough market. Then I’d walk over to Tony Booth’s veg stall, smell peaches, squeeze tomatoes, bite sharp little apples. It reconnected me with nature, with what was growing.

For me a year divided into four seasons feels too vague. Anyone who has stepped into a greengrocer on the winter side of spring and then again at the summer end will tell you that the two are very different. There are so many more subtleties to what’s growing than spring, summer, autumn and winter. It’s this rhythm, this relationship with nature, which I encourage you to foster. No June is the same, wild garlic will fill the hedgerows up at different times each year, the French apricots will arrive a few weeks later. The seasons are a useful tool but our eyes and taste buds should be our guide. This book is written in six chapters, which roughly knit together two months at a time, but let your senses, and the fruits and vegetables you find at your market, lead you. As each year comes and goes I am led to cook dishes at slightly different times and find the very best day for an ingredient does vary. With this in mind I encourage you not to think too rigidly about the seasons and the chapters of this book, use the produce on your doorstep to make the food that you feel like eating. If that’s macaroni cheese in July, so be it. The pages of this book are intended as a guide; you are the cook and the eater.

As much as the ripeness and readiness of an ingredient, and how it is cooked are important, the feeling at a certain time of year can inform how I cook too. A cool green salad eaten outside with little fuss suits the hot impatience of summer, a bowl of soup eaten with a spoon from a cushion balanced on a lap is homely, comforting and grounding like autumn. A just warm salad of freshly podded peas, broad beans and the first asparagus, echoes the promise, the smell of new-mown grass, the verdant green of spring. It’s my desire as a cook to feel and allow others to share these emotions, to punctuate the year with the memorable meals I have loved again and again, to nourish those I love with more than the flavour of food.

With that in mind I have included milestones and things I do at different times of year here too, from antique shopping at Christmas to resetting my culinary clock in spring. I hope they help to weave a picture of the year.

The techniques I lean on in the kitchen change too as the year unfolds. In winter my heavy cast-iron pots never leave the hob, always full of soup, or a vegetable braise. In spring vegetables which are tender and fresh need only a lick of heat from a hot frying pan. In summer, I use my mandoline most, to finely slice fennel and courgettes, for grilling and for raw salads. The dishes, the way I cook and the time I want to spend doing it change as dramatically as the contents of my fruit bowl and fridge.

While summer cooking tends to be the quickest I am somewhat of an impatient cook all year round. There are odd days when I linger in the kitchen but most often I cook dinner for the three of us in under an hour and those are the kind of recipes you will find in this book. A few use quite a few ingredients, for layering flavour and texture, which I feel is such an important part of cooking vegetables. I work with a palette of ingredients throughout the recipes in this book, so I hope that if you do invest in something new you will find lots of ideas for cooking with it in these pages.

Eating with the seasons naturally leads us to putting vegetables at the centre of our tables. This is how I eat every day and increasingly how many of us are eating. In the five years since I started writing my first book, the food landscape of how we eat has changed dramatically for the better. Vegetable- focused meals a few nights a week have become the norm for many and for that I am deeply grateful. We have damaged this planet, there have been decades of misuse and eating mostly vegetables, and shopping and eating in season and locally, are huge personal steps we can take in a better direction.

I have wherever possible tried to include vegan alternatives in lots of recipes; my brother and sister are both vegan so I cook this way often. For me it’s also important not to rely too heavily on dairy and eggs; while I do include good organic versions in my diet, I make sure a few meals each week are completely egg- and dairy- free, helping further reduce our load on the world around us.

The UK is a small country so when I think about seasonal eating I include Amalfi lemons, apricots from Provence, rice from Puglia. While I shop as locally as possible and my focus is on British produce, where I need to I lean on our European friends and their incredible offerings. Never has it been more important to foster the links that food creates, the trade it encourages and the barriers it breaks down.

A note on shopping

I long for a vegetable garden and to grow what I eat, but that’s not the reality just now; I shop for all my food (with the exception of a little foraging). The bulk of what I buy is from local shops and our excellent farmers’ market, topped up with the odd supermarket delivery for bulky things and dry goods.

My weekly trip to the market is my connection with nature, with food at its source. Seeing the first courgettes appear or the array of apples in autumn is my connection with the earth. Of course, I walk in the parks and trees and escape to the sea often but in the city it’s this trip that connects me with nature, with a place in time. I don’t need to be told when asparagus is in season any more; having cooked for years I know when it will arrive but I still go, I still walk the stalls, even if there is very little to buy and even if my fridge is full. It grounds me, reminds me of the wonder of food and the weeks I can’t make it I miss it.

I know the reality for many is that their shopping is done at a supermarket or online, and for a few months when my son was small so was mine (and our local shops are less than a five-minute walk away). Supermarkets are getting better at stocking and championing seasonal, local produce so it is absolutely possible to eat seasonally and shop at supermarkets. If you aren’t in tune with the season then perhaps remind yourself of what’s growing and good to eat now before you shop, look at labels, buy local food if you can. Even if sometimes it does cost a little more it will without doubt taste superior. The more we buy ethical, local and seasonal produce from our supermarkets the more they will stock, so with each purchase you are making a change.

Start of the year

Best of the season

Kale

Leeks

Swede

Purple sprouting broccoli

Savoy cabbage

Brussels sprouts

Winter tomatoes

Cavolo nero

Radicchio

Winter citrus

Pomegranate

Forced pink rhubarb

Flowers

Mimosa

Hellebores

Magnolia

Anemone

Grapefruit with honey and coriander seed toasted oats

I eat fruit for breakfast every day but at the start of the year I find my fruit bowl a little empty. We eat pears, apples, pomegranates and, when they arrive, blood oranges, but it’s not the offering of spring or summer and I get a bit bored. That’s when I turn back to grapefruit. I ate them growing up, an inch of sugar as a roof, with a special serrated spoon to scoop out each segment. This is now a breakfast we eat on repeat. It feels grown-up and delicate but requires little more than a few minutes at the stove.

Coriander seeds find their way into as many sweet things as savoury in my kitchen these days, their lemony character a perfect pep to a bright bit of winter citrus. This is as good at the end of a meal as for breakfast.

SERVES 2

2 grapefruit

½ teaspoon coriander seeds

2 tablespoons honey or agave nectar, plus more to finish

1 teaspoon butter

4 tablespoons rolled oats

1 teaspoon vanilla paste

100g yoghurt (I use coconut yoghurt)

Peel and segment or slice your grapefruit, taking care to get rid of any big bits of bitter pith. If you have any pieces of grapefruit peel with juicy flesh attached, keep them to use in the syrup. Bash the coriander seeds in a pestle and mortar until they have broken down a little and smell fragrant.

Put a small pan on a medium heat, add the coriander seeds and toast them for a minute until they smell toasty and more fragrant. Take the pan off the heat and add 2 tablespoons of cold water and the honey then squeeze in the juice from any of the bits of grapefruit you have saved. Put the pan back on the heat and simmer for a minute or so until the liquid all bubbles down into a thick syrup.

In another pan melt the butter until it’s foamy, then add the oats and toast, stirring them all the time until they are buttery brown and smelling great. Add the vanilla paste and stir for another minute or so.

Put the grapefruit slices on to two plates, pour over the warm syrup and top with the yoghurt and oats and a little more honey if you like things sweet.

Saffron breakfast kheer

Kheer is an Indian rice pudding eaten on high days and at feasts. It is a calming mix of gentle spice, milk and rice, which I find especially good to eat at breakfast time. There is nothing more nourishing to my mind than milk and rice together – easy to eat and cleansing in the best possible sense of the word. We make a double batch of this and reheat it with a little extra milk on the following days; sometimes it’s dessert too. Kheer is used in the Ayurvedic tradition to balance the system during the winter; the sweet cinnamon helps digestion and the warmth of the rice and milk protects against any wintery cold.

I use brown rice here but white rice would be just as delicious. I suggest soaking the rice overnight – it is a 2-minute job and will vastly speed up the cooking process. If you don’t remember to do it overnight, then soaking it as long as you have will be okay. If saffron is a bridge too far for breakfast, then you can just leave it out, the other spices will hold up.

SERVES 4

150g long-grain brown rice

100g cashew nuts

50g blanched almonds

1 litre almond milk (I use unsweetened)

6 cardamom pods

100g raisins (I use golden ones)

¼ teaspoon ground ginger

a pinch of saffron threads, soaked in 50ml boiling water

1 small cinnamon stick

2 tablespoons runny honey

TO SERVE

the zest of 1 unwaxed lime

a small handful of toasted coconut flakes

Soak the rice in one bowl and the cashews and almonds in another in cold water for at least 30 minutes but ideally overnight.

In the morning drain the rice and put it into a saucepan with the milk and 500ml of cold water and bring to a simmer. Cook for 20 minutes at a gentle bubble until the rice has puffed up and the liquid is beginning to thicken.

Meanwhile drain the nuts and finely chop them – you can do this in a food processor if you like. Bash the cardamom pods using a pestle and mortar and remove the fragrant seeds, then discard the pods and grind the seeds until you have a powder.

After 20 minutes add the nuts, raisins, spices and honey to the rice and cook for another 15 minutes until thick and creamy, somewhere between rice pudding and porridge. You want to reach the sweet spot where the rice is soft, with very little bite, and the kheer is creamy but not too thick. If it looks like it is thickening too fast, turn the heat down and top up with a little boiling water from the kettle. Serve spooned into bowls with the lime zest and coconut flakes on top; if you have a sweet tooth you could add a little extra honey on top.

Baked apple porridge with maple butter

The snap of cold that comes at the start of the year is perfect porridge weather. I’ve never understood those who eat it like clockwork, regardless of the temperature. I love the warmth of it on a cold day, a bowl in my hands like a morning hot-water bottle, the quick but nourishing time spent stirring at the stove a welcome interruption to the busy rush of the morning and a few minutes to let my mind wander at the start of the day.

This porridge is a bit different in that it is baked so the edges crisp and the starry apple slices on top soften and burnish. I top it with a maple cream so good it’s hard not to spoon it all straight from the dish before the porridge is ready. It takes a little longer to make than a regular porridge – it’s a weekend one.

I make it to feed a crowd, or on a Sunday with intentional leftovers so that I know we have a good breakfast in the fridge to start the week. This keeps well in the fridge for a few days and any extra can be reheated with a little extra milk in a small pan. I make a big batch of spice mix, which I keep in a jar and add to my stovetop porridge through the week too, hence this making more than you’ll need for the baked porridge, but if you prefer you could add a pinch of each spice to the recipe rather than making a large batch. I make this without dairy, using almond milk and coconut oil, as that’s how I like to eat it, but regular milk and butter work just as well.

SERVES 6

FOR THE SPICE MIX

2 tablespoons ground cardamom

2 tablespoons ground ginger

½ teaspoon ground nutmeg

½ teaspoon ground cloves

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

coconut oil or butter

3 large apples

1 unwaxed lemon

200g rolled oats

1½ teaspoons baking powder

¼ teaspoon fine sea salt

100g nuts, toasted and chopped (I use pecans and hazelnuts)

750ml almond milk

125ml pure maple syrup, plus extra for drizzling

FOR THE MAPLE CREAM

2 tablespoons nut butter (I use cashew)

2 tablespoons maple syrup

4 tablespoons almond milk

a tiny pinch of fine sea salt

a drop of vanilla extract or paste

Make the spice mix first by stirring the spices together in a small jar, then set aside.

Preheat the oven to 210ºC/190ºC fan/gas 6. Grease a deep ovenproof dish, about 20 x 20cm, with coconut oil.

Grate two of the apples. Turn the last apple on to its side and slice it very thinly, so that you get a lovely star pattern. Grate the zest from half the lemon to use later, then cut the lemon in half and squeeze the juice from one half over the sliced apple to stop it browning.

In a large bowl, combine the oats, baking powder, salt, 1 teaspoon of the spice mix, the grated apple and most of the chopped nuts (saving a small handful for the topping). Stir to combine. In a jug or separate bowl, mix the milk with the maple syrup, the juice of the remaining half lemon and the reserved zest.

Tip the oat and apple mixture into the greased dish, pour over the milk and maple syrup mixture, arrange the sliced apples on top and drizzle over a little maple syrup. Dot the top of the oats with little pieces of coconut oil or butter. Bake for 25–30 minutes, or until the top of the porridge is golden brown and all the liquid has been absorbed.

While the porridge bakes, make the maple cream. In a medium bowl, whisk together the nut butter, maple syrup, milk, salt and vanilla. You are looking for something totally smooth and pourable. If the mixture seems too thick, add a little more milk.

Serve the baked porridge hot, spooned into bowls with the maple cream for pouring over.

Lentils on toast

We all, even chefs and cooks, sometimes sit down to a dinner of beans on toast. I am sure the childhood comfort of it is as nourishing as the actual food on the plate. These yoghurt-spiked lentils are something I have taken to making as an alternative to beans when we want something quick without a trip to the shops, but that feels a bit more put together. The lentils are warming and filling and have a depth of flavour which would make you think they’d taken much longer than five minutes.

This recipe is intended to be made from fridge and store-cupboard staples, so the herbs are optional – if you have some in the fridge or on the window sill all the better. The same goes for the cheese; I always have a piece of Parmesan in the top of my fridge, but pretty much any hard cheese would work here.

SERVES 2

50g nuts (I like walnuts or almonds)

olive oil

1 clove of garlic, thinly sliced

1 x 400g tin of green lentils (or 250g home-cooked, see here)

1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

a squeeze of runny honey

4 tablespoons thick Greek yoghurt

TO SERVE

a few slices of good toast

a small bunch of soft herbs (basil, parsley, dill, tarragon), leaves picked and roughly chopped

a little grated cheese (I use a vegetarian one)

First, toast your nuts in in a dry pan over a medium heat until they smell toasty and are beginning to brown. Once toasted, tumble them into a bowl and when they are cool enough to handle, chop or crumble them.

Meanwhile, put the pan back on a medium heat and add a good glug of oil and the garlic. Sizzle until the edges of the garlic are beginning to brown, then add the lentils and their liquid (if you are using home-cooked lentils you’ll need about 150ml of their cooking liquid) along with the vinegar and honey. Cook for about 5 minutes until all the liquid has been absorbed.

Now add a pinch of salt and a good grind of pepper to the lentils along with a good drizzle of olive oil. Taste and add more salt, honey, pepper or vinegar if needed. Once they taste great, take them off the heat and stir in the yoghurt.

Drizzle olive oil over hot toast and serve the lentils piled on top with the herbs, nuts and a good grating of cheese. Any leftover lentils can be eaten hot or cold and will keep for 3–4 days in the fridge.

Cooking with grace

I have spent time in ashrams and been to more yoga classes than I can remember. When I was pregnant I became really interested in the power of the mind and hypnotherapy. All of these things – meditation, yoga and positive thinking – are tools I use in my life to make it happier and better. And the more I have delved into how to keep my life as happy, free of stress and joyful as possible the more I know that my kitchen is where I find my calm space. Not every night. Some nights I clatter around, throwing things in a pan with very little grace, and the end result, while usually edible, is never repeated. But I know that the kitchen can be a transformative place, and that goes for anyone – you don’t need to consider yourself a cook.

When I centre myself and take in every little nuance of what’s going on, cooking becomes my solace, my meditation. Whether it’s the pleasing glide of my favourite potato peeler, taking in the intoxicating perfume of a bunch of mint or basil, or the searing splattering of juice that sprays up when I cut into a lemon, noticing these moments connects me with my food and reminds me of the wonder of where it has come from. Cooking is an offering: to me, to my body and to those I love – the people I cook for. And it is healing, not just through the nourishment it provides but in the very act and process of doing something physical and practical. It calms my mind and allows me to focus on just one thing.

A big part of this grounding, nourishing practice has been lost in cooking. Sure, we all know that making a loaf of bread, or jarring up some jam from heavy-laden fruit trees will give us a deep sense of satisfaction. But I think that our everyday cooking can be as much an act of meditation, escape and dare I say it, mindfulness. This may be nothing new, and it is by no means groundbreaking information but if, like me, you tend to get caught up in the day-to-day of life let this be my encouragement to you to remember that even the simplest of tasks in the kitchen can be something to embrace and delight in.

I truly believe that when we cook the emotions, thoughts and feelings of the cook get translated into the food. That may sound a little far out, but having cooked thousands of dishes, I know that when I’m paying close attention to what I am doing, giving each task and ingredient the reverence it deserves, the food tastes infinitely better. Equally sometimes I throw everything in a pan with a million other things going on as that’s all I can manage, and when I do I don’t give myself a hard time.

For me, focusing on how I cook means turning off other things like TV or music, following each task with dedication, taking as much care as I have time to do. To appreciate and even, if I don’t sound like too much of a hippy, marvel at my ingredients, our natural treasures. Make sure you take time to smell, taste and immerse yourself in the amazing process of cooking, and then finish it by putting the food on each plate with care if you can. When I cook like this I find it soothing, rewarding and everything I cook tastes better.

Our state of mind as we eat has a huge effect on how we digest our food and how we take in the nutrients and energy from it. Stress and anxiety around food and eating is something I try to avoid in my recipes and in my kitchen. I truly believe that a pizza and a beer enjoyed in good spirits, slowly and calmly with friends, can be as nourishing as endless green smoothies, which are inhaled on the run or sipped while reading emails at our desks with no real thought about the true meaning of nourishment. We’ve lost the connection with how we eat our food, the emotions going on around eating and the sense of offering that comes with feeding ourselves. I don’t manage it every time I eat but a couple of seconds to slow down and be thankful for the food on my plate before diving in seems to set a good tone for the meal and often allows me to appreciate the flavours, textures and sensations a little more.

A few observations on cooking and eating mindfully and with grace

— Turn off music, radio and phones, if you can, so that you can focus on all the sensations of cooking.

— Try to notice the little things – the colour change in the skin of a peach, the tiny pores on the skin of an orange, the condensation on the lid of a pan.

— Notice the sounds – the sizzle of frying, the bubbling of a pot. These tell you as much about what you are cooking and where you are in the process as anything you can see.

— Follow the process with all your senses, smell the changes as ingredients are added, feel how a mixture firms up as you stir it, notice the change in colour as you fry or blanch. And notice how you feel, whether ingredients or smells bring up memories or emotions.

— Try and keep your attention totally focused on your food and if your mind wanders, don’t worry, just bring it back to the food.

— Tune in to even the most mundane parts of the job – peeling carrots, picking herbs – immersing yourself totally in the detail of each task will allow you to switch off from other pressures.

Broken eggs with cavolo nero, ricotta and chickpeas

Broken eggs are somewhere between scrambled and poached eggs. They cook gently in the pan with a couple of turns of the spoon, then finish their cooking at the table. A heavy or cast-iron frying pan is great here, as it holds on to the heat better.

I first ate eggs like this at Raw Duck, a favourite breakfast spot near where I live. Cooking eggs this way means the last bit of cooking is controlled at the table, which means no overcooked, rubbery eggs, and that you can spoon them out when they are cooked just as you like, leaving some in the pan for people who like their eggs less runny.

You can use kale or any greens you have, and any other beans would work in place of the chickpeas – if they are home-cooked so much the better. A scattering of toasted almonds or hazelnuts or even dukkah would be welcome here too.

SERVES 4

1 head of cavolo nero (about 300g)

olive oil

1 x 400g tin of chickpeas, drained (or about 250g home-cooked – see here)

1 clove of garlic, thinly sliced

1 red chilli, finely chopped

the juice of 1 unwaxed lemon and the zest from half

a good grating of nutmeg

6 medium organic eggs

4 rounds of toast or toasted flatbreads, to serve

100g ricotta or thick Greek yoghurt

Strip the leaves from the cavolo nero, shredding any larger ones. Finely chop the stalks, discarding any really thick sinewy ones.

Heat a heavy, ideally cast-iron, medium frying pan (about 28cm) on a medium heat. Add a little olive oil, then the chickpeas, cook for a couple of minutes to crisp a little, then add the chopped cavolo nero stalks, garlic and chilli. Cook for another few minutes until the stalks are tender and the garlic has started to brown, then add the leaves. Add the lemon juice, zest, a good pinch of salt and pepper and the nutmeg, then cook for 4–5 minutes until the cavolo nero leaves have softened.

Next break each egg into a bowl and get your flatbreads or toast ready. Spoon the ricotta into the pan, dotting it around, then pour the eggs one by one gently on top of the cavolo nero mixture. Keep the pan on the heat and gently stir the eggs a couple of times, just to break them a little. You want the whites and yolks to stay separate, not to mix them together as you would with scrambled eggs. Quickly take the pan off the heat and carry it to the table along with a wooden spoon; the residual heat of the pan will continue to cook the eggs. Use the wooden spoon and continue to stir until the eggs are set to your liking, I like mine to be soft and curdy. Serve right away with charred flatbreads or hot toast.

Twice-baked potato skins with crispy buffalo chickpeas

These double-baked potato skins bring back childhood memories of American diners but, rather than the inch-deep cheese, these are piled high with spicy baked chickpeas, which pick up a pleasing crunch in the oven, and a grown-up ‘sour cream’ dip. I make the dip using cashews, which I blitz to a cream, but you can use yoghurt instead of the cashews if you’d prefer. I serve these with a salad for dinner but they would be great as a party snack if you used smaller potatoes. Kids love them if you go easy on the spice.

SERVES 4

4 medium baking potatoes

olive oil

1 red onion, finely chopped

1 stick of celery, finely chopped (reserving the inner leaves)

1 teaspoon smoked sweet paprika

1 teaspoon cumin seeds

1 clove of garlic, finely chopped

2 x 400g tins of chickpeas or other white beans, drained (or 500g home-cooked chickpeas, see here)

200ml passata or blitzed tinned tomatoes

a pinch of dried chilli flakes (I use a generous pinch of a mild Turkish variety called pul biber)

a small bunch of flat-leaf parsley, leaves picked

FOR THE DIP

100g cashew nuts, soaked in cold water for about an hour or 150ml thick Greek yoghurt

the zest and juice of 1 unwaxed lemon

a small bunch of chives, chopped

Preheat the oven to 200ºC/180ºC fan/gas 6. Set up two oven racks in the middle of the oven. Wash and dry the potatoes, prick with a fork and rub with a little olive oil, then sprinkle over some salt and rub in with your hands. Place the potatoes directly on the top oven rack. Bake them until they feel tender and the skin is crisp, about 1–1½ hours.