A useful weekend

Pottering weekends are ideal for playing in the kitchen. A tray of roasted tomatoes makes good seasonal sense right now, for adding to nearly anything you can imagine, as does a jar or two of pesto. Relishes, condiments, accompaniments. I’m rather fond of the delightfully old fashioned word tracklement. Said aloud, working your ear around those first syllables, it’s a beauty. Tracklements, condiments, call them what you will, they are the pepper and salt that make cooking, and indeed eating, exciting.

Mid week meals are made that much simpler by having a jar of this or pot of that, ready to spice up your cooking life. To transform staples into something new, something fresh. Preserved lemons are a constant in my fridge – I can’t imagine not having their cheery yellow-ness in there. They sit next to the last jar of Anglo-Indian chutney and another of seriously wobbly olive oil mayonnaise. I like these familiar things as much as anything else, but new jars are welcome, too. Here are three new additions to this year's collection.

Tomato pesto: At some stage during the 1990’s, the leathery sun-dried tomato, rightfully, fell out of fashion. The semi-dried tomato on the other hand, a softer and more luscious creature, has made a tentative comeback. Used judiciously, they can make a meal, and a girl, sing.

Roughly chop 1 bunch of chives (or the leaves of 1 bunch of parsley or basil) and whiz to a paste in a food processor with 2 cloves of chopped garlic. Add ½ cup of pine nuts and ½ cup of packed semi-dried tomatoes which you have snipped into smaller pieces with a pair of kitchen shears. Whiz again and trickle in 2/3 cup (about 150ml) of extra virgin olive oil with the motor running. Get out the Good Oil for this, especially if cheese ain’t your thing. Tip into a bowl and stir through ½ cup of grated pecorino cheese if you like and season to taste. Keeps for about a week if covered with a film of oil. Very useful.

Makes one jar. Purists may deny this little mixture the title of ‘pesto’, but does that stop me? In the words of someone I’m missing, no, it does not.

Beetroot, pear and ginger relish: I now add beetroot to my growing list of vegetal love. This beetroot relish is incredible with cheese despite the outrageous hue.

Set the oven to 180 C (375 F). Cut all but 2cm (3/4 inch) of the stalks from 400g (just less than 1 lb) of beetroot, wash them, dry them and wrap tightly in foil. Bake for 1 ½ hours. Meanwhile, peel and coarsely grate 3 pears, any kind, 2 onions and a thumb of fresh ginger. Put the pears, onions and ginger in a large, heavy based saucepan and pour in 1 cup (250ml) of white wine vinegar, a teaspoon of sea salt and 1 ½ cups of sugar. Bring to a boil then reduce the heat to a gentle simmer and cook for 20 minutes. Peel and coarsely grate the beetroot when ready and add to the simmering saucepan for a further 5 minutes. Spoon into clean, sterilized jars, seal and invert. Keeps for 4 months, unopened.

For the adventurous, the ‘Nori Condiment’ is a difficult thing to explain. In some ways, it could be described as a darker, muscular version of creamed spinach. Free of dairy, it’s lighter, too. But whereas a large dollop of creamed spinach on the side of nearly any plate I care to imagine is sheer heaven, a similarly sized serve of this wouldn’t be nearly as nice. It’s wonderful in its own, odd way; smooth and creamy, but not exactly pretty. I’m now quite partial to its Creature of the Black Lagoon shade of deep green, but then, perhaps things are just getting a bit eccentric around here. While I enthusiastically tackled the recipe, based on one in this book, The Artist was busy building a large nest with twigs in the backyard.

Tear 4 or 5 sheets of toasted nori into pieces. Cover with 1 cup of water in a small saucepan. Soak for 10 minutes. Heat the saucepan, add 2 tablespoons of tamari, 1 tablespoon of maple syrup, ½ a small onion which you’ve finely chopped and a crushed clove of garlic. Bring to a boil. Simmer for 10 minutes, stirring often. Grate a small pile of ginger. Squeeze it hard over a small bowl to extract as much juice as possible. Discard the pulp. Add this juice and a few drops of toasted sesame oil, lower the heat right down and continue cooking and stirring for a further 10 minutes. Season to taste with wasabi or Dijon mustard. Keeps for 3 days, jarred and refrigerated.

Try it. I wouldn’t offer something this obscure without some ideas, so: it’s exquisite with potatoes (surprising yum), nice dolloped on egg-based dishes, and makes a great vegan, mineral-rich dressing for pan fried tofu. Think ‘sushi’ fillings and you can’t go wrong. I spread the last of it on crackers. Quite good – weird - but good.

A very useful day.

A chutney

A few weeks ago I wrote about an abiding passion for the lemons that grace our garden. Heaving with fruit, the tree, if I was to savour its bounty, needed some serious harvesting and some serious preserving. North African preserved lemons were quickly followed by pickled lemon slices that sit prettily in their large jar, layers interspersed with sprinklings of paprika, topped to the brim with golden olive oil. Recipe courtesy of Claudia Roden. (I think I love this woman. No, seriously). Putting them away felt wrong, so there they sit on the bench for me to admire daily. When the sun hits them, briefly in the morning, nothing seems more cheerful.

Still, the tree heaved. Next, a large batch of bitter-sweet Meyer lemon and vanilla bean marmalade, something I finally cracked with help from Tamasin Day-Lewis. For the uninitiated Tamasin seems bossy, her methods and tone demanding. But it’s for your own good, people. It was worth every second of my devotion. Soft-set, golden and wobbly. I can’t stop eating it, straight from the jar with, it has to be said, a large spoon.

Of all the things one can cook with, make magic in the kitchen with, spices are the most intriguing. There’s a world of opportunity in a spice rack. Time for a chutney. A hot, spicy Indian one.

Last year when I first made this, I didn’t know what to expect. It comes from Julie Sahni’s excellent ‘Classic Indian Vegetarian Cookery’, a book without pictures; a book full of authentic and aromatic food. My favourite kind. The spices seemed bold and the method unlike any other. In her introduction she states, ‘Anglo-Indians have their chutneys, too, and here is one. It’s easy to make, as are most Anglo-Indian foods…’. Easy? Well, I don’t know about you, but I love seeing that particular word in any ‘preserving’ section.

In a word, it’s sensational. But be warned. This is not a chutney as many people would know it, not something you’d be spreading thickly on a cheddar and tomato sandwich (though, come to think of it, thinly spread isn’t a bad idea); rather it is a balance of all the flavours that makes the foods of the sub-continent so irresistibly unique. Hot, sour, salty, bitter, sweet. It livens up anything even vaguely Indian –anything using paneer cheese or silky eggplant. Pulses and grains welcome its hot sweetness too. Once made, put it away and leave it alone for a full month to mature. In two weeks it will just be ready, but you’ll thank me if you can be patient for another two.

And I especially like the Indian name for it, Nimboo Chatni. Much cooler.

Anglo-Indian Lemon Chutney – makes about 1 litre, maybe a little less
Adapted from Classic Indian Vegetarian Cookery by Julie Sahni.

I’ve cut the amount of chilli considerably, mostly because I’m a chilli wimp. If you like things to be searingly hot, by all means up the chilli. But you’ve been warned, okay? This will take three days, but it’s ridiculously easy.

The spices:
7 green cardamom pods
1 tablespoon of peppercorns
1 tablespoon of coriander seeds
1 tablespoon of brown mustard seeds
1 teaspoon of red chilli (pepper) flakes

The rest:
12 small lemons (preferably thin-skinned)
1 onion, peeled and quartered
2 small hot red chillies, roughly chopped
Knob of ginger, about 2.5cm, grated
125g of seedless raisins or sultanas
350ml of cider vinegar
3 tablespoons of coarse sea salt
500g of brown sugar

Day one:
Gently crack the cardamom pods and release the seeds. Discard the green pods. Place a heavy-based frying pan over a medium heat and when hot, add the spices. Shake and toss the pan constantly until they start to smell enticing – a matter of about 3 minutes all up. Remove to a plate and cool completely before grinding to a powder in either a clean coffee grinder or with a mortar and pestle.

Halve and juice the lemons. Strain the juice and set aside.

Discard 6 of the lemon shells, leaving you with 18 halves. Add these to the bowl of a food processor along with the onion, chillies, ginger and raisins. Whiz until finely minced. Tip into a large bowl and stir in the ground spices, reserved juice and the cider vinegar. Mix to combine, cover and leave at room temperature for 2 days.

Day two:
It will look like a pile of slush. Revolting, but desirable. Trust me.

Day three:
Uncover and transfer to a non-metallic pan. Add the sea salt and sugar and gently bring to the boil over a low heat, stirring often. Cook, uncovered, gently bubbling, for 30 minutes. Stir from time to time, but stand back – it has a tendency to spit and burble, like a small volcano towards the end of the cooking time.

Sterilise 3 or 4 jars while it’s bubbling. There are lots of guidelines out there, so follow your preferred method.

While hot, ladle into the jars, seal tightly and invert until cool (this creates a vacuum). Store right way up, for at least 2 weeks before eating, preferably 4 weeks or longer, and refrigerate when opened.

Easy and very good. It will be ready just as we get home from our travels.

Just in time.

Sunday afternoon

Lemon chutney.

Day one.