How to Eat

by Nigella Lawson

  Keep the mixture in the fridge until you need it or put the bowl, as is, in the freezer for 10 minutes. Preheat the oven to 375°F and, when ready to cook, sprinkle the crumble over the prepared fruit in the pie dish and cook for 25–35 minutes.

  FOODS IN SEASON

  * * *

  Don’t believe everything you’re told about the greater good of eating foods only when they are in season. The purists may be right, but being right isn’t everything. If you live in the Tuscan hills, you may find different lovely things to eat every month of the year, but for us it would mean having to subsist half the time on a diet of tubers and cabbage, so why shouldn’t we be grateful that we live in the age of jet transport and extensive culinary imports? More smug guff is spoken on this subject than almost anything else.

  There is no doubt that there are concomitant drawbacks: the food is out of kilter with the climate in which it is eaten; it’s picked underripe and transported in the wrong conditions; the intense pleasure of eating something when it comes into its own season is lost; the relative merits, the particular properties of individual fruits and vegetables are submerged in the greedy zeal of the tantrumming adult who must Have It Now. There’s no point in eating out-of-season asparagus that tastes of nothing (though not all of it does), or peaches in December, ripe-looking but jade-fleshed. But my life is improved considerably by the fact that I can go to my greengrocer’s and routinely buy stuff I used to have to go to Italy to find.

  I love fresh peas, but they aren’t the high point of our culinary year for me. Once they get to the shops, all that pearly sugariness has pretty well turned to starch anyway. As far as I’m concerned, the foods whose short season it would be criminal to ignore are:

  rhubarb: May–June; hothouse, which is superior, January–February

  Seville oranges: January–February

  asparagus: height of season, May–June

  gooseberries: domestic, July–August; imported, November–January

  grouse: imported marketed, October–November

  damson plums: August–September

  quinces: October–November

  white truffles: November–January

  RHUBARB

  Rhubarb is amply covered in this book. I know many people are put off because of vile experiences in childhood. I have faith, however, or rather passionate hope, that I can overcome this prejudice. And as my own childhood contained little traditional nursery food, it takes on, for me, something of the exotic. My adult love affair with rhubarb is heady illustration of this (see Index).

  SEVILLE ORANGES

  Seville oranges are regarded almost exclusively as for making marmalade. This is such a waste. Seville oranges have the fragrance and taste of oranges but the sourness of lemons. Try them, then, wherever you’d use lemons—to squirt over fish, to squeeze into salad dressings, to use in a buttery hollandaise-like sauce or in mayonnaise to eat with cold duck. A squeeze of Seville orange is pretty divine in black tea, too. And although you can only buy them in January or early February, they freeze well. See, also, the recipe for Seville orange curd tart on page 246.

  CANARD À L’ORANGE

  Traditionally, oranges go with duck. Real canard à l’orange should be made with bitter and not sweet oranges; you shouldn’t end up with jam. Put half a Seville orange up the bottom of a duck (a mallard, preferably, if you have access to wild game, or see page 458) and squeeze the other half, mixed with 1 teaspoon honey or sesame oil, as you wish, over the breast before you cook it. Roast a domestic 4–5 pound duck in a 450°F oven for 15 minutes, reduce the heat to 400°, and cook 1¼–1½ hours, draining the rendered fat periodically. (Don’t throw this away; spoon it into a bowl, put it in the fridge, and use it to make the best, wonderfully crisp fried or roast potatoes.) Roast a mallard at 425° for 40 minutes.

  If preparing the dish with a domestic duck, remove all visible fat from the pan and deglaze it with some stock and additional Seville orange juice. Stir in a teaspoon or so of honey, or to taste, and there’s your sauce. For a mallard, you won’t even need to deglaze the pan to make a sauce; the juices there will be good enough just as they are, though if you wish, you can add more orange juice, sweetened with honey to taste or left sharp. If you want something more saucelike, thicken with 1 teaspoon cornstarch, made first into a paste with some of the juice.

  SCALLOPS WITH BITTER ORANGES

  Scallops have been cooked with bitter oranges since the eighteenth century. You can do a modern turn on the same theme simply by sautéing the glorious white discs—whole bay scallops or sea scallops halved—in bacon fat, butter, or olive oil, 1 minute or so each side, before removing and deglazing the pan with a good squirt of Seville orange juice. Make sure you’ve also got enough juices in the pan to make a dressing for the watercress with which you’re going to line the plate.

  If they make up supper in its entirety, I’d get about 5 scallops of either kind per head. Should you find scallops with coral, fry the coral for about 30 seconds or freeze it to fry up later with a lot of minced garlic to eat, alone and greedily, spread on toast.

  SEVILLE ORANGE MARMALADE

  I confess I have never made marmalade. The nearest I’ve got is buying a box of oranges that then, reproachfully, went moldy in my pantry. I have since never even pretended to myself that I’m the sort of person who’s about to turn into a bottler and canner and storer of good things, though I live in hope. A friend, however, swears it’s easy—you cook the fruit whole—and it doesn’t produce so much that you feel like you’re starting a marmalade-making factory.

  1½ pounds Seville oranges

  juice of 2 lemons

  7 cups sugar

  Put the oranges in a saucepan with water to cover by a few inches, bring to the boil, and then simmer robustly until the oranges are soft, about 2 hours. Remove the oranges, keeping the water in the saucepan. Cut the oranges up, pulp and all, into whatever size peel you prefer.

  Remove the seeds and put them in a small saucepan, with a small amount of water to cover, and boil for 5 minutes. In the meantime, put the chopped oranges and the lemon juice into a bowl. Strain out the seeds and add their cooking water to the lemon juice and chopped oranges.

  Return this mixture to the first saucepan, put over a low heat, add sugar, and stir until dissolved. Then bring to boil and cook till set. To establish this, put a small amount, 1 scant teaspoon, on a cold saucer. Let it cool and then prod or stroke it with a fingertip. The marmalade’s set if the surface wrinkles. You should remove the saucepan of marmalade from the heat while you test just in case the setting point has been reached. About 15 minutes is usually fine for a softish set.

  Take off the heat and put in jars, after removing any scum and stirring to make sure the peel is mixed through. This should fill about six 8-ounce warm, cleaned jam jars. Leave to cool a little more before screwing on the lids.

  ASPARAGUS

  Asparagus is easy to cook well. Don’t worry about special asparagus pans; just trim the butt ends and cook the asparagus in abundant boiling salted water in a pan or couple of pans that are wide and big enough for the whole spears, stem, tip and all, to be submerged. Cook for 3–5 minutes (test and taste regularly—it’s better to waste some spears than for them to be either woody or soggy) and drain thoroughly, first in a colander and then flat on a paper towel–lined surface, but do it gently, too; you want the spears to stay beautiful and remain intact.

  The usual accompaniment, and always a successful one, is hollandaise (see page 14), but often I like to do something more homey and give each person a boiled egg in an egg cup for them to dip their asparagus into, like the bread and butter fingers British children dip into soft-boiled eggs. The eggs have to be perfectly soft-boiled; there is no room whatsoever for error. I don’t wish to frighten you, but it’s the truth. Provide two per person and smash or cut the tops off each as soon as they’re cooked.

  If you feel safer with a nontraditional method, then roll the asparagus in a little olive oil, then r
oast them, laid out on a pan, in a seriously preheated 450°F oven for 15–20 minutes. When cooked, the spears should be wilted and turning sweet and brown at the tips. Sprinkle over some coarse salt, arrange on a big plate, and line another big plate with thin slices of prosciutto imported from Italy, if possible. Let people pick up the hot, soft, blistered spears and use the ham to wrap around the asparagus like the finest rosy silk-damask napkins.

  SCENTED PANNA COTTA WITH GOOSEBERRY COMPOTE

  GOOSEBERRIES

  I don’t normally go in for individual puddings, each precious darling to be ceremoniously unmolded from its ramekin. But I make an exception here, would have to. As with the Italian dessert for which it is named, this fragrant cream, accompanied by a gooseberry compote, needs to be set with as little gelatin as possible. I’ve tried with big molds and just can’t set it enough without turning it halfway into rubber. These are perfection as they are, and anyway, I use a mixture of teacups, dariole molds, and ramekins, feeling that the pleasurable lack of uniformity makes up for any potential dinkiness. Line whichever molds you choose (you can, of course, use custard cups) with plastic film, pushing it well against the sides and over the rim so you’ve got a tuggable edge; it may make for the odd wrinkle or crease on the surface of the set cream, but that doesn’t matter; what does is that you will be able to unmold them easily.

  Note that here and elsewhere throughout the book I call for leaf gelatin, which works best for me and produces the most delicate result. I cannot use granulated gelatin for the life of me, but I have to accept that others can and am prepared, grudgingly, to accommodate them.

  ¾ cup heavy cream

  2 teaspoons orange-flower water

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  ¼ teaspoon grated nutmeg

  6 tablespoons superfine sugar, plus more, if needed

  3 leaves gelatin or 1 envelope granulated gelatin

  Heat the cream over low heat in saucepan with the orange-flower water, vanilla, and nutmeg. When it comes bubbling to a simmering near-boil, turn it off; remove from the heat. Then stir in the sugar and bring back to boiling point. Taste to see if more sugar is needed and then strain into a large measuring cup. Soak the leaves of gelatin in cold water to cover until softened, or sprinkle the granulated gelatin over ¼ cup cold water to soften, about 5 minutes in either case. Transfer softened granulated gelatin to a double boiler and heat it over simmering water until the granules have dissolved completely and the mixture is clear, about 1 minute, or dissolve the gelatin in a microwave at high power, about 1 minute. Squeeze the leaves out if using, and then beat them into the warm cream in the cup, or add the dissolved granulated gelatin to the cream and blend well. Make sure the leaves are dissolved, if using, and dispersed, then pour the cream into the film-lined molds. Cool and then put in the fridge overnight.

  I originally used elderflowers to flavor the panna cotta; with it I served this contrastingly lumpy gooseberry compote. (The Victorians knew well and invoked often the muscatty aptness of the combination of elderflowers and gooseberry. About many things they were wrong; about this they were right.) The compote, however, is wonderful with the orange-flower-water-scented version.

  To make it, put 5 cups gooseberries in a pan with 1½ cups water and 6 tablespoons of sugar. Bring it all to the boil and simmer for a couple of minutes. Drain, reserving syrup, then put the fruit in a bowl and return the lightly syrupy juices to the pan. Bring it to the boil again and let boil for 5 minutes. Pour it into a bowl or jug to cool while the fruit cools separately in its bowl. Then, when you’re about it eat, put the gooseberries in a shallow dish and cover with the syrup.

  GROUSE

  Grouse (see page 459 for information about its availability) should be roasted plain, first smeared thickly with butter, in a 400°F oven for 30–45 minutes (the size of the birds varies, but you want the flesh to be rubied and juicy, but not underdone to the point of tough quiveriness). Eat the grouse with bread sauce (see page 58) or stuffed with thyme and mascarpone (yes, really), as on page 151.

  DAMSONS

  Damsons are a glorious fruit. They can’t be eaten raw and are a chore to prepare and cook, but it’s only once a year. . . .

  DAMSON FOOL

  I sometimes make damson ice cream, but damson fool is the recipe for which I wait most greedily. This fool is not difficult to make, but it is stunning, utterly distinctive; you can taste in it both the almost metallic depth of the sour fruit and billowy sweetness of the bulky cream. And it’s wonderful after grouse.

  1 pound damsons

  2 teaspoons each dark and light muscovado sugar (see page 460), or dark and light brown sugar, and superfine sugar, plus more, if desired

  ¼ teaspoon allspice

  1 cup heavy cream, whipped with 2 tablespoons confectioners’ sugar

  Put the whole damsons (try to stone them now and you’ll go really mad) in a saucepan with ½ cup water and the sugars, bring to the boil, and cook till soft. Push through a strainer or food mill to get rid of the stones and add the spice and more sugar to taste if you think they need it.

  When cool, stir into the sugar-whipped cream and pour either into individual pots or into a bowl. This will also fill 6 glasses of the sort you’d eat pudding from, but if you’re putting the fool in a bowl, then count on feeding only 4.

  QUINCES

  Quince, the apple that Paris presented to Helen and maybe even the one that grew in the garden of Eden (although there is, it’s argued, a more convincing academic case to be made for the pomegranate here), is a ravishing mixture of One Thousand and One Nights exotic and Victorian kitchen homeliness. It looks like a mixture between apple and pear but tastes like neither. And actually the taste is not the point; what this fruit is all about is heady, perfect fragrance. I have something of an obsession for quinces, although they are in the shops only for a scant eight weeks, aren’t at all easy to deal with, and can’t be eaten raw. In the old days, quinces were kept in airing cupboards to perfume the linen, pervading the house with their honeyed but sharp aroma, so you needn’t feel bad if you buy a bowlful and then just watch them rot in a kitchen or wherever.

  As for cooking with quinces, what you should know is that for all their hardness, they bruise very easily. Whenever I have a batch of quinces, at least a third of them have been riddled within with speckles, or worse, what looks like rust. I just ignore it, unless of course it’s obviously rotten. Anyway, quinces darken as they cook, going from glassy yellow to coral to deepest, burnt terracotta; the odd bit of bruising really won’t show.

  You should add a quince, peeled, cored, and sliced or chunked, to apple pie or crumble. Poach them as you might pears (only longer, and see the recipe for quinces in muscat wine on page 329) or make mostarda. Although I am not someone who goes in for preserve making, I do make mostarda.

  MOSTARDA DI VENEZIA

  There’s mostarda di Cremona, which has become modishly familiar in Britain, those stained-glass-window-colored gleaming pots of fruits glossily preserved in mustard oil; no one, even in Italy, apparently, makes their own. But mostarda di Venezia is different. You can’t buy it and it’s easy to make. It’s just quinces boiled up with white wine, with the addition of sugar, candied peel, and mustard powder. It’s wonderful with any cold meat (which makes it very useful for Christmas and, as you have to leave it a month or so before eating, rather well timed for it, too). I risk a culinary culture clash by eating it alongside couscous and curries and to pad out the sort of low-fat, highly flavored food on pages 366–383. Or you can eat it with a dollop of mascarpone, sweetened (and perhaps bolstered with egg, as on page 107) and flavored with rum, as dessert.

  This recipe is adapted from the one in Classic Food of Northern Italy by Italian food writer Anna del Conte; the recipe, as these things do, has a mixed parentage of its own. I have changed it a little. I simplify the procedure (see below) and also make it hotter and with almost double the amount of candied fruit. Now, I loathe and detest most commercial candied fruit, but it’s dif
ferent here, not least because you must not use the already diced, bitter and oversweet at the same time, vile stuff from the supermarket. Search out the good imported candied fruit in whole pieces.

  The second time I made mostarda di Venezia, I didn’t peel and core the quinces. It’s such hard work. Instead I just roughly chopped the fruit and then pushed the lot through a fine food mill. Laziness prompted this modification, but as the peel and core help the set and intensify the flavor, you should have no qualms. If you don’t own a food mill, I suppose you could just push the fruit through a strainer, but that’s strenuous too. So if you don’t own this cheap and useful piece of equipment, it would be easier to peel, quarter, and core to start with.

  4 pounds quinces, roughly chopped

  1 bottle white wine

  grated rind and juice of 1 lemon

  5½ cups sugar

  8 tablespoons English mustard powder

  1 teaspoon salt

  8–9 ounces candied fruit, cut into small cubes

  Put the quinces in a saucepan and cover them with the wine. Add the lemon rind and juice and cook until soft, about 40 minutes. Purée the mixture by pushing it through a food mill and add the sugar. Return to the pan. Dissolve the mustard powder in a little hot water and add to the purée with the salt and the candied fruit. Cook gently until the liquid is reduced and the mostarda becomes dense and, normally, deeper-colored, 20–30 minutes.

  Sterilize five 1-pint jars (I find the dishwasher’s performance on this adequate) and fill with the mostarda. When it is cool, cover, seal, and store away. Keep for about a month before you use it.

  WHITE TRUFFLES

  No greedy person’s mention of foods in season could ignore the white truffle. I don’t really understand the fuss about black truffles, but a white truffle—called by Rossini the Mozart of funghi—is something else. And you don’t do anything to it. You just shave it. And if you’re buying a truffle, you may as well go the whole hog and buy the thing with which to shave it over a plate of buttery egg pasta or into an equally rich risotto made with good broth. It is instant culinary nirvana. And although expensive, so much less so, unbelievably less so, than eating it in a restaurant.