Friday Nibbles – Black Pepper

A while back I wrote about salt. Pure and simple. I thought now would be a good time to redress the balance and pen something about it’s natural bedfellow – black pepper.

These punchy little fruits are the dried berries of the pepper tree. They grow like tightly packed, streamline bunches of grapes throughout Asia but are thought to have originated in India where they have been used as a seasoning for well over 4000 years.

From India, the plant was traded throughout Asia and now grows in abundance all over the continent. But Kochi, India remains the spiritual home of the spice and the International Pepper Exchange still has its headquarters there, despite Vietnam being the world’s most prolific producer.

Peppercorns are the most widely traded spice in the world, accounting for a whopping fifth (in monetary terms) of all goods in this bracket.

The 15th, 16th and 17th Centuries saw Europe’s ruling factions desperate to monopolise the lucrative spice trade and by 1494 the Portuguese had managed to gain exclusive rights to this new ‘black gold.’

But as Portuguese hegemony was usurped by British and Dutch colonial successes, their influence diminished and the spice routes were opened up.

The result was an increase in supply to Europe and a subsequent fall in price.

Now black peppercorns are a commodity taken for granted and the familiar peppermill is near ubiquitous in Western kitchens. Why? Simply because freshly ground black pepper is a near perfect seasoning. In moderation it is unobtrusive but able to lend a faint warmth and depth of flavour to many dishes.

It compliments the flavour of a vast variety of cuisines from steaming bowls of hearty stew to simply roasted pieces of meat. Plates of pasta and crispy edged rounds of pizza, topped with melting cheese and sweet tomatoes, would be unthinkable without a last minute turn of an oversized peppermill. Likewise slow cooked daubes or quickly fried pieces of fish. A good steak, cooked quickly and seasoned with only salt and pepper is a thing of simple beauty.

But it must be freshly ground.

Pre-ground black pepper, the stuff that looks like the contents of a vacuum cleaner after it’s been used to clean a student’s bedroom, is a total waste of time and belongs in the kitchen as much as a bacon butty belongs at a Bar Mitzvah.

Don’t do it.

It’s hard to think of a recipe that showcases this kitchen essential in the way previous initiates to this Hall of Fame have enjoyed (although both cheese on toast and Bloody Marys would be far less enjoyable without it).

But try this one on for size, it’s brevity and simplicity are part of its appeal

Pineapple & Black Pepper
You will need:
One pineapple
Some black pepper
That’s it.
No, really, that’s it.

Prepare your pineapple in whichever way you normally do. Personally, I think long, thin strips are ideal. Arrange over a large plate. Grind a little black pepper over the slices, making sure each one has had a little of the magic. Go easy.

Leave the whole lot in the fridge for at least two hours. Remove and eat. Preferably with the glowing orb of the setting sun in the background and the dying embers of a well used barbecue in the fore. Trust me on this. It’s incredible.

Friday Nibbles – Lemons

For the first time in months it was possible to go outside in short sleeves without breathing in and holding your arms close to your chest this afternoon. The sun was out and there was a faint, but noticeable, whiff of spring in the air.

Perhaps it is something to do with the weather or the crocuses and evocative daffodils that are bursting through the earth that was frozen just two short weeks ago, but when I saw these lemons in the fridge, I felt that they needed to be celebrated.

Along with limes, oranges and grapefruits, lemons belong to the genus Citrus. They grow in temperate climes throughout the world and are characterised by their sharp flavour, one of the reasons they’ve become so useful to chefs from many culinary backgrounds.

Little is known of the exact etymology of the lemon but it is likely that it was first domesticated on the Indian sub-continent. It was probably introduced to Europe through Italy, from the Middle East. Arabic influence during the 11th and 12th centuries CE further spread the use of the lemon throughout the Mediterranean and by the 15th century it was being widely cultivated in Italy and southern Europe.

Once the Americas were being colonised, the warm climates of the South East and the western seaboard were found to be ideal for the cultivation of citrus fruits – something that continues to this day.

The lemon forms a central part in much Middle Eastern and North African cooking – preserved and pickled lemons are used throughout the region to add flavour and acidity to a wide range of dishes.

Lemon has long been served with fish – the acid helps to bring out the flavours and cut through the richness of some fish, like salmon. They can also be excellent squeezed over grilled meats: Greek lamb kebabs can really be pepped up with a hint of lemon juice.

The classic Italian recipe, steak Florentine also calls for lemon juice. Simply rub your steaks with a little garlic, season with salt and pepper and fry them in a little olive oil and butter over a high heat until they are done to your taste (screaming rare, please).

Remove them to a warm plate, squeeze over the juice of half a lemon and let them rest for five minutes. Slice and serve with salad and boiled potatoes drizzled with the resting juices from the meat.

They may be a great culinary ingredient but, much like last week, it is in the drinks region when lemons really shine.

A gin & tonic would be unthinkable without a generous wedge of lemon floating amidst the ice cubes and many a cocktail would look naked without a round disc of lemon adoring the glass like a tiny sun.

My absolute favourite use of lemon, however, is in a whisky sour.

This is a cocktail that tastes great as an aperitif and just as good, if not better, at ‘round midnight. You can make this as sweet or as sour as you like. Personally, I like it best when it’s sharper than a samurai’s sword and makes you purse your lips until they disappear.

Shake two parts whisky (the cheap stuff is fine. Don’t go using the finest single malt here) with an equal amount of freshly squeezed lemon juice and one part sugar syrup. Don’t forget the ice. Strain into a short glass (ice optional here but not recommended) and garnish with a maraschino cherry. This is what Elysium tastes like.

Just some quick pointers to remember when you’re buying lemons – don’t get them waxed, or else you won’t be able to use the zest. They shouldn’t be shiny, round and perfect. They should be large, uneven and nobbly. You want a lemon that’s seen some action and some sun. Finally, before squeezing, ten seconds in the microwave should help you extract as much juice as possible.

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Friday Nibbles – Worcestershire Sauce

Aside from the very first ‘Nibble’ which was about Lingham’s Chilli Sauce, this feature has been about ingredients rather than brands.

It’s better that way.

But there are some important store-cupboard items that don’t fit so neatly into this bracket and I think it’s time to address some of these.

They will appear on merit only. Any sponsorship or advertising will be clearly marked as such, if it ever appears. These are items I use, things that I feel are worthy of a place in the culinary Hall of Fame that Friday Nibbles has become.

And what better place to start than with Lea & Perrins’ Worcestershire Sauce.

The origins of the sauce are clouded in a little mystery with some competing stories as to how it came into existence.

Like many fine culinary inventions (tarte tatin, for example), Worcestershire Sauce was discovered by accident by two chemists in the late 1830s.

Legend has it that they had been commissioned by a local nobleman to recreate a condiment that he had enjoyed whilst Governor of Bengal. What is certain is that the original recipe was found to be quite disgusting and as such the entire batch was banished to the deepest recesses of Messrs Lea and Perrins’ cellar. Where it remained, forgotten, for three years.

Only during a clear-out was the barrel re-discovered. It was found that the contents had fermented and transformed the sauce into something quite delicious.

Even today, a three-year fermentation is included in the manufacturing process.

Although the recipe remains a secret, the ingredients include molasses, sugar, salt, anchovies, tamarind, onions, garlic, spices and flavouring. All these are fermented in malt vinegar which gives the sauce its sharp flavour.

Unless you’ve tasted it, it is near impossible to describe the flavour of Worcestershire Sauce, not that you would want to consume it neat.

But as an addition, it really comes into its own. A few shakes into a spicy chilli or rich beef ragu can really enliven proceedings. It also works wonders with cheese or baked beans on toast.

But by far my favourite use of this wonder-condiment is not in a meal, but a drink. Worcestershire Sauce is an essential addition to that fabled hangover cure, a Bloody Mary.

Bloody Marys taste best on a Sunday morning, at about eleven am. Kind of Blue should be playing in the background and the previous evening’s excesses should be a happy memory, fading away with gradual ease. The newspaper should be ready and waiting, as yet untouched.

And then comes the opening of the cocktail cabinet, the gentle and welcome clinking of ice cubes into glasses and the glorious sight of a ‘hair of the dog’ honing into view, a crisp, refreshing stick of celery the only decoration.

Bloody Mary
Making a Bloody Mary is a uniquely personal experience. Some prefer to go easy on the alcohol, concentrating instead of the restorative powers of Tabasco sauce. Others like a strong mix to dull the acute edges of a hangover, allowing the vodka to gently ease its way back into the bloodstream and works its happy magic.

Below is the way I like mine. I am quite particular and this drink is as much about the ritual as the taste and effect. I love the different stages that it passes through before it is ready – astringent, sour, cold, sweet, spicy, seasoned, perfect.

Acquire and arrange your ingredients. The specific brands are important:

A tall highball glass.
Absolut, or other premium vodka (at least a double measure of 50ml)
Ice
A ¼ of a lemon
Tomato juice
Tabasco sauce
Lea & Perrins’ Worcestershire Sauce
Salt and pepper
A stick of fresh, crisp celery, about ¾ the height of the glass, sliced lengthways to about half way up.

Pour the vodka into the highball glass. Squeeze the juice from the lemon into the vodka. Drop the wedge into the glass. Fill the glass with large ice cubes. Pour over the tomato juice until the glass is almost full. Take the Worcestershire sauce in one hand and the Tabasco in the other and give two shakes into the glass.

Add a pinch of salt. Stir well. Finally add a few turns from a pepper mill, stir again. Top with a final turn of the pepper mill, garnish with the celery and commence drinking. Realise just what excellent company Miles Davies is on a Sunday morning and vow to do this more often.

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Friday Nibbles – Sausages

Damned tasty, infinitely versatile, globally and culturally diverse, not to mention inherently comedic (used to full effect by Ben Elton and Richard Curtis in Blackadder, see below) – you just have to love the sausage.

[Whizz forward to the five-minute mark if you’re short on time. Sausage? SAUSAGE?! Genius]

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ehoWvO75avE]

As a species we have probably been making sausages for as long as we’ve been roasting meat over the flames. Once appetites had been sated with charred primary cuts, it was found that meat could be preserved in a variety of ways: Drying, smoking, curing or grinding up and packing into lengths of intestine.

As such, sausages are believed to be some of the oldest prepared foods in existence.

Techniques may have improved in the intervening millennia but the principle remains the same: sausages are about economising and preserving – and finding a tasty way of doing it, to boot.

There are so many varieties and variations that it would be foolhardy to attempt to discuss them all within the meagre confines of a Friday Nibble. Perhaps a book is in order? Hmmmm. Alternatively, for a slightly shorter take on the subject, see this list of the top ten sausages, according to Askmen.com

Think about the difference between a dark, fragrantly spiced black pudding and the smoky notes of a frankfurter, or the paprika hit of a morsel of fried chorizo compared to the delicate flavour of a Bavarian Weisswurst and you start to get the idea.

In Britain, sausages are virtually a national dish. During the war the meagre amounts of meat were padded out with rusk and water, which then boiled inside the casing before the steam burst through in a mini-explosion. This led to them being christened ‘bangers’ – a moniker that has stuck.

The somewhat ambiguous ingredients list present on many sausages has given them some bad press recently with unscrupulous manufacturers bending the rules as far as possible in order to make a cheap product. But there are some seriously gourmet sausages out there and is well worth spending a few extra pence to enjoy the very best.

Sometimes they are best fried or grilled and sandwiched between two slices of bread or wedged into a steaming pile of buttery mash, topped with sticky onion gravy. But to assume that is all they are good for is to do them a great disservice.

For many culinary cultures, a variation on the classic sausage and beans is a virtual staple. It is cheap, it is tasty, it is nutritious, it makes the most of the local produce and is incredibly easy to cook. I particularly like the Umbrian version made with boar sausages and dark Italian lentils.

But my favourite take on this dish has to be cassoulet, a meal I spend a great deal of time talking about, writing about, cooking and eating.

This dish from southern France, like many versions of the combination, is hearty and cheap, what many might refer to as ‘peasant food’. Far from being a derisory and patronising term, for me ‘peasant food’ conjures up images of tasty meals that offer the best possible flavour of an area. Peasant food is something to be embraced and enjoyed.

I’ve made many different versions of cassoulet, every one of them different but each enjoyable in their own right. This one, whilst it may lack the confit duck and pork belly, is simple, rustic and cheap. Slow food at its finest.

Cassoulet
Six good quality pork sausages, Toulouse if you can get them
500g of dried haricot beans
Four large onions, two finely chopped
Two bay leaves
Two cloves of garlic
50g of goose or chicken fat
Two tins of plum tomatoes, drained and the tomatoes blitzed in a food processor
500ml of pork stock
A large, heavy bottomed casserole
Salt and pepper

Soak the beans overnight. Drain them, tip them into a large pan and cover with cold water. Add two of the onions, peeled and quartered through the stem so they stay together. Tuck the bay leaves into the mass of beans (a great tip for getting flavour into all orts of pulses)and then simmer for about an hour until cooked. Don’t add any salt until the beans are almost done – about fifteen minutes to go – or they will toughen up. Drain the beans and discard the onions and bay leaves. They’ve done their work.

Spoon half the goose or chicken fat into the casserole and put on a high heat. Brown the sasuages on all sides, but don’t cook them, then place on a waiting plate. Turn down the heat and gently fry off the onion in the remaining fat. When the onion is cooked add the garlic, return the sausages to the pan and add the tomatoes. Season generously with salt and pepper.

Tip in almost all the beans and mix them in. Save a few handfuls for the top. Layer these on the top of the sausage and bean mix (see photo above) and put into a warm oven (about 150) for an hour.

After an hour the top layer should be crunchy. Stir this into the mix and poke seven or eight holes in the top of the cassoulet all the way to the bottom of the pan. The wrong end of a wooden spoon is ideal for this. Pour the stock into the holes and over the top of the dish. Return to the oven for a further hour.

Let it cool for ten minutes, serve with a ballsy red wine and eat far too much. Delicious.

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Friday Nibbles – Onions

Cheap, tasty, staggeringly versatile – what’s not to like about the humble onion? Housed within the tough, papery skin is a vegetable that is integral to cuisines from all over the world – from the curries of India to the pickled onions of the UK, served alongside steaming fish and chips. Italian, French, Greek, Spanish cooking, and countless others, would be very different indeed were it not for this glorious vegetable.

Onions are one of the oldest vegetables known to mankind. They have always been easy to grow, able to flourish in a myriad of climatic conditions, keep well and are easily transported, a property that made them important to ancient cultures.

They are, along with garlic, leeks, ramsoms (wild garlic), part of the allium family and were probably first cultivated by the Egyptians who worshipped the onion as a symbol of eternal life.

Now the majority are grown in China and India, although the capacity of the onion to grow in so many varied climates means that many nations don’t have to import them, instead growing their own and storing them once the season is over.

Although there are countless recipes that include onions, very few exist that put them on a pedestal all of their own. One notable exception, of course, is the nectar that is French onion soup (method to follow). Instead, onions tend to form an integral aspect of recipes and as such much be prepared, a task many cooks find frustrating.

Chopping onions the right way is one of those tricks that, once you learn, you’ll never use any other method. It is very simple and uses the root end to hold the vegetable together whilst you chop it from the top end (if you already know all this then feel free to skip forward).

The first step is to slice off the top half centimetre so that you end up with a flat end which you can put face down on the chopping board. Once you have done that slice the onion in half and remove the skin.

Next lay the onion down on its largest exposed flat surface so you have a hemisphere facing up towards you. Using a (sharp) knife make a series of cuts down its back all the way through, being careful not to cut through the root end which will continue to hold it all together. Finally, start cutting perpendicular to these and tiny little pieces of onion should start to fall away.

Depending on what you are cooking, these can be large chunks or miniscule pieces that will almost dissolve if they are cooked slowly in oil. If you wish to make slices, as opposed to dice, then dispense with the first step and just cut across the onion after you have skinned it.

Cooking onions, too, can present some problems, with many people trying to hurry the process and ending up with burnt, acrid tasting slices as opposed to sweet and fragrant. Many recipes call for onions to be ‘sweated’. This should be done over a gentle heat in a little oil and normally takes 10-15 minutes with occasional stirring. Once they have reached this stage – soft and vaguely translucent – they can then be’ browned’ by a further 5-10 minutes cooking. This will give you a sweetness thanks to the caramelisation of the naturally occurring sugars (a process known as ‘Maillard reactions’).

So, onto something more fun – French onion soup is a bona fide classic and one that is near impossible to screw up. It is warming, hearty and makes a delicious lunch or a first rate starter if you are having more than one course. It is the sort of food that you serve to people you really like – casual, no tablecloths necessary and many bottles of vin de table from Burgundy.

Naturally, there are variations to this dish which can elevate it to heights you never thought possible – bacon, red wine, rich beef stock, herbs – but sometimes a quick fix is all you need which is exactly what this method is. Should serve two, avec du pain, naturellement.
Thinly slice four or five onions and sweat them in fat (butter, oil, goose fat – whatever you have to hand. I used chicken fat today from a bird we roasted at the weekend) for 15-20 minutes. Crank up the heat and start to brown them. You should end up with some delicious crusty brown stuff clinging to the bottom of the pan. This is the fond and is most excellent.

Once they have been nicely browned (and this is the bit that will probably make a Frenchman raise his hands, scream ‘sacre bleu’ and weep into his beret) add about two tablespoons of balsamic vinegar. Not the good stuff, obviously. It will darken the soup and add a wonderful sweet acidity. Using a wooden spoon scrape the fond from the bottom of the pan and stir it into the onions.

Next pour in the stock (about 500ml), turn down the heat, stir and leave for another ten minutes. If you don’t make your own, stock cubes are ideal (chicken or beef will yield the best results. I don’t know about vegetable) for this and give results as good as anything I’ve done with homemade stock.

Whilst it is bubbling away and filling your kitchen with smells to make your stomach gurgle in anticipation, dry out a piece of bread in the oven. Good crusty bread is the best, day old baguette if you have it.

Pour the soup into a bowl, top with the bread and layer on a healthy slice of cheese (traditionally Gruyere but I think tradition went out of the window with the balsamic vinegar so anything melty will do), pop it under the grill until the cheese starts to brown and bubble.

Eat. Sigh a happy sigh and realise just how good the world is when you can make food like this for mere pence.

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Friday Nibbles – Rice

It had been a staggeringly, disgustingly, painfully, outrageously and downright scandalously long time since I posted a ‘nibble’ on this fair blog.

I was just getting into a routine as well. Things were settling down and I was building up a steady following of lovely, warm and delightful readers who were kind enough to leave their own thoughts to supplement my own verbal culinary ramblings.

And then it just…g r a d u a l l y s t o p p e d. Sorry about that. My bad.

In 1968 Elvis stunned the world with his comeback special. It was a staggering performance that proved he was an artist of incomparable talent, revitalised his ailing career and guaranteed that he was destined to enter the highest echelons of rock fame. And I plan to do the same. With, erm, rice.

One of the four main cereal crops that form the carbohydrate staple part of the diet for 99 per cent of the world’s population, rice is amazing. Despite the numerous variations of this humble crop there are, in fact, only two species of domesticated rice. All the hundreds of different types from Basmati and Jasmine to Carnaroli and long-grain are just variations of a mere two progenitors.

Archaeological evidence suggests that rice was first domesticated in the Asian sub-continent at some point between 10,500 years BP (before present) and 6,500 year BP and from there spread to other parts of Asia and Africa. The grain didn’t reach Europe until the development of the Spice Route in the fifteenth century CE and finally made its way over to The Americas by the late 1600s thanks to the Slave Trade.

Now over 20% of the world’s population rely on rice to provide the bulk of their diet with the Chinese way out ahead in terms of consumption. They get through about 80 kilos of the stuff per person (per year, obviously. Not all in one go) which is a lot. For comparative purposes, that is about eight times the amount we chew through in Europe or America.

There are now so many varieties of rice (some estimates put the figure at about 100,000) that to talk about them all would be both fool-hardy and dull so perhaps it is best to concentrate on a few key ones that would make an excellent addition to most store-cupboards.

Basmati is a must. Its fragrant, almost floral, flavour completes a curry in the way that nothing else can. Even its smell is unmistakably reminiscent of Indian food in the same way that the aroma of cumin or Garam Masala is. A pan of basmati bubbling away on the hob is sure to make you feel hungry and start hankering for something warming and spiced to go with it.

Moving slightly further east, we come to Jasmine rice, as characteristically Thai as Basmati is Indian. It too has a fragrant deliciousness, not dissimilar to Basmati (thanks to the appearance in both of a compound called 2-acetyl-1-pyrroline). When cooked, Jasmine rice has a slightly stickier texture which makes it useful for soaking up the highly flavoured and aromatic sauces for which Thai food is justifiably famous.

Finally, we come closer to home and touch upon risotto rice. There are three main varieties (Arborio, Carnaroli and Vialone Nano), all defined by their ability to soak up vast quantities of liquid without splitting and turning into a soupy, glutinous mass. My personal preference is for Vialone Nano although any of the three will produce an excellent risotto, providing you have some decent stock and about forty minutes to spare for stirring purposes.

I’m fairly sure I’ve made a glaring omission, please let me know if I have. And if you’re good there will be a recipe to follow: roasted beetroot, ginger and dark chocolate risotto. Not as strange as it sounds and pant-wettingly delicious.

Have a great weekend.

Friday Nibbles – Salt

Salt has had a bad press recently with more and more dieticians and nutritionists advising us to cut our salt intake and use alternative seasonings, which is fine. If you don’t like food.

I can’t say it any simpler – food without salt is almost universally bland. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like my food salty but I know what a difference even a tiny amount can make to the flavour of a dish. In the wrong hands it can be a travesty with everything tasting like a mouthful of seawater but used correctly, salt is merely a flavour enhancer, used to help develop and boost the inherent deliciousness of so many foods.

Not only is it an essential ingredient in the kitchen, without it we would die a rather slow and painful death suffering through fatigue, muscle cramps and other such delights as our bodies struggle to regulate their water content.

In its simplest form, salt is a compound of Sodium Chloride (NaCl) but there are so many variations that a number of top restaurants have started specialising in gourmet salts, using samples from various parts of the world to complement certain dishes. Sel Gris (Grey Salt) and Fleur de Sel both hand harvested from France are two of the more popular gourmet salts and they have a rounder, softer taste to the standard table salt, which many find too harsh and overly salty.

To see for yourself how salt can give an explosion of flavour cut a couple of slices of a fresh tomato. Leave one unseasoned and sprinkle a little salt on the other before tasting each one. You should be able to tell the difference immediately with the second tasting distinctly more tomato-ey and even sweeter than the first. You can do a similar thing when you are making caramel – just a little sprinkling will give a significantly and noticeably more powerful flavour helping to accentuate the other elements in a way that isn’t possible without the salt.

So why has this magnificent little seasoning found itself demonised recently? Excess salt consumption has been linked to hypertension (high blood pressure) although there is no concrete evidence as yet. But the key word there is excess. An excess of anything is unlikely to do you much good. Too many bananas will give you potassium poisoning. Too many glasses of wine will give you a hangover and too many fried breakfasts will give you all manner of difficulties. Moderation is the key, as with most things.

Unless we are making a brine (which happens rarely), we tend to stay away from table salt which is cheap and, to my palate, too synthetically salty. Instead we have a little jar of Malden sea salt: delightfully soft flakes that are great rubbed over a finished dish at the final moment just before serving. In addition to this we have a small jar of rock salt too. This has a less brackish flavour still and is great for seasoning during the cooking process allowing some degree of grace if you slip and add a little too much (If you’ve over salted a dish there isn’t a great deal you can do which is why it pays to add it a little at a time. You can try compensating with other flavours: lemon juice and sugar to balance the saltiness but it’s best just to take a little extra care).

There’s no doubt in my mind that salt is one of the absolute essential ingredients in any kitchen, possibly the number one ingredient thanks to its ability to lift almost all other foods to the loftiest of heights. It may not be a stand alone food stuff but its inherent capacity to act as an ‘enabler’ for everything else in the kitchen to live up to their potential means that it deserves its own chapter in the hall of fame.

Friday Nibbles: Special Edition – Turkey

With Christmas barely eight weeks away, and Thanksgiving just around the corner for my American brethren, I thought this might be a good opportunity to talk turkeys, not least because I spent yesterday on a genuine working turkey farm just south of Cambridge (OK, it’s a tenuous segway and I know Christmas is actually a while away but I wanted to get it written down while it was all still fresh in my mind – plus I got some cool pictures that I wanted to show you).

I can now say from extensive empirical research through close proximity that turkeys are big birds and when there are several hundred of them staring down at you, it can all too easily feel a little bit Hitchcock for comfort (although I think the movie would have taken on a slightly more comedic slapstick feel had turkeys been the vengeful flock in question).

They are also fiendishly ugly with odd folds of skin that appear to be taking over their distinctly reptilian features and a general look of permanent annoyance, much like a Daily Mail reader glancing over a story about how Jonathon Ross’s salary has caused the rise/fall/stagnation of house prices or other such nonsense (if you aren’t familiar with The Daily Mail, think National Enquirer, only with a more questionable ethics and less concern for fact or journalistic integrity).

But I’ve never been one to judge books by their covers or turkeys by their wattles for that matter and despite their unattractive exterior they are friendly and placid birds that live comfortably in large groups.

I should say from the off that the farm I went to was not an intensive battery operation where the young chicks are fed a horrific cocktail of hormones, additives, drugs and growth promoters in order to fatten them up in little over three months. This was very much a free-range operation where the birds had access to locally sourced feed and as much sunlight as they wanted. They were free to spend all day running their little claws off, should they so wish. The lack of nasties in their diet means that it takes them twice as long to reach maturity but the result is a much tastier bird with a far superior texture, a world away from the dried out examples that blight so many Christmases.

The bird itself is native to Mexico and the eastern United States and although there is no historical evidence that the early Pilgrim Fathers ate one in their first Thanksgiving dinner, by the 19th century the tradition had been galvanized. Now a roasted (or deep fried (!?)) turkey is as much a part of the day as pumpkin pie and the NFL. Over 250 million are bred for the table each year and 20 per cent of those are consumed on a single day. It is not known how many people actually like turkey and how many eat it because they have to. A bit like a Brussels sprout.

Those which I met yesterday at the Gog Magog Hills Farm Shop were a rare breed called Kelly Bronze favoured and bred for a more traditional flavour and texture and a favourite of self-proclaimed domestic goddess Nigella Lawson. Personally, I think she sits somewhere on the annoyance scale between ‘patronising’ and ‘odious’ but she seems to know her stuff so I might take her advice on this one. As long as she ties her bloody hair back when she cooks it. Those luscious L’oreal locks are all well and good but not when extracting one from the depths of your throat.

So, in summary, what have we learnt? Turkeys originally resided across the pond, they are tasty enough to warrant an annual eating and don’t let Nigella Lawson cook you a soufflé.

Joking aside, when hunting out your turkey there are a few key words to look out for and a number of tips I can now offer you, having spoken to someone who really knows that they are talking about. Look for the words ‘slow-maturing’ or ‘rare-breed’. Try to buy one that hasn’t had to travel too far and has managed to see at least a semblance of daylight. The more they’ve run around and the less they’ve been pumped full of chemicals like some gross futuristic nightmare, the tastier they will be. In short, apply the same rules when buying your turkey as you would any other meat. If you’re only going to eat it once a year, might as well make it a good one, no?

Friday Nibbles – Olive Oil

For almost as long as there has been civilisation, there has been olive oil. The liquid gold that runs from these small fruits has been used by countless generations for a monumental chunk of our collective history whether for food, for washing, for lighting, for trading or a host of other reasons.

Archaeological evidence suggests that by the Neolithic era (about 8,000BCE) our ancestors in modern day Turkey had realised that the fruit from the olive tree tasted pretty good. The transition from nomadic hunter-gatherer societies to more sedentary groups reliant on farming led to the domestication of the plant about 2,000 years later in either Asia Minor or Mesopotamia (what we know now as Iraq).

From there, the tree spread throughout the Mediterranean and quickly became essential to the Etruscan, Minoan, Greek and Roman empires. Oil extracted from the olives could be turned into soap, used as fuel for lanterns and, of course, eaten which explains its central role in cuisines stretching from The Fertile Crescent of the Middle East, across Europe and all the way into North Africa.

Now the vast majority of the world’s olive oil is produced in Spain, Italy and Greece with Spain alone responsible for just over a third and the International Olive Oil Council is based in the country’s capital, Madrid. Suffice to say that they take things quite seriously over there, seriously enough to consume 13 kilos of oil per person per year.

The first pressing of the olives results in extra virgin olive oil, this is the good stuff that hasn’t been messed about with, the sort of oil you want to dip some seriously fresh bread into and eat all on its own for lunch whilst sat under an awning and gazing at the Umbrian Hills or over the Mediterranean sea. Much like wine or whiskey, different oils possess different flavours and textures. Don’t be surprised to hear someone banging on about peppery or honey notes balanced with a gentle acidity, in much the same manner an oenophile would when eulogising over a rare Bordeaux.

In terms of absolute kitchen essentials, olive oil tops my list, much as it does that of numerous other cooks, food writers and chefs. I dare say that I use it more than any other item in the kitchen whether it is for frying a piece of meat, dribbling over a plate of fresh tomatoes, making a batch of aioli or any of a thousand other uses. And what’s more, it’s staggeringly good for you, which, in my book anyway, makes it a near perfect ingredient.

Friday Nibbles – Garlic

After last week’s jaunt into vaguely luxurious territory, I’ve chosen to bring things back down to earth a little with today’s ‘Nibble’. I started doing this series a couple of months ago in order to create a semblance of structure to my seemingly incoherent culinary rambles but they’ve quickly become one of my favourite aspects of the blog.

Naturally, it’s wonderful to launch into a few paragraphs explaining my views on molecular gastronomy or extolling the virtues of delicatessens, but these are far removed from the majority of my experiences in the kitchen. I really wish that I spent my days experimenting with spherification techniques, trying to find the perfect salami or eating in fabulous restaurants but, alas, this isn’t the case.

Which is how ‘Friday Nibbles’ were born. They are about examining the unsung heroes of the kitchen and trying to explain why they are just as interesting or just as important as the latest fad or fashion or restaurant or recipe. Personally, I think there is too little written about the apparently mundane aspects of cookery. They tend to be glossed over in favour of the things that seem more glamorous but actually strike a chord with far fewer people.

Not everyone gets the chance to eat at Per Se or WD-50 but everybody has a kitchen of their own. So these are an attempt to redress the balance slightly and look at those wonderful items that no cook, professional or domestic, could possibly live without. So without further delay, let’s celebrate the simple.

I’ve been saving garlic for a few weeks now (as a topic as opposed to a weird collection). Even before I did the very first ‘Nibble’ I knew that garlic would feature at some point but I wanted to get into a stride before eulogising over this amazing plant.

I cannot imagine what direction cooking could possibly take if it weren’t for this pungent little allium which adds its unique flavour to countless dishes from all over the world.

It is unknown from where the ancestral progenitor of garlic originated although it is likely to have been somewhere in Asia. From there it spread rapidly to almost all corners of the world to a point where it now features in more global cuisine than any other ingredient I can possibly think of. In fact, the only area I can recall that doesn’t feature garlic in its traditional regional cooking is northern Europe where the presence of a harsh climate would likely have prevented the plant from becoming truly domesticated.

There are hundreds of varieties of garlic from the tightly packed and highly pungent Purple White to the delightfully named Elephant Garlic with its distinctive large cloves and milder flavour. Most are relatively simple to grow in the garden or in small pots on the windowsill and now is a good time to get them planted, just before the first frost. Incidentally, frost is essential to the formation of garlic cloves: without a cold snap, you’d end up with a large garlic ‘onion’ as opposed to the separate sections we all know and love.

But what can you do with it? I honestly don’t think I have the time to go into this. You could write entire books on the uses of garlic and you’d barely manage to get out of Europe. You’d struggle to get beyond France, in fact, and Italy would be an entire series on its own and that’s without even mentioning south east Asia.

Suffice to say it is, in my opinion, the most versatile and essential ingredient that it is possible to have in the kitchen. From utter simplicity – think spaghetti tossed with olive oil, garlic and chilli – to deep rich and complex winter stews, garlic is virtually the first ingredient in the pan and one that I keep a constant supply of in the kitchen. It doesn’t even make it to the cupboard, but rather sits happily on the windowsill in a little copper pan.

And don’t think it stops with savouries. I recently had lunch at a two star restaurant in Cambridge where, for dessert, we had a spiced apple tarte tatin served with the subtlest and most delicious foam I have ever tasted. Subtle and delicious garlic flavoured foam. Not that I’ve tasted many foams, but still.

Anyway, here’s to garlic. Have a great weekend.

Friday Nibbles – Parmesan Cheese

The focus of previous Friday Nibbles has been very much on the frugal side of cooking. Items featured have been, invariably, cheap and in possession of an innate versatility that renders them almost essential for any kitchen store cupboard whether you are an accomplished chef or a mere beginner when it comes to matters culinary.

But with the world’s economy crumbling like stale bread, banks collapsing like a series of failed soufflés and trillions of dollars going up in smoke like fish fingers left under the grill (apologies, but I ran out of analogies there), a little luxury might be needed in order to raise a smile. Not luxury in the manner to which we have become worryingly accustomed, I’m not talking of white truffles or Jamon d’Iberico, more like small luxuries, more luxury in terms of simple pleasures that are almost guaranteed to raise a smile.

Parmesan is a little luxury. It’s slightly too expensive to be on a weekly shopping list but cheap enough to be bought without feeling any pangs of guilt. It doesn’t go off so you needn’t worry about leaving it too long on the fridge and I can think of no better way to watch the encroaching receession than with a big bowl of pasta covered in slightly too much Parmesan cheese melting into it. If it’s all going to shit, might as well forget the healthy eating plan.

But is this cheese worthy of inclusion on the Friday Nibbles Hall of Fame? In a word, yes. Simply, yes. We don’t get through a huge amount of the stuff but there is always a chunk of it in the fridge poised a ready to be grated over steaming pasta, a salad or even a plate of beans on toast. It melts into delightfully stringy strands and lends a real cheesy richness to whatever meal it meets.

Real, genuine Parmesan comes from Parma, Italy and only from Parma. Like Champagne and Stilton, Parmesan is guarded by a PDO – a Protected Designation of Origin – a legally enshrined concept that prevents any Tom, Dick or Harry within the European Union from muscling in on the worthy name of a famed product. We take our foods very seriously here in Europe.

The cheeses are made in huge rounds each weighing about 38 kilos (80 pounds) before they are cut into more manageable chunks and exported all over the world and have enjoyed a notable reputation for many centuries. During the Great Fire of London in 1666, diarist Samuel Pepys buried his Parmesan in the ground to prevent it from being damaged by the flames:

‘…in the evening Sir W. Penn and I did dig another [pit] and put our wine in it, and I my parmazan as well as my wine and some other things.’ 4th September 1666, Diary of Samual Pepys.

So wonderful to hear a voice from centuries ago speaking of cheese with such love and referring to his ‘other’ items with such casual flippancy. Truly a man after my own heart.

Friday Nibbles – Eggs

A couple of months ago I managed to pull a muscle in my side, the one that stretches from your shoulder blade right round the front. I wish there was a rugged and manly explanation for this injury like I’d been wrestling a bear or paddling a raft full of orphans to safety across roaring white water. Sadly, and unsurprisingly, there isn’t. I managed to sustain this particular mischief by sneezing whilst in a slightly awkward position. And it was quite possibly the most painful thing I have ever done, and that includes falling off a large horse at the age of eight and being badly winded.

For about three weeks I couldn’t breathe deeply because the pain caused by pressure in my side was too much too bear. Every time I wanted to turn around in bed I had to mentally prepare myself like a wounded sailor readying himself for an amputation with only brandy anaesthesia to numb the pain. Swimming was virtually impossible and even the act of drinking was a chore. Sneezing also held a particular fear – every time I did so (and this happened an awful lot thanks to the high pollen count and my body’s frustrating inability to deal with it) it felt liked I’d cracked a new rib and I couldn’t help but grimace and emit a loud grunt that either of the Williams sisters would be proud of.

I also learned that comedy injuries, much like football, are a universal language thanks to a protracted encounter with a Thai masseuse in Bangkok. Despite my protestations, I was ordered by my girlfriend – no doubt increasingly concerned over my growing reliance on the strongest painkillers it is possible to purchase over the counter – to go and avail myself of the services of the nearest Thai massage expert (no sniggers or jokes please, this was entirely above board and no ‘happy finish’ was mentioned).

I tried to keep my injury secret but there are few places to hide when wearing but a pair of pants and lying down on a padded table. As soon as she started prodding, poking, kneading, pushing, pulling and stretching me where it hurt there was nothing I could do to stop myself recoiling in pain. She soon became fascinated with my right side and took all of about nine seconds to realise there was something wrong.
In broken English she asked me how I’d done it. I doubted whether the word ‘sneeze’ was one she had picked up and I toyed with the idea of saying ‘fight’ but it’s hard to act out that particular action whilst semi-naked, prostrate and with an arm held behind your back. With a combination of mime and enthusiastic sound effects I managed to convey that it was, in fact, a nefarious sneeze that was the cause of my ills.

She laughed so hard that she momentarily lost the ability to massage. This was, evidently, too good to keep to herself and within a few seconds of regaining the ability to speak she had summoned her fellow masseuses to come and stare in wonder at the crazy farang who’d managed to render himself incapable through sneezing. I found myself surrounded by Thai ladies each fascinated by my injury, each wanting to have a poke and prod and each struggling to conceal intense laughter.

After the kafuffle had died down and the gaggle of masseuses (a gaggle of masseuses? A pummel of masseuses? I just don’t know what the collective noun for such a group is) had vacated, she got to work on my side with tenacious enthusiasm. By the time she’d finished I could lift my arm above my head without wincing, I could sneeze without fear of bursting my rib cage, I had a full 360 degrees of motion. I was cured!

The reason I’m mentioning this now is because I’ve managed to suffer an almost identical injury but on my left side this time. And it wasn’t thanks to a rogue sneeze. After an hour chopping firewood (with an axe, no less. Can’t get much more manly than that) I returned inside to have a cup of tea. As the day wore on I developed a realisation that all was not well with my side muscle and each deep breath was bringing with it an eerily familiar pain. By the time I got to bed I had to resort to super strength painkillers in order to dull the ache enough to fall asleep and come morning I found that I couldn’t roll over without doing the sailor/amputation mental preparation routine again.

Of course, this digression has little, if anything, to do with this week’s Friday Nibbles. I was merely hoping to amuse with this self-deprecatory tale of woe. And perhaps garner some sympathy. Anyway, onto more relevant matters.

The egg is a single celled wonder. A magnificent and spectacular piece of natural engineering housed within its own little shell temple. Without the egg, the kitchen would be a far less interesting place bereft of so many things we take for granted. We’d have no cakes, for a start. No muffins. No mousses. No soufflés. No consommé. No custard. No crème patisserie. No pancakes. No meringue. No béarnaise, hollandaise, mayonnaise. No pasta. No tempura. And that’s before we even begin on omelettes, scrambled eggs, boiled eggs, fried eggs, poached eggs, coddled eggs, baked eggs, oeufs en cocotte…

Hopefully you see where I’m going with this. Eggs are pretty much essential to any and every kitchen. Unless you are a vegan, in which case they’re not. But you’re missing out, seriously.

Need a hearty breakfast? Fried eggs on toast is ideal. Brunch would be incomplete without pancakes or eggs Benedict. Hard-boiled egg at lunch time? Don’t mind if I do. Need to impress at dinner? Twice baked goat’s cheese soufflé should do the job. Feeling peckish just before bed? A quick omelette should fill the hole. Suffering from a hangover? A bacon and egg sandwich is virtually guaranteed to cure what ails ya.

And the most amazing thing is that we’re only just beginning to understand what goes on inside these little wonders. Hervé This, the famed molecular gastronomist, dedicates a large portion of his time and a huge amount of experimentation to eggs. He has found ways to cook and uncook eggs without the application of heat. He has discovered a way to cook an egg to a temperature that renders the yolk pliable and mouldable like play-doh. He knows exactly how much mayonnaise can be created from a single egg yolk (the answer is a lot) or how much meringue can be made from a single egg white (buckets of the stuff). He knows more about eggs than anyone else in the world.

But none of this matters when a fried egg, sat atop a piece of lightly toasted wholemeal bread is waiting to be devoured. Truly egg-shellent food indeed (sorry, couldn’t resist).

Have a great weekend.

Friday Nibbles – The Potato

Continuing my weekly look at a store cupboard essential, a true hero of the kitchen, this week we turn our eyes (pun intended) to the potato.

The potato is a relative newcomer to the everyday western diet. It arrived in Europe from the New World sometime in the 16th century (1536, to be exact), at about the same time as tobacco. I think that there is a wonderful irony that the two items that have caused the most significant amount of damage to the health of those of us in the developed world – chips (by which I mean French fries, which are, of course, Belgian) and tobacco – both arrived at the same time from the Americas.

This starchy, tuberous crop quickly became popular throughout Europe and went some way to replacing bread as the staple, especially in Ireland, a reliance they discovered to their cost in 1845 when blight wiped out the vast majority of the crop leading to huge famine and, ultimately, a mass exodus to the United States.

Although most people would struggle to name ten, there are over 5,000 varieties of potato, most of which are native to the Andean region of South America. There are probably almost as many ways to prepare and eat the vegetable as well, which is what makes them ideal for keeping in the store cupboard.

There are few foods as comforting as the potato, especially when paired with butter, cream or cheese. There is something so warming and satisfying about this particular carbohydrate that can’t quite be matched by pasta or rice.

They are also wonderfully seasonal. There are few foods as evocative of the differing seasons than the different types of potato. Waxy new potatoes, gently boiled and drizzled with olive oil, a little lemon juice and some finely chopped parsley is a great accompaniment to a barbecued or grilled food. Cool autumn nights can be warmed by fish pie or a heaving plate of mashed potato with sausages and sticky, rich onion gravy. A simple baked potato, topped with butter and melting gooey cheese is an perfect, and easy, winter meal and the first Jersey Royals are a sure sign that spring is in full bloom.

And then there is the chip. As far as simplicity goes, this is about as basic as it gets. A fried potato. But somewhere between that slightly chewy, slightly crispy exterior and the fluffy warm inside, lies a perfect food moment. A little sea salt, perhaps a splodge of ketchup or mayonnaise is all the gilding that is needed. The first chip should be a little too hot, so that it causes a rush of steam from within and has to be eaten with the lips open, pulling in a little air to cool the hot chip within. From there it is simple culinary bliss.

No, aren’t that good for you. Yes, they have little nutritional value but whether they are eaten in the heady midst of summer in the beer garden of your local pub, or shovelled in late night in a post imbibing, alcohol fuelled frenzy, the chip is always, always as close as it is possible to get to perfection.

And, for the record, for the purposes of this post I did both cook, and eat, a small portion of chips at ten thirty in the morning. The sacrifices I make in the pursuit of epicurean experimentation and culinary musings are staggering…

Friday Nibbles – Tinned Tomahtas

Before we get onto the important business of Friday nibbles, I couldn’t possibly go any further without talking chickens. Our brand spanking new Eglu chicken house arrived this morning and by this time next week we should have two real live egg-laying hens. Having never owned so much as a hamster, I am ball-bouncingly excited about doubling the number of residents at our little house. And even more excited about the prospect of nipping out every morning to collect a couple of fresh eggs.

Anyway, onto more pressing matters.

For this weeks nibble we are going back to basics. Cooking 101, if you will, to borrow an expression from American parlance.

The tinned tomato is a true hero of the kitchen. I believe that any self-respecting cook would be utterly stuck without a ready supply of these canned wonders. They are a truly versatile heavyweight of the store cupboard and I start to get a little antsy if our own supply dips below two tins.

Not only are they amazingly cheap but they can also form the basis of a virtually endless number of meals from stews and pasta sauces to soups and pizza toppings. Casseroles, chillies, curries, the list goes on almost ad infinitum and that’s just dishes beginning with the letter ‘C’. Move onto ‘D’ and you’ve got daubes, dal, and dumplings. ‘E’ gives us…you get the idea. I don’t think I need continue.

The history of canning and tinning as a method of preserving food goes all the way back to when the Napoleonic Wars were ravaging their way through Europe during the early 19th century. Somewhat amusingly, the can opener wasn’t invented until about fifty years later, which led to a number of hair-brained methods for accessing the goods inside the little metal boxes. The bayonet became very popular, although the prospect of eating food that has come into contact with a piece of metal that had been used to disembowel an opposing soldier just before lunch isn’t particularly appealing.

In terms of its green credentials, tinned tomatoes score fairly high too. Whilst the initial canning process releases a significant amount of carbon into the atmosphere, once inside they sit happily being very green indeed, without actually going green. They need no cold storage, can be kept indefinitely and it allows us to munch on out of season tomatoes without having to freight them over from overseas.

If you have a tin of tomatoes then you have a meal. Cooked down with a little garlic and olive oil, perhaps a splash of balsamic or wine too and a twist of salt and pepper and you have a great pasta sauce. If you are feeling really lazy, blitz it up and eat it as a soup, that way you don’t even have to cook any pasta. Spread it onto toast, top it with cheese and after a couple of minutes under the grill (broiler for my chumlets across the pond) and you have an insta-pizza.

Speed and convenience are all well and good, but tinned tomatoes really undergo an amazing transformation when they are slow cooked. Ragu sauces such as Bolognese and its various relatives, are a great example of the alchemic nature of slow-cooking when the finished product becomes so much more than the sum if its parts.

So, whether you say ‘tomarto’ or ‘tomayto’, these amazing little tins of brilliance are more than worthy of a place in the larder of even the most discerning chef.

Friday Nibbles – The Stock Cube

I made it! It’s Friday and I’m posting a ‘nibble’ on time. Cause for celebration indeed. There’s plenty to come over the next few days. I’ve had a number of requests for the falafel and flatbread recipe (thanks to everyone who asked for that) so that will go up next week as soon as I make up a batch and get some good photographs because a recipe without pictures is like a birthday cake without candles – it’ll do, but you notice it for what’s missing there rather than what’s present.

But in the spirit of maintaining the momentum that I started building up two weeks ago (but stalled a little last week) I’ll put these on hold and write about another essential item for any storecupboard.

For this week’s nibble, I’m going small – a bite-size nibble, if you will, although I probably wouldn’t recommend biting into one of these.

Chicken stock cubes (other stock cubes are handy too – we tend to have fish and vegetable ones in the cupboard most of the time as well, but chicken stock is so adaptable that I thought I’d focus on this particular flavour) are such an integral part of my ingredients list that I really can’t think of a suitable replacement. Of course, actual proper homemade chicken stock is superior to these highly flavoured little cubes, but it can be hard to find room for chicken carcasses, so these are the best substitute.

Even if it seems we eat a fairly constant stream of homemade meals lovingly constructed in the kitchen of our little cottage, this is not necessarily the case. Rest assured that we too get bitten by the apathy bug or succumb to a wave of laziness. This is where we crack open the Knorr. It might sound crazy but if you have a packet of these to hand, you can be mere moments away from a warming meal.

It is at times like this that the humble stock cube comes into its own and a noodle soup is just three minutes away. I tend to sit back at this point and let my girlfriend work her culinary magic. Some spring onions, a little garlic, some chilli and maybe a few slices of chicken, if you have any, can be dropped into a pan along with a pint of boiling water and one of these little flavour powerhouses. Add a slab of noodles then when they are cooked pour the soup into deep bowls and you’ve got a dinner to warm the soul. It tastes even better if you can hear the wind and rain lashing down through the windows.

The first stock cubes were introduced exactly one hundred years ago by a company called Maggi. These bouillon cubes were then copied by the iconic Oxo brand two years later, although I prefer the squidgy varieties to the crumbly – and incredibly salty – Oxo cubes. They can be used to add flavour to stews and sauces as well as soups but they really come into their own when making risotto.

Some of the finest comfort food it is possible to consume is a simple risotto made with Arborio or Vialone Nano rice, stock and then finished off with butter and parmesan. It might not be as quick as a noodle soup but the extra effort is certainly worth it.

Friday Nibbles – Chickpeas

Last Friday I made the mistake of committing myself to a regular and timetabled posting about a kitchen essential. Like the Chinese Olympian, Liu Xiang, I fell at the first hurdle and utterly failed to make a posting last week. There was a reason for this, it wasn’t merely laziness or plain old forgetfulness. I can’t now remember what that reason is but anyway, here is a Friday Nibbles post on a Tuesday. As a small concession to the fact that it is not a Friday, I’ve decided to make it about a general item rather than a specific product. So, essential item two for every kitchen cupboard is…

Chickpeas were one of the first vegetables to be domesticated. Archaeological evidence has been found dating them to at least 3500BCE, but the likelihood is that they were first cultivated even earlier than that in the Fertile Crescent of the Middle East (the strip of land that runs between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers, now mostly in modern day Iraq – it is a painful irony that archaeologically this area is referred to as The Cradle of Civilisation).

They are extremely high in protein, which explains their use in vegetarian and vegan diets, wonderfully versatile, filling, tasty and cheap – half a kilo of these brilliant legumes will set you back no more than fifty pence.

We always have a couple of bags of dried chickpeas on the shelf, as well as an emergency tin, just in case we have a pressing desire for hummus and have forgotten to soak some overnight. Raw chickpeas can be ground down and mixed with spices, garlic and coriander to be made into delicious falafel, cooked ones make a great addition to curries of all varieties and can, of course, also be made into creamy hummus by blitzing them up with some tahnini, lemon juice, garlic, olive oil, salt and a little of the cooking water to thin the paste out. You can also add a wide range of Middle Eastern or North African spices to the resultant gloop to put a little twist on it. Cumin, cinnamon, chilli and smoked paprika are all excellent.

Barely a week goes by when we don’t indulge in flatbreads stuffed with hot and crunchy fried falafel tempered with cooling hummus, minted yoghurt and salad. Topped off with spicy chilli sauce, naturally. All recipes available on request.

Friday Nibbles – Lingham’s Chilli Sauce

It may be assumed that working from home renders impotent the ability of Friday to cause a general wave of relief that it is the end of the week and a glorious 48 hour respite from the mundanities of work lies ahead. I suppose that, to a certain extent, this is the case. There is little differentiation between the days I spend at ‘work’ and at ‘play’. But there is still an unconscious awareness of the way that we split up the week.

Perhaps it is due to spending so long adhering to the timetable that had been so deftly lain out by generations past. Personally, if I had been at that particular meeting I would have suggested that a three day weekend following a four day week was, perhaps, a better and more even way to divide a seven day week. Alas, I was not consulted and I digress.

Despite the lack of apparent structure to my week, Friday still presents me with a feeling of quivering laziness, much as it did whilst I was plying my trade in an office. I suppose it is because I have to try incredibly hard to attach a semblance of rigidity to my working week in order to achieve anything at all and Fridays, therefore, still mark the end of the working week, as such.

The mind seems to get a little lazy at this point in the week so in an effort to increase my productivity I’ve decided to dedicate this particular day to something with a structure and form. From now on, Fridays will see a brief written eulogy to a particular iconic brand that no self-respecting kitchen should be without. An item that, over the years, has earned its place in the culinary Hall of Fame – these shall be known as Friday Nibbles.

I should also point out that I am not being paid for these mini-musings. I am not a member of any ‘paid for’ blogging sites. All the items that will feature on these pages are there on merit alone.

And so, without further deliberation, let’s get started. To kick off this mini-series I’m going to begin with something close to my heart: Lingham’s Chilli Sauce.

‘A mild piquant relish and appetizer of delightful flavour’ is how Lingham’s describe their iconic sauce, which celebrates its centenary this year. It contains just four ingredients: chillis, sugar, vinegar and salt. And that’s it, glorious in its simplicity. There are no additives, no preservatives, no bulking agents, flavour enhancers, emulsifiers or other such nasties. It is a wonderful example of what can be done with a short list of first-rate ingredients.

Originally created to satisfy the curiosity of Colonial Brits, it is now shipped all over the world so that people in all corners of the globe can enjoy its unique flavour. But despite its popularity, it is still manufactured by the same, small company in Malaysia who pride themselves on the quality of their product and the purity of its ingredients.

Over the years I’ve developed something of a taste for the spicy and have amassed a growing collection of chilli sauces ranging from the sweetly mild to the ferociously hot but Lingham’s is the one I find myself turning to most often. It doesn’t have the intense sweetness of Thai varieties, nor the occasionally oppressive garlic tang. It is mild enough to be enjoyed on its own as a dip but has enough bite to pep up dishes to a satisfyingly warm level.

It is also wonderfully versatile. You can stir it into ketchup and pour it over chips or use it is a marinade for chicken or fish. Dribbled over falafel or kebabs it adds a delicious heat. You can even add it to salad dressings to complement a cooling bowl of lettuce, tomatoes and cucumber.

It is this versatility and downright tastiness that makes it a top-notch hot sauce and a permanent fixture in our store cupboard.