In my second week cooking in Greece, I have: nailed down a morning routine (alarm at 6:30am, 30 minutes of pilates, a swim in the sea, shower, change, and in the kitchen for 8am), been recognised by the supermarket staff who now say hello to me, driven down a one-way road, tried a new supermarket (I didn’t prefer it), felt my creativity coming back to life (I’ve even started drawing again) and, as a result, cooked some delicious food.

Menu highlights from week two:

Gazpacho with oregano focaccia

Melon, cucumber, pecorino, anchovy and mint salad

Prawn and datterini risotto

Caramelised onion, tomato and anchovy tart

Fig and lentil salad with grilled halloumi, crispy prosciutto, rocket and balsamic

Mussels with tomato, fennel, chilli, and cannelini beans

Portokalopita

Saffron fregola with chickpeas, olives, roasted red peppers and aioli, served with grilled red mullet and green chilli salsa verde

I’ve spent most of my cheffing career (coming up to my sixth year) cooking other people’s food.

A quick acknowledgement of how dramatic this is: obviously, six years is a short career so far, and obviously most jobs involve doing work someone else has told you to do! I have just always wanted to be self-employed, hence the drama. Being a chef is also an inherently creative job, therefore cooking someone else’s creations can feel jarring at times.

Apart from the occasional supper club with Daphnies or a client who has allowed me total free rein in the kitchen, up until now, I have always cooked a certain way. To a brief, a recipe, a thirty-year tradition (I’m looking at you, River Cafe), a planned menu; there’s always been another chef telling me what to cook and how to cook it.

I’m not negating the need to cook other people’s food as a chef, the opposite in fact - it’s how you learn to become a one. You make recipes other people have created and tested, are shown different techniques, ingredients, equipment, and are guided by the experience of other chefs in the kitchen. If I had gone straight out on my own rather than working in restaurants first, I would know nothing! So much of what I know about cooking, I’ve learnt from cooking the food of others.

Even now, cooking my own food as a private chef is only part of my income at the moment, the other part is working freelance in various kitchens. Since most of my serious cheffing years were spent at the River Cafe, it’s been invaluable, since leaving, to continue learning new approaches to food; new techniques, ingredients, ways of plating, menu planning, stock control, service systems etc.

However, cook other people’s food for too long and you’ll begin to lose a sense of what your own food even tastes like - or at least I did. Finding the time and mental space to develop my own creativity in the kitchen was really difficult when I was working in someone else’s for 50+ hours a week, and it’s one of the reasons I left the restaurant world. If you’re a chef who finds the time to be creative in the kitchen outside of work, then hats off to you!

In the first few months after leaving the River Cafe, all I could think to cook for any clients were River Cafe knock-offs. Sea bass pan-seared with olives and rosemary, served with braised spinach and pea sott’olio. Mozzarella with smashed chickpeas, roasted pumpkin and toasted walnuts. Ravioli filled with ricotta, zucchini and marjoram, sage butter and pecorino.

There’s nothing wrong with this food - it is, unanimously and evidently, delicious. It was just someone else’s and I couldn’t figure out what was mine.

Being in Greece for the month is, therefore, the first time in my career where I’ve really had the creative freedom to make whatever I want. It’s been an interesting experiment: observing what I find myself wanting to cook, what methods I naturally gravitate towards, how I plate my food, how I season it, what ingredients I use and how I write menus when I’m the only chef in the kitchen and the clients trust me.

That being said, given too much freedom - as with many things - and the pendulum can swing in the other direction. You become frozen by the paralysis of choice, have a complete mental block, and can’t think of anything to cook other than beans on toast. Sometimes boundaries are a good thing as they create a box for you to think outside of.

Whilst cooking in Greece, my parameters have been:

• the heat

• more fish than meat

• no feta (?)

• Greek produce

The heat

It’s been 35°C+ every day, so food needs to be fresh and thirst-quenching - nothing that is going to make you hotter whilst eating it, i.e. stews, curries, etc. Bigger breakfasts and dinners with lighter lunches, simply because it’s too hot for an appetite at 1pm.

More fish than meat

Pretty much my only guidance from the clients, and one I’m happy to oblige. You’ll already know from last week’s post that I’m on a first-name basis with Alex the fishmonger, and we’re surrounded by the sea, so it makes sense that we’re predominantly eating fish.

No feta

A client preference - not everyone, just a couple of guests - so feta has been served on the side of any dish where appropriate.

Greek produce

Probably what I’ve been led by the most. As always, what is local and seasonal is going to be what is best. For August in Greece, that means FIGS, tomatoes, peppers, watermelon, lemons, peaches, nectarines, as well as honey, yoghurt and copious varieties of pulses.

Today’s recipe is guided by most of these parameters. Although served hot, there’s something about eating mussels by the sea that just feels right in the summer, regardless of the temperature outside. And with plenty of fresh tomato, fennel, chilli, oregano and cannellini beans, it still feels light enough for a Greek August evening.

Mussels with Tomato, Fennel, Chilli and Cannellini Beans

Serves 6-8

Ingredients

2kg mussels

1 onion, chopped

1 fennel bulb, chopped

4 garlic cloves, sliced

3 bay leaves

1 red chilli

3 very ripe medium tomatoes, roughly chopped

1 tbsp tomato purée

300ml white wine

300g cannellini beans (either from a jar or tin, rinsed, or cooked from dried)

Small bunch fresh oregano, leaves stripped

Extra virgin olive oil

Salt and pepper

Bread to serve, preferably grilled

Method

1. If your mussels haven’t been cleaned, rinse them under cold running water, giving them a good scrub with the rough side of a washing-up sponge. Remove the beards by pulling the hairy, fibrous bit towards the hinge of the shell and yanking it off. Also remove any barnacles by scraping them off with a butter knife. Throw away any shells that are broken, or any mussels that are open and don’t close when tapped on a surface. Give them another rinse and keep them in the fridge until you’re ready to cook.

2. In a very large pot (big enough to hold all of the mussels once their shells have opened), heat a good glug of olive oil over a medium-low heat, then add the onion and fennel, along with a big pinch of salt. Cook for 10 minutes until softened, then add the garlic and bay leaves. Snap the chilli in half and add this too. Cook for another 2–3 minutes.

3. Add the tomatoes and tomato purée and cook for 5 minutes until the tomatoes are beginning to break down. Don’t be afraid to add a splash of water if the onions are beginning to colour.

4. Add the wine, turn the heat to high and bring to the boil. Add the mussels to the pot and give them a quick stir to coat them in the tomato broth, then whack a lid on. Leave to cook for 5-8 minutes, shaking occasionally, until all of the mussels have opened, adding the cannellini beans halfway to heat through.

5. Taste the stock for seasoning and adjust if necessary. Add the oregano and give everything a final stir. Serve immediately, discarding the bay leaves and chilli halves as you to, pouring the broth over each bowl. Finish drizzled with extra virgin olive oil, a sprinkling of oregano and some grilled bread for mopping.

The kitchen in the villa is a bit of a hodgepodge of equipment which I assume has been left from previous chefs. There are at least seven different coffee machines, three milk frothers, an electric vegetable peeler, two juicers, three food processors, an ice cream maker, two hand mixers, two hand blenders, two toastie makers, all of which look like they were made in the 80s and none of which I entirely trust to work.

At the end of the day, a kitchen is a kitchen, and as long as there is an oven, hob and a couple of pots and pans, you can make a meal.

My biggest worry - by far - has been the food shop. It haunted me for weeks before coming out here. What if I couldn’t find what I needed? What if I had to get a boat across to the next island to do the shop? How would I get it all home? What if the quality of the produce is terrible? (Obviously, a ridiculous worry given that we’re in the heart of the Mediterranean). And the problem with these anxieties was that I wouldn’t know the answer to any of them until I was actually in Greece; not that that stopped me from continuing to spiral in the leadup.

In an attempt to mitigate such concerns, I had a food delivery ordered for the day I arrived, but of course still had sleepless nights the week before worrying about whether it was going to turn up. Thankfully, I have a very good friend who is Greek-Cypriot and who essentially became my concierge, conversing between me and the Greek supermarkets, on standby to call and argue with them if anything went wrong. Thankfully, (thanks to Orestis) everything got delivered on time, and my clients could at least have dinner on their first night.

I’ve now found my shopping groove; I’ve sussed out which supermarkets are best for what, I’m on a first name basis with Alex the fishmonger and, after realising that all of the supermarkets were shut for a public holiday last Saturday, have now found a great local butchers and greengrocer.

If you know me, or have read my substack’s from previous summers, you know my love for foreign supermarkets knows no end, so I don’t really mind that I’m having to go most days as no matter how hard I try to write a thorough shopping list, there’s always been something I have forgotten or was unable to foresee us needing.

A few initial observations on Greek supermarkets, if you’re also a nerd like me: their feta and yoghurt selection is vast, their figs are so jammy you could spread them on toast, all of their fish is frozen, the conveyor belts at the checkout don’t move - you do the manual work of a conveyor belt and you can also only fit a basket’s worth of shopping on them at one time, meat is only available from a butcher’s counter and they will mince your meat in front of you if you wish, and nobody is ever in a rush. Despite having to load and reload my shopping onto the tiny ‘conveyor belt’ several times, I’ve never felt pressure from the cashier or the customers behind me to speed up. My stress is entirely self-induced; I always assume there is a man behind me passive aggressively fidgeting, rolling his eyes and huffing whilst I load, reload, and pack my shopping and then I remember I’m not in London and the nice old Greek man has nowhere else to be today.

I took approximately three photos of what I cooked all week, but here are some highlights of the first week’s menu and I promise I’ve been better at taking photos in week two:

Grilled red mullet with green chilli salsa verde

Chilled pea, cucumber and mint soup (recipe on a previous substack)

Cherry, orange and coconut sorbet

Spaghetti vongole with datterini tomatoes and pangrattato

Grilled sardines with olive and caper salsa

Caesar salad, with oregano roasted potatoes

Zucchini fritti with tzatziki

Grilled honeyed peaches, yoghurt cream, crumble

Blackened fish tacos, orange and poppy seed slaw, charred spring onion and mango salsa, guacamole

Peach, tomato, pickled red onion salad, prosciutto

Tzatziki

A very simple recipe today as it’s all I’ve had time to scribble down whilst I’m here, but one that is worth knowing how to do right!

As with most recipes in the Balkan-Mediterranean area, each country lays claim to theirs being the original and tzatziki is no different. From my research (and from many biased opinions given my partner is Greek-Cypriot), tzatziki is actually Cypriot and not Greek. The Greek version omits the mint which, let’s be honest, the dip needs! So although I’m cooking in Greece, my tzatziki will always be Cypriot.

That being said, I don’t love too much dried mint in my tzatziki as I think it begins to verge on the taste of toothpaste, whilst a mix of dried and fresh is still fragrant but less toothpaste-y. The Greek-Cypriot friend I mentioned earlier told me he uses 1 garlic clove for every 500g of yoghurt, so that’s what I do now.

Also! Use white wine vinegar instead of lemon! I sometimes feel that adding lemon to a yoghurt dip can make it taste almost dessert-like - as if I’m eating cheesecake batter - whereas vinegar most definitely affirms ‘savoury’ whilst providing more of an acidic tang than lemon juice.

Ingredients:

1 cucumber

500g full-fat Greek yoghurt

1 garlic clove, grated

½ tsp dried mind

2 tsp fresh mint, finely chopped

1 tbsp white wine vinegar (or red is fine - it won’t discolour the yoghurt)

50ml extra virgin olive oil

large pinch black pepper, freshly ground

3 tsp flakey sea salt

Method:

1. Using the coarsest side of a box grater, grate the cucumber into a sieve set over a bowl. Add one teaspoon of the sea salt, mixing it in briefly with your hands and set aside for 10 minutes.

2. Meanwhile, finely grate the garlic and chop the fresh mint, placing these into a bowl with the remaining ingredients.

3. After 10 minutes has passed, squeeze as much liquid from the cucumber as you can using your hands, then add to the bowl with the yoghurt.

4. Give this a thorough stir until well combined, taste for seasoning and adjust if you think it needs it. Serve in a bowl with extra olive oil drizzled on top and a mint leaf to garnish.

I’m spending the whole of August cooking for a family in Greece so to get myself in the Mediterranean mindset, last Monday I roasted a chicken with tomatoes, oregano, lemon and olives - four ingredients which so often find themselves together across the Mediterranean. The result is fresh, bright and salty, and the juices left behind after roasting are sweet and tangy from the tomatoes and lemon which both go jammy and bursting in the oven.

I served it alongside some green lentils which I cooked simply by covering with water and a layer of extra virgin olive oil with a few garlic cloves for good measure. I then seasoned them after cooking with a splash of red wine vinegar, more extra virgin olive oil, salt and pepper, stirring through some roughly chopped parsley at the end. These lentils, along with tzatziki and pita bread, made for an ideal summer dinner and this meal is something I will definitely be recreating for my clients in Greece! My parents came over last minute to drop off a suitcase for my trip so they stayed to eat and there was still enough leftover for Marco to take to work for lunch the next day.

To make the whole roasting experience even easier - and by that I mean quicker - I like to spatchcock my chicken which involves removing its spine. This allows it to be opened out and flattened thereby significantly reducing the cooking time whilst also creating the opportunity for a whole bird to be cooked in different ways like on the barbecue or in a frying pan.

It’s a really simple thing to do and you should not be intimidated by it - I explain it step-by-step in the recipe below, but all you need is a pair of scissors and it takes less than a minute to do. Watch a YouTube video if you’re unsure, but a butcher would also happily do it for you.

Tomato, Oregano, and Lemon Roast Spatchcock Chicken

Serves 4-6

Ingredients:

• One large whole chicken (as free-range and organic as you can afford!)

• 6 large vine tomatoes, cut in half around the equator

• 1 lemon, thinly sliced

• 3 garlic cloves, peeled and bashed

• 1 tsp dried oregano

• 2 sprigs fresh oregano

• ½ tsp chilli flakes

• 50g olives, pitted

• Extra virgin olive oil

• salt and pepper

Method:

1. Start by spatchcocking the chicken. For the easiest way to do this, turn the chicken over so it is breast-side down and using a pair of kitchen scissors, cut along one side of the spine from the tail end to the neck, repeat on along the other side of the spine. Discard the spine (or save it in the freezer for stock), turn the bird over, open out the legs and breast then press down hard with the heel of your hands to flatten it. You should hear a crack!

2. Place it in a large, roasting tin and season generously with salt. Leave for 30 minutes or so, to lose its chill. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 220C and prepare the rest of the ingredients

3. When ready to cook, chuck the tomatoes, lemon slices, garlic, oreganos, chilli flakes and olives in the roasting tin with the chicken. Give it a big glug of olive oil and a grind of black pepper then, using your hands, massage the chicken all over, coating the rest of the ingredients with the olive oil and seasoning. Arrange the tomatoes around the chicken, you can also place a few underneath it. Roast in the oven for 35-40 minutes until it reads 65-70C on a temperature probe, or if the juices run clear when you skewer the chunkiest part of the chicken.

4. Remove from the oven, baste with the juices and leave to rest for at least 15 minutes, but there’s no need for this chicken to be served hot so just leave it until you’re ready to serve.

5. Carve it straight into the tray so that each piece can soak up some more of the delicious juice and serve with whatever sides you like but some form of bread is highly advisable.

What I mean when I say ‘chuck’ the rest of the ingredients on top of the chicken

I offered to make my brother’s wedding cake because I thought it would be a nice thing to do, a good present for them, and because I am a chef after all!

I love baking, but I wouldn’t necessarily say I’m a baker. I don’t really have the patience for it, often skimming over the last few steps because I lack the tenacity to be pernickety over what I’m cooking. Although I am known to turn up to most special occasions with a homemade cake (including my own birthday) I’ve certainly never made something on this scale. It wasn’t a huge wedding - about 90 guests - and everyone was having dessert too so the cake didn’t need to double up as pudding. Despite knowing this, I decided to make three-tiers each with three layers of sponge - 10-inch, 8-inch, and 6-inch - so spoiler-not-spoiler alert there was far too much cake, in fact the whole middle tier went untouched and is now sliced and in various family member’s freezers.

As you’ll find out, I learned a lot from the process but most of all, and perhaps what I knew all along, was that I don’t think my career will be turning down the baking route for now…

Below, is the full story of making my brother’s wedding cake:

After a very fun cake tasting, we landed on a lemon and thyme sponge, filled with lemon curd, blueberry jam and white chocolate buttercream, with Swiss meringue buttercream on the outside, to be decorated with fresh flowers.

Having asked multiple chef friends for advice on which type of sponge to use, which buttercream is most stable and least likely to melt, how far in advance you can freeze a cake, how to transport it, whether I should syrup the sponges when they come out of the oven, the timeline of icing and stacking it, how to make flowers safe for decoration, whether I should make my own lemon curd and blueberry jam, and if I was crazy for offering to do this, I felt that I was as prepared as I could be.

Shopping lists were written and an Ocado slot booked, I had calculated the weight of each ingredient for each layer of sponge and how long each would need to be baked for, I had borrowed a cake tins and a turntable from a friend’s mum, I had watched hours of cake baking and decorating videos on YouTube, I had an hour-by-hour time schedule for the day before and morning of the wedding.

What is it they say about the best-laid plans?

Two weeks before the wedding, I travelled back home to my parents house on a Sunday to bake the sponges in their kitchen as there was no way my small and wonky Camden oven would cope with nine cakes.

We had a barbecue for lunch, then I spent the afternoon baking batch after batch of sponges with my mum as sous chef providing much needed moral support as well as lining tins, zesting lemons, picking thyme and most importantly, washing up. It took about 5 hours from start to finish and we were all quite chuffed with how smoothly everything went.

We didn’t think all nine sponges would fit in our freezer at home, so my mum sent out a bat-signal to the village and a very generous (and brave) villager offered us her chest freezer to store the cakes in for the next two weeks. I would then pick them up on the Thursday before the wedding, ice them frozen (apparently they are easier to ice when frozen), stack them, crumb coat and leave in our fridge overnight before doing the final layer of icing the next morning and travelling to the venue.

My mum delivered them safely to what turned out to be their final resting place, and I went back to London. All was good.

Exactly one week before the wedding, I receive an abrupt phone call from my mum at 8am on a Saturday. Having been out the night before, I was groggy and processing information slowly, but the conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi, how are you? What’s up?

Mum: Hello, Phoebe there’s been a disaster

Me: (internally) grandad is dead (which you’ll later find out is quite ironic).

Me: (externally): Oh no, what?

Mum: Emma’s freezer has broken and all of the cakes have defrosted

Me: (internally) fuuuuuuuccckkkk

Me: (externally) Right…

It turns out the village had a few power cuts in the week and the freezer had cut out and not turned back on. We couldn’t trace exactly when it had happened, but all the cakes were fully defrosted by the time the poor woman found them - apparently she was absolutely distraught!

I think if I wasn’t an actual chef I would have handled the situation much worse, but I now have years of experience of things going wrong in the kitchen; you never have much time to panic as usually, a problem has to be solved in the chaos of service.

It was too early to just leave the cakes defrosted before the wedding, and although refreezing them probably wouldn’t have made anyone sick, it wasn’t worth the risk on my brother’s wedding day. My main concern about refreezing them was their structural integrity; that the refreezing process would change the texture - and therefore the stability - of the sponge thereby affecting its ability to stack and stay stacked!

Having made the gutting decision to start from scratch, and a few groans of frustration later, I reordered my whole Ocado delivery and decided to take the train straight home after work on Monday (the week of the wedding) to re-bake all of the sponges since I was working everyday up until the wedding. This also meant my plans to make my own lemon curd sadly got thrown out of the window along with the defrosted cakes as I had now ran out of time.

I deleted my brother from Find My Friends so he wouldn’t be suspicious of me being back home on a random Monday night, and I spent the evening re-making all of the sponges with my mum once again on pot-wash.

That evening we received a text from my brother’s fiancé saying that one of the groomsmen’s suits had gone missing in the post, and that they had been scammed by their booking.com accommodation which meant that her family - all travelling from Bulgaria - currently had nowhere to stay. It was at this point, whilst taking sponge number 4 v.2 out of the oven, that we decided it best not to tell them about freezer-gate until the wedding was over.

With the second batch baked by 10pm, we came to the incredibly annoying realisation that we could actually fit them in our own freezer (after having eaten a few frozen pizzas and chips to clear space), so that’s where we kept them.

There was now no reason for the bride and groom to suspect a thing, if it weren’t for the fact that news travels fast in small, rural villages and there was a high possibility that as soon as my brother and his fiancé stepped foot outside of the house and into the village/pub/shop, someone would ask them how the cake was doing - there was no way the village could keep this a collective secret. In the end, it was my parents’ inability to keep a straight face that let the cat out of the bag and, after reassurance that all was now well, thankfully everyone found it funny (everyone apart from me, that is).

I then travelled back home on Thursday evening after work ready to make the icing, fill the cakes, and crumb coat them only to find out that my grandad had collapsed that afternoon and my mum was in the back of an ambulance with him on the way to the hospital. This meant that my parents got back home at 2am on what was now the day before the wedding.

• note: grandad is still alive, but sadly didn’t make it to the wedding!

The cakes were filled and iced without too much stress and the perfectly fluffy and light consistency of my Swiss meringue buttercream was perhaps my only saving grace out of all of this.

On the morning of the wedding, I drove with my dad to the venue to stack the cakes, decorate it with the flowers, and convince the wedding coordinator that it absolutely had to be stored in the fridge despite them saying that wouldn’t be possible (she was happy to oblige when I explained to her the cake was covered in buttercream and not fondant icing). Once there, I quickly realised that the florist hadn’t prepared the flower stems to be cake safe so I improvised by cutting up small bits of piping bag and covering the ends of the stem with these before inserting them into the sponge. My thought process was that I would rather people eat a bit of blue plastic, which they would hopefully notice and spit out, than potentially be poisoned by the sap of a flower stem. Cake assembled, I went to join the other bridesmaids to wash the icing out of my hair and get ready.

Since my family had forbidden me from touching the cake once in my bridesmaid’s dress, as I couldn’t be trusted not to get buttercream on my boob (if you’ve been here a while, then you know I don’t have a great track record of this and later on in the night I did indeed get butter on my boob, so they had a point), I asked (read: forced), mine and my sister’s boyfriends to transport the cake from the cottage over to the main venue during the cocktail hour. This was a high risk task since they were both a few glasses of fizz down by that point, but slow is smooth and smooth is fast, and they did a stellar job.

And here’s the finished cake:

While we may not have been in a heatwave, it was still 26C and sunny on the day of the wedding, so by the time the cake cutting happened at 9pm, the cake had been sitting out for 4 hours and had a definite lean to it. This was helpfully pointed out to me by multiple guests AS IF I HADN’T ALREADY NOTICED/BEEN STARING AT IT ALL EVENING!!! I had visions of them cutting the cake and the whole thing sliding off and toppling over onto Desi’s beautiful white dress and my brother’s light sand suit.

Thankfully, it seems I had gotten all of my cake related bad luck out of the way already and I’m told the cake was delicious - I could hardly stomach it having been scarred by the experience and also having reached the level of drunk and full where you begin to feel quite sick.

Anyway, that was that!

I completely understand why you wouldn’t given what you’ve just read, but IF you did ever want me to bake a cake for you (or cook for you in any other capacity), then do send me a message. I promise to be more professional if we’re not related, and to also use a fully functioning freezer!

Do you have any wedding cake disaster stories to make me feel better? Please comment below!

A quick one from me this week off the back of a busy week and another busy one to come (more on why in a future substack!), so I’ll leave the pre-amble there and crack on with the recipe.

As much as I love a jammy, sweet, slow-roasted tomato, when they’re at their peak, all I want is an unadulterated one, just as it comes, with a little sprinkling of salt. This recipe was born from such a desire - that and my refusal to turn the oven on for any longer than was necessary.

Because the filling of this tart isn’t cooked, it really couldn’t be easier; this also completely removes the risk of any soggy bottomed pastry! It’s a fresh and tangy summer lunch that could only be made better by eating it in the garden under dappled sunlight perhaps with a cold glass of wine in hand.

See more close ups of the sunshine tart on my Instagram!

Fresh Tomato and Feta Filo Tart

When layering the filo, it’s important to create an overlap with every sheet to construct a sturdy pastry case that doesn’t have any leakage. I did this by placing one sheet down on the centre of the base of the tin then layering four pieces facing diagonally out, followed by four pieces laid perpendicular to these, finishing with a final one in the middle. Don’t forget to brush with olive oil between each layer!

Ingredients:

5 sheets filo pastry

300g feta

100g yoghurt

1 lemon, zest and juice

700g mixed tomatoes

½ tsp dried oregano

small handful fresh oregano

olive oil

salt and pepper

Method:

1. Preheat your oven to 170C. Brush a 20cm round, loose-bottomed cake with olive oil.

2. Cut your filo sheets in half widthways. Keeping the pastry under a clean, damp tea towel as you go, layer the filo sheets into the cake tin, brushing liberally with olive oil in between each layer of pastry. Start with one on the base of the tin, then overlap the remaining sheets in different directions so that the whole tin is lined with pastry and there is about an inch of overhang around the perimeter, finishing with another sheet on the base.

3. Scrunch up the overhang to create a crust, then place the cake tin on a baking tray and bake in the oven for around 10-15 minutes or until the pastry case is golden brown.

4. Meanwhile, make the filling by blitzing together the feta, yoghurt, lemon juice and zest with a tablespoon of olive oil and seasoning to taste.

5. Remove the tart case from the oven and set aside to cool.

6. Slice the tomatoes into random shapes and marinate in the oregano, salt, pepper, and a good glug of olive oil.

7. Once the tart case has cooled completely, spoon in the feta mix and spread evenly before topping with the marinated tomatoes in a tomato mountain. Decorate with oregano flowers and serve immediately with a green salad and some bread.

During the heatwaves last summer, I was still working at the River Cafe in long sleeved chef whites and trousers, sweating over the grill whilst cooking lamb cursing anybody who would order such a thing in 35C heat, or evaporating into the pasta boiler, unable to tell the difference between its steam and my sweat.

This year, I’m in my underwear cooking recipes for substack in my knickers. Self-employment has made me weak.

All the curtains are drawn in an attempt to mimic a cave and let in as little heat as possible, so at least none of the Camden riffraff will catch a peek of a cheek, and I do have a t-shirt on standby in case someone rings the doorbell and gets a fright!

The week before my last substack, I was gloating at the fact I had managed to escape yet another heatwave in London this year, so I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know I am enduring this coming one in the city.

I popped home home this weekend to see my parents and their garden is in full bloom, making my rather concrete balcony look quite sad in comparison. My mum did, however send me on my way back to London with some homegrown courgettes of varying sizes (one of which was heading dangerously towards marrow territory). They’re something that we’ve grown for years and one plant could yield more than enough courgettes to see my mum and dad out for the summer.

Growing them yourself gives you the privilege of choosing when to pick them. The longer you leave them to grow, the more water they will take on which is why marrows become a watery, mushy, bland beast of a vegetable that can be quite difficult to make palatable. They’re best picked when relatively small - think slightly smaller than what you’d get in the supermarket - so that they are still sweet and crunchy and can be eaten in many exciting ways, including raw.

No matter how you cook it, a good courgette only really needs some good olive oil and salt, but here are some other ways I love eating them:

• In this pasta, I made during the last heatwave

• Shaved into ribbons with a vegetable peeler and dressed with lemon, pecorino, mint and extra virgin olive oil

• Chunkily cut, then slowly braised with beans - as I did here

• Cutting into chips, battering, deep-fat-frying, and tossing in salt, alla river cafe fritti

• Boiling them whole, then cutting into shapes and marinating in lots of herbs, olive oil and lemon

• My boyfriend likes them the Greek-Cypriot way, fried off in a pan then stirred through eggs as you scramble them, finished with grated halloumi folded through towards the end

• Thinly sliced on an angle, salted, grilled on the barbecue, then straight into a marinade with kalamata olives, olive oil, lemon zest, and fresh herbs - a delicious barbecue side

Because of their high water content, courgettes either need to be cooked hard and fast, or low and slow. When cooking them hard and fast - and by that I mean hot and quick, aka grilled, on a barbecue, or fried in a very hot pan - salting them once sliced, 10 minutes before you want to cook and patting them dry with some kitchen towel is a good idea. The salt draws out some of the moisture and helps stop them from turning soggy.

When cooking low and slow, there’s no need to do this as the courgettes will gradually release their water as they cook, eventually evaporating and leaving behind sweet, buttery-soft, melting, almost jammy courgettes as in today’s recipe. This way also means you can put them on the stove on low and escape to a cooler room (obviously keeping an eye on the hob!).

Collapsing Courgettes with Anchovy, Garlic, and Chilli

I’ve served these with some torn mozzarella and a hunk of bread, imagining the dish as part of a lunch or summer dinner spread, but you could also toss them through some pasta (if you can bear to boil water at the moment) for a sensational pasta.

Ingredients:

1kg courgettes (about 6, medium-sized

50g tin of anchovies in olive oil

3 cloves garlic

½ tsp chilli flakes

small handful parsley, roughly chopped

1 lemon, zest and juice

Extra virgin olive oil

salt and pepper

2 balls mozzarella, to serve

Some nice bread or focaccia, to serve

Clothing, optional

Method:

1. Begin by washing and thinly slicing your courgettes into coins about the thickness of a 50p, no thicker than £1.

2. In a large pan over a medium heat, add 1tbsp extra virgin olive oil, the anchovies and all of their olive oil too. Allow this to sizzle in the pan, breaking up the anchovies with a wooden spoon.

3. Meanwhile, peel the garlic cloves and bash with the heel of your hand or the back of a knife. Once the anchovies are beginning to disintegrate, add the bashed garlic cloves and dried chilli flakes. Cook for a further couple of minutes then add the sliced courgette. Stir to coat in all of the delicious oil, turn the heat right down and put a lid on the pan.

4. Leave to cook for around 30-40 minutes, stirring every 10 minutes or so, until the courgettes have collapsed and they are no longer watery. They should be almost jammy and sweet. Grate in the zest of a lemon, and half its juice before giving the courgettes a taste and adjusting the seasoning.

5. These are best served warm or room temperature - not piping hot - so leave to cool for 10 minutes or so before serving with torn mozzarella, a fresh zesting of lemon and a hunk of bread to act as your cutlery.

As a side however? Now we’re talking!

There are a few ways to make this quite bland vegetable actually taste nice; charring is one of them and you can do it a few ways. One, is on the hob (extra points if you have a griddle pan, bonus points if you do it on the barbecue) and the second, is in a very hot oven. I’d say that on the hob, you’ll get a better and more even colour therefore better caramelised flavour, but run the risk of the cabbage core still being raw whilst the leaves are charred to a crisp. The oven will ensure a more even cook throughout and less cleaning up (anyone else hate cleaning the hob?!). Charring them transforms the humble cabbage into a smokey and caramelised, sweet, yet tender delight to eat and makes them the ideal vessel for a punchy butter or oil to seep into the layers of leaves.

Whichever route you choose, we’re going to be drowning the cabbage in a deliciously fragrant spiced butter by the end so just do whatever is easiest for you. Both processes begin the same way by removing any limp outer leaves, trimming the end of the root off and slicing lengthways into wedges. I also like to make a few small scores in the core with a knife to help the heat get in there and cook it faster.

I think this has everything you would want from a side dish: vegetable-focused, satisfaction of texture from the crispy outer leaves, a smokey, sweet char which can take on the rich fragrant butter and is gratefully balanced by the zing of lime and cooling earthy yoghurt.

I served this alongside a pilaf made with basmati rice, chickpeas, sultanas and tonnes of fresh herbs. It would also be delicious with a spiced roast chicken and flatbread to mop up all the juices, to crown a creamy dahl, alongside grilled halloumi or paneer, or next to some tandoori roasted new potatoes. If you must eat at as a main, for love of god cook some lentils with it and know that I will be rolling my eyes as you do.

Charred Hispi Cabbage With Curry Leaf Butter and Curried Lime Yoghurt

Serves 4-6 as a side

Ingredients:

1 large hispi cabbage

125g butter

2 red chillies, thinly sliced

5g curry leaves (this is the weight of a packet in Sainsbury’s)

200g natural yoghurt

½ tsp ground turmeric

1 tbsp curry powder

1 lime, juice and zest

salt and pepper

olive oil

Method:

1. Heat your oven to 220C. Remove the outer couple of leaves from the cabbage and trim off the end of the root. Slice it in half lengthways then cut each half in half again or into thirds to create wedges, depending on how big your cabbage is. Then, score a couple of incisions down the length of the cabbage core with the tip of your knife to ensure an even roast.

2. Line a baking tray with parchment and lay the cabbage wedges evenly on the tray. Sprinkle with 1 tsp of salt and 2 tbsp olive oil, smothering this all over the cabbage wedges with your hands. Roast in the hot oven for 15-20 minutes, flipping over half way until the core is tender when pricked with a knife and the leaves are to charred.

3. Meanwhile, make your curry leaf and chilli butter by melting the butter in a frying pan until beginning to foam. Add ½ tsp salt, the curry leaves stripped from their stalk and the sliced red chilli. Fry these until the curry leaves begin to turn translucent then remove the pan from the heat and set aside.

4. For the curried yoghurt, simply mix the yoghurt with the turmeric, curry powder, zest and juice of the lime, 1 tbsp extra virgin olive oil and salt and pepper to taste.

5. Once the cabbage is cooked, remove from the oven and arrange on a platter. Pour over the warm fragrant butter, then dollop the curried yogurt on top and grate over some fresh lime zest.

For the first one at the end of May, I was in Puglia cooking on a retreat and this time, my boyfriend and I are spending the week in a cottage in the New Forest right on the river. Having booked it months ago, it’s a very fortunate coincidence that we chose this week of them all. While it’s still HOT, it’s more bearable down here; there’s a breeze, a refreshingly cold dip in the sea is only a 15 minute drive away, the landscape is vast, and the population is scarce (I’m pretty sure horses must outnumber humans here), so the heat feels much less suffocating.

But it seems a right of passage to live in London and have to endure at least one heatwave in the city every summer.

To have beads of sweat dripping down your stomach from underneath your bra whilst standing on a packed tube, lolling head first into the damp armpit of a man in a suit shirt at every jolt. To have to circle like vultures over an empty table in every pub garden. To have to try and sleep in a stifling flat, unable to open your bedroom window because you live next to a railway bridge and the noise of the trains will prevent you from getting to sleep before the heat does.

Given my job, I feel particularly smug - but also very guilty - for not working this week. I have never worked in a kitchen with air-conditioning; kitchens by nature are hot, it is the very thing that serves their function: to cook. But with so many being windowless, hobs and ovens on all day, the pot wash creating a kind of steam that could feed a steam train engine, and having to wear thick, long-sleeved chef whites and trousers, it becomes a truly unbearable job in this heat.

So trust me when I say, I know how unappealing cooking - and, quite frankly eating - can be in this weather. You want to be in an out of the kitchen in as little time as possible, the oven needs to stay off, prep needs to be non-existent, ingredients minimal, and flavours fresh.

The pasta below is just that. Honestly, there’s no need to even get a chopping board out - just grab a box grater and a couple of pans (cba for a colander even), a glass of cold white wine or perhaps an Aperol and it will all be over and done with in 15 minutes, brownie promise.

Courgette and Prawn Linguine with Chilli, Lemon, and Mint

Serves 2

Ingredients:

2 cloves garlic

2 courgettes

1/2 tsp chilli flakes

Zest and juice of a lemon

180g linguine

150g raw prawns

5 fresh mint leaves

Extra virgin olive oil

Salt and pepper

Method:

1. Bring a large pan of well-salted water to the boil (make sure to pop a lid on it to speed up the process and prevent too much hot steam from entering the kitchen!).

2. In a frying pan large enough to fit all of the pasta, heat 2 tbsp of olive oil over a medium-low heat. Using the finer side of your box grater, grate in the garlic cloves, add the chilli flakes and a pinch of salt. Stir briefly, allowing it to fragrance the oil and soften, rather than go brown.

3. After a couple of minutes, using the coarser side of your grater, grate in both courgettes, stopping when you get to the knobbly end (where it would have been picked from the plant). Turn the heat up to medium, add a pinch more salt and stir to coat the courgette in the oil.

4. At this point, drop your linguine into boiling water and set a timer for 8 minutes.

5. Keep cooking the courgette as it begins to release water and soften - you don’t want it to take on any colour, we’re just cooking it down. After 5 minutes, add the prawns, the zest of the lemon, tear in the mint leaves and grind in a good amount of black pepper. Cook until the prawns turn pink - this should only take a couple of minutes.

6. Once the pasta is cooked and still with a slight bite, use a pair of tongs to carefully transfer the linguine straight from the water into the courgette pan - bringing the pans closer together on the hob to prevent too much mess. Add a slosh of pasta water, the juice of the lemon, and another drizzle of olive oil. Toss the pasta with the courgettes until it’s well combined and looking glossy and saucy - this will take a couple of minutes.

7. Immediately turn off all sources of heat, serve, eat, and steel yourself to survive another day.

It was one of those jobs that made me really glad I took the risk of going self-employed. Having the freedom to get on a plane and fly to Italy to cook - and get paid for it - with only a few weeks’ notice? Last-year Phoebe could never.

My days started with a swim in the pool or a quick dip in the sea, with only an old naked Italian man and his two dogs for company (at the beach, not the pool - obvs!), followed by multiple visits to the supermarket. If you’ve read previous posts, you’ll know how much I LOVE a foreign supermarket, so I considered this very much part of the fun. There was lots of cooking, of course, plenty of eating, endless list-writing, and evenings ending with yin yoga on the terrace if I wasn’t busy washing up after dinner.

Apart from a brief altercation between my car and a wall in Carovigno (despite my incessant chanting of “the right side of the road is the RIGHT side of the road!!!” whenever I was driving), an extra guest, and a surprise coeliac, everything went very smoothly.

The last time I was in Puglia happened to be this March, when my boyfriend and I did a mini road trip down the east coast (thank goodness I got some driving practice in then!). We had a lovely time, but it rained every single day, so it was nice to give the region a second chance and experience it in all its summer glory.

My brief from Albertine, the founder of She She Retreats, was something like this:

Vegetable-forward, simple but generous, easygoing food served family-style on large platters, with a big emphasis on making sure there’s always enough food and everyone feels satisfied - yoga can make you surprisingly hungry!

This is pretty much my ideal way of eating anyway, and with the produce southern Italy has to offer, my job was fairly easy.

Serving food to share always creates moments of connection around the dinner table: reaching across for another spoonful of hummus, getting out of your seat to grab a hunk of bread from the other end of the table, asking someone to pass the salad. The communal aspect to eating is something I feel is important to pursue and preserve. I observed that at every mealtime, the conversation would eventually turn to food. Maybe that’s inevitable when sat around a dinner table, but perhaps without the distractions of work, everyday obligations, and phones, it seemed like everyone had a story to share. How the pasta dough reminded them of an Austrian shortbread biscuit dough, the rise of wellness trends in the food industry, their favourite pasta shapes, their children’s eating habits, whether it was their mum or dad who cooked growing up, their first meals after giving birth.

As you can tell, it was quite the dreamy job. Despite the logistical challenges - navigating unfamiliar ingredients, shops, roads, and kitchens - it was an utter joy to cook with the produce of such an abundant part of Italy. I know Sainsbury’s won’t quite match up in quality, but if you’d like to bring some of Puglia to wherever you are, below is some inspiration and a few recipes you might like to try.

Some menu highlights:

• Ricotta al forno with roasted datterini tomatoes

• Asparagus with pecorino and Puglian olive oil

• Olive and rosemary focaccia

• Orzo primavera with peas, asparagus, broad beans, courgettes, and courgette flowers

• Peach and tomato panzanella

• Courgette and lentil polpette

• Orecchiette with peas, sage, mint, pecorino, and pangrattato

• Pistachio gelato with extra virgin Puglian olive oil and sea salt

• Roasted aubergine with mozzarella, chillies, and basil

Chilled Pea, Cucumber, and Mint Soup

The yoghurt provides more than just creaminess here; it gives the soup a tang that is exactly the sensation I want from my food at the height of summer. Adding the lemon only at the end is important, as it can cause the peas to lose their colour and go brown if added during blending - and we want this soup to be VIBRANT.

Serves 4

Ingredients:

• 400g peas (I used frozen, but if using fresh, blanch them for a couple of minutes before continuing)

• 1 cucumber, peeled, deseeded, and roughly chopped

• A small handful of mint leaves (about 10 leaves)

• 4 tbsp yoghurt (full-fat pls and thank u)

• Zest and juice of 1 lemon

• A good glug of extra virgin olive oil (about 100ml)

• Salt and pepper

Method:

1. Place the peas, cucumber, and mint in a blender and cover with cold water. You can also do this in a large pan and use a stick blender. Blend until very smooth, adding more water until you achieve the consistency of double cream.

2. Add the yoghurt, lemon zest, olive oil, and salt and pepper to taste. You’ll definitely need more salt than you think, as food tastes blander when very cold. Blitz again to combine.

3. Decant into something that can sit in your fridge, add a handful of ice cubes, and chill for at least a couple of hours, or until the ice cubes have melted.

4. Serve with a squeeze of lemon juice and another drizzle of extra virgin olive oil.

Baked Rice with Toasted Almond, Olive, Caper, and Herb Salsa

The best way to cook rice in bulk, especially if all your hob space is already being taken up. I’ve only recently learned the perfect method for baked rice from a catering company I’ve been working with, and it works a charm.

The ratio is 1:1.5 rice to water. So that’s 75g rice to 112ml water per portion. For 12 people, I used 900g rice and 1350ml water.

You want the water to be hot, the rice unwashed (sounds very wrong, I know), and everything well salted. You can flavour it with garlic, ginger, star anise, bay leaves, curry leaves - whatever suits the meal.

Serves 12

For the rice:

• 900g basmati rice

• 5 garlic cloves, bashed but still in their skins

• 125g butter, cut into knobs

• 3 tsp salt

• 1350ml water

1. Preheat the oven to 180°C and bring the water to the boil, either in a kettle or on the hob.

2. Place the rice, butter, salt, garlic, and any other aromatics in a deep baking tray. Pour over the water and give everything a quick stir, then seal tightly with foil. Bake for 35 minutes.

3. Remove from the oven and leave to steam, still covered, for 10 minutes. Remove the foil, fluff with a fork, and adjust the seasoning if needed.

For the olive salsa:

• 300g Kalamata olives

• 100g toasted flaked almonds

• 75g capers

• 100g fresh herbs (I used parsley, mint, and dill)

• Zest and juice of 1 lemon

• 50ml white wine vinegar

• Extra virgin olive oil

• Salt and pepper

Method:

1. Roughly chop the olives, almonds, capers, and herbs and place in a bowl. Add the lemon zest and juice and the vinegar, then drizzle in enough olive oil to bring everything together.

2. Add a generous grind of black pepper, then taste before adding salt — the olives and capers may provide enough already. Equally, feel free to add a splash more vinegar if you like things on the sharper side.

Grilled Peppers Marinated with Oregano, Red Wine Vinegar, Garlic, and Capers

Everything you want from a side dish: simple, minimal ingredients, served at room temperature, and delicious with just about anything.

Inspired by a summer staple at River Cafe, I opted for the low-effort version since I don’t have a team of preppers peeling charred peppers for me. I originally planned to roast them, but couldn’t get the oven working at our Airbnb, so grilling became the backup plan.

I was pleasantly surprised by the results - you still get plenty of char, almost as though they’ve been cooked over charcoal, so that’s what I’ve written below. You could also use jarred chargrilled peppers to make your life even easier.

Serves 6-8 as a side

Ingredients:

• 4 peppers

• 1 tsp dried oregano

• 2 tbsp capers

• 50ml red wine vinegar

• 1 garlic clove, sliced wafer-thin

• Extra virgin olive oil

• Salt and pepper

Method:

1. Preheat the grill.

2. Deseed and remove the stalks from the peppers and slice into thirds or quarters, cutting where the pepper naturally segments. Place skin-side up on a foil-lined tray and grill until softened and beginning to blacken.

3. Remove from the oven and immediately douse with the red wine vinegar, olive oil, salt, and pepper.

4. Leave to cool. When ready to serve, arrange on a platter and scatter over the oregano, garlic, and capers. Finish with a final flourish of vinegar and olive oil, and enjoy.

So, last week, when we discovered we had new neighbours moving in upstairs, I hope you can understand my apprehension. Will they be another neighbour-related disaster story I tell in years to come? Will I hope to avoid them whenever I open the front door? Will I passive aggressively text them when they leave the front door unlocked for the 5th time that week? Will they be weirdos? But, amidst the concern, was the tiniest hope that maybe, against all odds, we could be friends. Wouldn’t that be nice?

As such, I cannot begin to tell you my relief when we received a note outside our front door from them saying they’d like to keep in touch, that they hoped we could be good neighbours (having to stop myself from singing the Neighbours theme tune out loud after writing that - I am a child of the noughties), and asking if we’d like to get a drink.

I’ve always wanted neighbours I could give food to. As much as we definitely could eat an entire cake, batch of cookies, or tray of brownies I’ve baked, or get through the four hispi cabbages, two litres of hummus, and three kilograms of yoghurt leftover from an event - sometimes you have to admit defeat and, for the sake food waste, give it away. And it’s much easier to do that with the couple upstairs than walking half an hour to your brother’s house (sorry Daniel, you may have been relegated).

So, when I came to making today’s recipe, I was almost excited at the prospect of giving the leftovers to our new neighbours when I realised I had made twenty biscuits with only myself at home. I left a plate piled with biscuits outside their door with a note in reply saying, “Yes, we’d love that too!”. We haven’t actually met them properly yet, so there’s a high chance that once we go for a drink, we may never speak again, and I anticipate that being very awkward indeed - especially after I post this Substack with such confidence. But you never know: maybe good neighbours might just become good friends.

I had lots of leftover lemon curd from doing a cake tasting for said brother’s wedding and couldn’t see myself using it up anytime soon. Marco was away on my brother’s stag do and, after a last-minute work cancellation, I turned to the only thing I know how to do when home alone: bake.

I think I’ve spoken many times on my Substack about the fact that I act more like an 86-year-old than a 26-year-old, and I’m only further proving it when I tell you my tea-drinking habits: A strong English breakfast first thing in the morning (I can’t do coffee), most likely followed by another before lunch. In the afternoon, it’s strictly Earl Grey. I couldn’t really tell you why - I think I just need something a bit bolder to lift me later in the day.

These biscuits were inspired by the two of the above facts. I love how the tart lemon curd goes really jammy and seeps into the biscuit, making it moist and even more lemony. The lemon zest in the dough itself really brings out the floral, citrusy fragrance of the bergamot in the Earl Grey tea, and I love that the biscuits are speckled with tea leaves.

If you don’t live with lots of people, or don’t have neighbours you can palm leftovers off on, just make as many biscuits as you need or want, then roll the rest of the dough into a log, wrap tightly in cling film, and keep it in the freezer for your next biscuit-related emergency (they happen). When you do want to eat them, you’ll struggle to make a thumbprint in frozen dough, so slice it into 0.5cm rounds, sprinkle with sugar, and bake from frozen. You can then sandwich two biscuits together with the lemon curd instead!

Lemon and Early Grey Thumbprint Biscuits

Makes 20 biscuits

Ingredients:

150g softened butter

150g caster sugar + 50g for coating

zest of lemon

1 small egg

240g plain flour

½ tsp baking powder

10g earl grey tea (4 tea bags)

¼ tsp salt

20 tsp lemon curd (about 3/4 of a jar)

Method:

1. Cream together the butter, sugar and lemon zest until light and well combined - about 1-2 minutes, there’s no need for it to be fluffy as you would a sponge.

2. Add the egg and mix again followed by the dry ingredients, mixing until just combined.

3. As it begins to come together, you can form the dough into a ball with your hands. Flatted into a disc, wrap with cling film and chill in the fridge for 30 minutes or the freezer for 10. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 170C, line 2 baking trays with parchment, and scatter the remaining 50g of caster sugar evenly onto a plate.

4. Once chilled, roll the dough into 30g balls, then roll each ball around in the caster sugar to coat. Place onto the prepared baking tray with enough space for them to spread - no more than 8-10 to a tray, with at least an inch gap between each biscuit.

5. Then, using your thumb, press an indent into each ball to create a circle. Fill each indentation with ½ tsp lemon curd being careful not to over fill.

6. Bake for 12-15 minutes until just turning golden. Remove and fill each one with another ½ tsp of lemon curd whilst still warm.

7. Leave to cool for 5 minutes on the trays before transferring to a wire rack to cool further. Serve still warm with a pot of earl grey tea, of course.

   

I’m sorry for the language, but I’m still quite angry about the sequence of events despite how many people have told me that all of the above is very good luck. Since when was watching a homeless man make a wheelie-bin fort, pull down his trousers down, squat and shit against the wall of your flat - ON YOUR BIRTHDAY - good luck???

It’s safe to say, a weekend back home in the countryside was long overdue. Camden has been really Camden-ing recently, and feeling the warm splat of a bird poo just underneath my right eye whilst walking to the station on my escape route out of the city, really was the final straw.

My dad did point out to me that birds still poo in the countryside to which I replied, “yes, but the pigeon : human ratio in the countryside is much lower than in London”. And, if I was going to step in dog poo, the chances are it would be my own dog’s!

As soon as I set foot on grass, I could feel my nervous system begin to calm. The bluebells are in full bloom at the moment making the woods a blanket of blue which an iPhone camera could never capture. The rhubarb was out (although a little spindly looking this year - anyone else’s like this?), the bees were buzzing (although rumours of swarms were circulating around the village), and my mum’s dahlia bulbs were slowly emerging into the sun. Ahh, what a time to live in the countryside!

Whenever we come back home, my siblings and I all too easily slip into village life as if we’ve never stepped foot in London. Before we know it, we’re cleaning the church for the annual village flower show, helping to catch a neighbour’s swarm of bees, making cakes for the village cafe, apple-bobbing at the apple festival, watching my mum collect her trophies (yes, plural) at the village show, and find no shame in wearing crocs outside of the house.

This time was no different and soon enough, with pick-axe in hand, I was digging a new pond for the garden with my dad. There were long dog walks, pub dinners outside with my newfound favourite drink, half a lager shandy - call me crazy (!!) - and lunches in the garden.

Speaking of, my mum had bought some lovely Tuscan-style sausages from our local farm shop and instructed me to make something with them for Sunday lunch. It was very much a go-with-the-flow kind of meal that began as a sausage ragu, and ended as a lemony, chickpea broth which came together in under half an hour and would make a great weeknight spring dinner too.

I didn’t have any to hand, but adding some fresh herbs like basil, parsley or fennel, or a few handfuls of spinach would make a delicious spring green addition to this dish, but it’s also great without!

Brothy Lemon, Sausage, and Chickpea Pasta

Serves 4

Ingredients:

4 Tuscan sausages

1 tsp fennel seeds, bashed in a pestle and mortar (or ground in a nutribullet)

6 sage leaves

1/2 tsp dried chilli

1 celery heart

1 onion

2 garlic cloves

1 lemon, peel and juice

3/4 jar chickpeas

2 handfuls pasta

a small bunch of fresh herbs, like basil, parsley, or fennel, roughly chopped

Method:

1. In a large wide pan, add 2 tbsp of olive oil and heat gently. Remove the sausages from their casings by making an incision along the length of each one with a small sharp knife. Peel away the skin then break the sausage meat into small pieces straight into the pan using your hands. Stir to coat in the oil, turn the heat up to medium and fry until golden brown. Try not to stir them too much, it’s best to leave them be in order to colour.

2. Meanwhile, finely chop the celery heart, onion, garlic, and sage.

3. Once the sausages are ready, remove from the pan with a slotted spoon and set aside in a small bowl.

4. Place the same pan back over a low heat and add the chopped vegetables, as well as the fennel seed and dried chilli. Fry in the sausage fat and olive oil until very soft. I added a splash of water occasionally to stop them from browning, but to ensure they continued cooking.

5. Once soft, add the sausage nuggets back into the pan and peel the lemon straight into the pan using a potato peeler. Add just enough water to cover, then scrunch up a piece of parchment and lay it on top so that everything is submerged. Allow to cook for 10 minutes, or until the pasta is al dente.

6. Meanwhile, blitz up half the chickpeas using a stick blender or nutribullet type blender and add this to the pasta along with the remaining whole chickpeas and any chickpea stock. Bring back to the boil.

7. Finish with the juice of a lemon, a grating of Parmesan, any fresh herbs, a good grind of fresh black pepper, and some extra virgin olive oil.

In recent years, however, the day has been rather grey. I’ve spent the week leading up to it refreshing the weather app, hoping for a sudden change, with unconvincing reassurance from my family: “but it’s always sunny on your birthday, it’ll be fine!”. Plans have been reluctantly moved indoors, or stubbornly continued, huddled under umbrellas in a pub garden.

This year though, the clouds parted and the sun SHONE against a blue sky once again, and it made me feel nostalgic for the birthdays of my childhood.

I spent pretty much the whole day outside; a swim at London Fields Lido, a Soft & Swirly soft serve ice cream from E5 eaten sat on the grass in the sun, a walk to Stoke Newington, tacos at Sonora Taqueria, foraging for wild garlic, then dinner at Spring - joy!

Maybe I’m biased, but I love this time of year; not just because it’s my birthday, but because of the produce that springs into season in April: rhubarb, asparagus, wild garlic, and the first blossoms of elderflower. With relatively short windows of seasonality, they feel both elusive and exclusive. We wait all year for them, then when they finally arrive they demand our care and attention, each requiring a different process in order to be eaten for a brief, but joyous, period of time.

Rhubarb, its poisonous leaves nowhere to be seen once its made its way onto the shop shelves, must be roasted or poached, made into a compote or jam, nestled into a cake or crumble. Whilst asparagus can be eaten raw - crunchy, grassy, and bitter - or cooked - earthy, sweet and buttery - whether to snap or cut their woody ends to preserve the stem becomes an annual debate (I think cutting is the correct answer, but there’s something so satisfying about that snap!).

Wild garlic we must forage for! It hasn’t made its way into supermarkets yet and, selfishly, I hope it never does. The act of picking my own food from the ground - especially in London - allows me to live my dream, for just a moment, of owning a kitchen garden somewhere in the countryside before I’m rudely awakened by the harsh reality of living in Camden. Best when blanched and whizzed into a bright green purée or pesto, stirred through pasta or risotto, blitzed into butter or oil, or wilted as you would spinach.

Elderflower we also scrounge for in hedgerows and bushes (Last year, I made the mistake of making elderflower cordial from flowers picked on Holloway Road, it’s safe to say that I’ll be going to the Heath this year…). It’s then washed of bugs, boiled with sugar, lemon, and citric acid, steeped and strained - all for the love of cordial.

Each of these labours of love we must complete in return for the joy of eating them and the anticipation of waiting all year to do so.

Wild Garlic Spring Medley

Today’s recipe is a humble celebration of all things spring. It isn’t one to be followed particularly strictly, merely a suggestion of ingredients and some loose instructions on how to cook them. Other worthy contenders in this dish - and stars of the spring show - are asparagus, peas, purple sprouting broccoli, and green beans, any of which can be used in addition to or in place of those listed below. It’s a lunch I’ll have on repeat for the next month or so, the mozzarella interchangeable with some butterbeans or cannellini beans, a jammy boiled egg, some marinated feta, or a hunk of bread

Serves 1 for lunch

Ingredients:

2 spring onions, finely sliced on an angle
1 baby gem lettuce, trimmed and quartered
A small handful of broad beans (frozen is fine!)
4 radishes, thinly sliced
1 lemon, zest and juice
A handful of wild garlic
A small handful of fresh herbs, roughly chopped (I used parsley and dill)
½ ball mozzarella, to serve
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper

Method:

1. Into a wide pan set over a medium-low heat, add a glug of extra virgin olive oil (about 1–2 tbsp) and leave to gently heat for a couple of minutes.

2. Add the sliced spring onion and a pinch of salt, and fry for 3–4 minutes until softened, stirring occasionally.

3. Add the quartered baby gem, broad beans, and radishes, along with the lemon juice and a splash of water. Toss to coat in the oil, then place a lid on the pan and allow to cook for 5–7 minutes, or until the broad beans are cooked and the lettuce is tender when a knife is poked into its core.

4. Remove the pan from the heat and stir through the wild garlic leaves to wilt, then finish with the fresh herbs and lemon zest.

5. Serve with the mozzarella, roughly torn, a drizzle more of extra virgin olive oil, and bread for the perfect simple spring lunch.

I’m embarrassed.

In my defence, I went to Italy on holiday which was immediately followed by a trip down to Cornwall to cook for a family over the Easter weekend. I got back last week and haven’t had the chance to write anything of value since. I do apologise - my decision to make this Substack a free subscription has, once again, been vindicated.

I thought that, upon my return, I would share some recommendations for Rome. Despite being a bit of an ancient history nerd (I actually have a degree in Classical Studies!), these recommendations are strictly food-related otherwise this post could easily spiral into a ramble about the fall of the Roman Empire.

We spent about 36 hours in the city before flying down to Puglia and got rained on pretty much the entire time - the gods must have been angry - but that didn’t stop us from eating our way around one of my favourite cities in Europe.

I find eating out on holiday can often be really tricky to navigate. I put so much pressure on every bite to be the best I can find - manipulating our daily schedule around where we’re going to eat and when, and placing all my faith in outdated opening hours on Google. I want to try every recommendation, never be disappointed, never get full, and somehow know, at a glance, whether a place is authentic or a tourist trap.

In reality, timings don’t always align with your plans, people get hungry at different times, I get hangry often, and you’ll most likely have a few meals that are just… average.

It can be deceptively difficult to distinguish the best from the okay from the downright disappointing. Admittedly, the bar set by the River Cafe has primed me for disappointment with most Italian food - especially when it comes to pasta. I usually pride myself on being able to determine whether a place is worth eating at but when in the motherland, this game of deception becomes even trickier.

Below is a highlight list of where we ate during 36 hours in Rome. I haven’t included every meal, because not every meal was great, but this list can be trusted - and you can blame me if you’re disappointed by any of it. Where relevant, I’ve included who recommended each place.

Mordi e Vai, Mercato Testaccio - Rachel Roddy

This was our first pit stop, straight from the airport before even checking into our Airbnb, a decision that Marco said most definitely saved us from a hanger-induced argument later in the day. We got two sandwiches and swapped bites between sips of cold beer.

To quote Rachel: “I don’t like using the word ‘best’ very much, but I think this is the best sandwich in the world.” Now, I’m not sure about best either, but it was definitely up there. I got the polpette della nonna al sugo - a sandwich made to Sergio’s grandma’s recipe, with melt-in-the-mouth beef meatballs, breaded and fried, then cooked in a smooth tomato sauce. Marco got a white veal ragù with pancetta, sage, and onion. We devoured them. It set the bar pretty high for the rest of the holiday and was exactly the start we needed.

Giolitti - Katie Smith (aka @brilliantbake)

I never know whether to run a mile or join the back of the line when I see a queue this long, but this one was worth it and if we’d had more time, I would have gone back.

They run a very tight operation, serving some of the best gelato I’ve ever had. I got sour cherry and dark chocolate and Marco went for gianduja and salted caramel. When the man serving asked if I wanted cream on top, I replied as if I’d been answering this question all my life. Obviously the answer is yes. You never turn down extra (and free!) cream.

Roscioli Caffè Pasticceria

The ideal spot for a maritozzo and espresso - an elevenses to line the stomach before a proper lunch. I’m not a coffee drinker unless I’m in Italy, but there’s something about the way Italians drink their coffee that lures me in every time. Despite being strictly decaf at home, when in Rome I’ll take the headache, racing heart, nausea, and jitters every time.

Piatto Romano - Rosie Kellett (@thelateplate)

This meal has firmly secured its place in my top ten meals of all time.

We arrived completely soaked from the rain and were welcomed into a warm yellow room with dark wood furniture, slightly humid from everyone’s drying clothes. I peered into the kitchen to see a greying Italian man behind the counter which seemed like a good sign. We took our waitress’s wine recommendation and, after confirming that it was in fact €35 for a bottle and not €350 - “three, five, euro” sounds alarmingly like “three, five, zero” in an Italian accent - we were brought an organic sparkling wine that was delicious. Not too tangy, perfectly fizzy, and from just outside Rome, made from bombino bianco.

At this point, we’d met up with a friend who lives in Florence and had come down for the day, so we went all out with ordering.

For antipasti:

• Carciofi alla giudia - a recipe from the Jewish community of Rome. An artichoke fried once at a lower temperature, then squashed between two plates (at least, that’s how we did it at the River Cafe), and fried again at a higher temperature for service until crisp and finished with flaky salt - it might be my favourite way to eat artichoke.

• Deep-fried olives stuffed with sausage - no words needed.

• Vignole - a classic Roman dish: a kind of assembly of seasonal vegetables like broad beans, peas, onion, and artichokes, cooked slowly in plenty of olive oil, often with pancetta or prosciutto.

• Braised cime di rapa in garlic and chilli - a vegetable I could eat by the bucketful.

For mains, we each got a carbonara - a roman classic and done perfectly.

Then we shared a tiramisu and a sour cherry and ricotta tart for dessert. Marco - who claims not to like either tiramisu or tarts (a red flag, I know) - loved both. The tiramisu was unlike any I’ve had before; the sponges were soaked much darker than usual and tasted like a deep-bitter-muscovado-caramel and one between three felt far too frugal.

In between all of these places were cappuccinos and cornetti for breakfast, Campari spritzes to lift spirits after a pre-dinner, post-nap lull, and a takeaway pizza eaten back at our Airbnb while watching The Italian Job.

I left feeling so full and so inspired by the Romans and their food that they take so much pride in.

Do let me know if you’d like a similar post with reccs for Puglia; I have many and despite even more rain there, we ate gooood!

Whilst buying eight bags of frozen blueberries from Sainsbury’s to make enough blueberry compote for 100 people for said event (spoiler alert: my maths was very wrong and this made far too much), I found myself wondering about the ethical and practical pros and cons of buying frozen fruit. In the middle of March we’re still, heartbreakingly, a long way off berry season in the UK, yet the freezers are always stocked with packets and fresh berries sit on supermarket shelves year-round.

Freezing fruit at peak harvest isn’t just a way of extending its life beyond the season, it’s also a smart decision for farmers. At peak harvest, production can exceed demand so rather than ending up with a summer glut that risks spoiling before it’s sold, excess fruit can be frozen early on and sold later in the year when supply is lower.

For consumers, frozen fruit - like blueberries - is often cheaper (currently £3.30 for 360g frozen compared with 300g fresh in Sainsbury’s), and more sustainable as, in theory, the frozen berries you buy in February are fruit that was picked in summer and preserved at their peak rather than grown out of season and sold as fresh. Frozen fruit also has far fewer aesthetic standards, meaning the wonky or misshapen berries still have a purpose rather than being thrown away, helping prevent food waste.

There’s also evidence to suggest that as soon as fruit and vegetables are picked, they begin to lose nutrients which means that by the time they’ve been harvested, sorted, packaged, transported to shops and then sat in your kitchen waiting to be eaten, they hold much less nutritional value than their frozen counterparts which are frozen shortly after being harvested essentially pausing that decline. It can also be a great way to access vitamins during the winter that aren’t naturally present in food grown at this time of year - things like vitamin C from berries.

Of course, ‘frozen’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘local’. Even if the fruit was picked in season, it may still have travelled a long way to reach the UK, so the air miles can still be relatively high. But, I think that if you want blueberries in the winter, then buying frozen is probably the more sustainable option.

I’d love to know your thoughts on the matter - so many things to consider!

When it comes to cooking with them, although frozen fruit definitely has a different texture to fresh, I think it’s best we lean into the difference rather than see it as a downside. The water released as it thaws works perfectly for things like fruit compote, where you need a little extra liquid to get everything cooking anyway. I like to add just a touch of honey to my fruit compotes and something else for a bit of fun - the zest of an orange, a hard herb like rosemary or thyme, vanilla, or cinnamon. Today’s recipe opts for bay, an underdog of the herb world whose flavour is far too underappreciated in my opinion!

Single-Serving Stovetop Granola

I live in a household where 50% of us are allergic to nuts (I live with one other person) which means that making a whole batch of granola can often be inefficient and wasteful. I might not want granola everyday for breakfast and although I know it keeps well, if I’m the only one eating it, I run the risk of it sitting for too long and turning stale. So this recipe is my solution - it’s not exactly one for when you’re rushing out the door to work in the morning, but perhaps a work from home day, or a weekend breakfast. You can switch up the nuts, seeds, and spices for whatever you have to hand, just use the quantities as a guide.

Serves 1

Ingredients:

• A small handful of nuts

• A small handful of mixed seeds

• A couple of handfuls of whole rolled oats

• A knob (about 2 tbsp) butter

• Pinch of salt

• 2 tbsp honey or maple syrup

• Pinch of ground cinnamon or cardamom

• A small handful of mixed dried fruit (sultanas, sour cherries, and dried apricots are some of my fave)

• Yoghurt, to serve

Method:

1. Heat a frying pan over a low-medium heat. Add the pistachios and seeds and keep them moving until they begin to toast and the seeds begin to pop - keep an eye on them being careful not to let them catch.

2. Add the oats and continue to toast in the pan until they begin to take on a bit of colour. Remove these all from the pan and set aside.

3. In the same pan, add a knob of butter with a pinch of salt and melt until foaming.

4. Add a couple of tablespoons of either honey, or maple syrup and the pinch of cardamom and stir to combine with the butter.

5. Add the pistachio and oat mixture back into the pan, stir to coat in the sweetly spiced butter and cook for another few minutes.

6. Remove from the heat and stir through a small handful or dried fruit, I like sultanas and a few dried apricots roughly chopped in with kitchen scissors.

7. Leave to cool and crunch up for around 10 minutes.

For the blueberry and bay compote:

Serves 5-6 (so perfect for batch-making and having for breakfast throughout the week!)

Ingredients

360g bag frozen blueberries

50g honey

4 bay leaves

Juice of half a lemon

Method:

1. Place all of the ingredients, apart from the lemon, in a large pan over a medium low heat. Cover with a lid for 10 minutes.

2. Once mostly defrosted, remove the lid and cook for a further 20 minutes, stirring occasionally until the fruit is breaking down, but the compote not too liquidy.

3. Once ready, stir through the lemon juice, give it a taste and add more if you think it’s still too sweet. Transfer to an airtight container and allow to cool before storing in the fridge for up to a week.

I suspect my love of peas has something to do with the fact that The Princess and the Pea was my favourite fairytale when I was little. Now, why haven’t they made that into a Disney movie yet? I could (and often do) eat them with every meal and have an underlying sense of unease when we don’t have a pack in the freezer.

In her most recent Substack, Florence Blair also speaks of her love for peas and I echo everything she says about them:

“Dependable, unrivalled in convenience, and — as far as I can tell — universally adored”

Alongside her ode to peas, she’s also written a lovely recipe for a brothy pasta with peas which looks like perfection and I shall be making it imminently - you can read and subscribe below:

bits & bobs

Brothy pasta and peas

Throughout March (and maybe April too, we’ll see!), when winter crops are dwindling and the new season’s crops are a way off, I’m focusing on “pantry produce” in my newsletters. By “pantry produce”, I mean vegetables and fruits in jars, tins and freezer bags. If you missed the first in this little series, you can catch up…

Read more

6 months ago · 4 likes · 2 comments · Florence Blair

Whilst the frozen kind are nostalgic and reliable, when at their peak, I don’t think there are many greater joys in life than a pea eaten fresh from its pod - tender and sweet, the result of a labour of love.

When peas were in season at the River Cafe, the early shift would often spend our post-service prep time out on the grass or perched on the steps podding enough peas for the late shift to use for dinner that evening. Chatting away, grabbing handfuls of pods, prying them open between thumbs and emptying them into gastros, sneaking plenty for ourselves as we went. Although eager to get home, I could always rely on those moments podding outside in the sun, with enough distance from the chaos of the kitchen, to remind me of how privileged I was to work there.

Today’s recipe features the frozen kind and, as with most pea-related recipes, is really easy and also happens to require only one pan of water for cooking. It would be great as part of a spring sharing spread, picnic, or alongside lamb for an easy spring Sunday roast. Enjoy!

Smashed Peas and New Potatoes with Boiled Lemon, Goat’s Curd, and Mint

Serves 4

Ingredients

400g new potatoes

2 lemons

3 garlic cloves

400g frozen peas

A small bunch of mint, about 15 leaves

200g goat’s curd or a soft goat’s cheese

Extra virgin olive oil

Salt and pepper

Method

1. Bring a large pan of salted water to boil. Thinly slice one lemon and add to the water with the garlic cloves. Add the new potatoes and cook for 12-15 minutes, or until tender when pricked with a fork.

2. Drain the potatoes and lemon, but keep the cooking water by placing a large bowl under the colander when draining. Return this water to the same pan and leave the potatoes to steam for a few minutes.

3. Add the peas to the pan of hot water to defrost - there shouldn’t be a need to place it back on the heat.

4. Meanwhile, gently crush the new potatoes with the bottom of a glass or mug, using the surface of a chopping board to help you. Once crushed, pop into a large mixing bowl, along with the lemon slices. Smash the now soft garlic with the flat side of your knife and add this too. Drizzle the potatoes with extra virgin olive oil, and a good grinding of black pepper. Toss to coat and set aside.

5. Once the peas are cooked, drain the water away and place the peas back in the pan. Adding a good pinch of salt, roughly blitz with a stick blender, 3-5 short pulses should be enough, we still want to retain plenty of texture. If you don’t have a stick blender, you could easily to this with a potato masher.

6. Add the peas to the potatoes, as well as the juice and zest of the second lemon. Tear in half the mint leaves, a drizzle more olive oil and gently mix, taste and adjust for seasoning if necessary.

7. Arrange on a serving platter, top with spoonfuls of the goats curd, the rest of the mint leaves, a fresh grating of lemon zest and a grind of black pepper.

Before we get into today’s post, I wanted to thank everyone who read my Substack takeover with Home Hospitality, especially to those fellow freelancers who sent me messages of solidarity - it’s not easy out here, so it was nice to know we’re not alone! If you haven’t read it, you can here - it’s about how I’ve been trying to reframe fulfilment since going freelance.

The extent of my knowledge of the Welsh is rewatching Gavin and Stacey every Christmas and a trip to a PGL somewhere in the middle of Wales at the end of year 6.

So, when I was asked to be the demo chef at a St David’s Day food and drink festival hosted by the Welsh government, you can imagine I felt a bit like a fraud and asked myself: how good is my Welsh accent when I’m not saying the two words, “what’s occurin’?”.

It turns out there was no need for me to impersonate a Welshman, but I did try to keep it on the down low that I am in fact, English until I was asked by multiple people where in Wales I lived - “oh, just a small little village called Camden”.

I demonstrated five recipes over each day of the weekend, using produce from the Welsh producers invited to sell their goods at the market; ranging from an elderflower sparkling wine, goat’s cheese, gin, charcuterie, and a welsh cake stall that sold out by midday on Sunday.

They put a lot of trust in me (they’re very trusting people, the Welsh) and told me to come up with a menu and recipes for the weekend. So, here is what I made:

• Roasted rhubarb and yoghurt pot with pistachio and cardamom stovetop granola

• Bara brith french toast

• Caerphilly cheese scones with whipped salted chive butter

• Leek and goat’s cheese tart with a walnut, caper, and tarragon salsa

• Welsh lamb cutlets with purple sprouting broccoli and anchovy and rosemary sauce

During some demonstrations I was speaking out to an audience of approximately one person, scared to look up from what I was cooking out of fear they would have walked away and left me talking to myself. Other times, I had an engaged crowd* who were asking me questions, eager to get a taste at the end.

*definition of ‘crowd’: 10 people, max

One faux pas was made when, in an attempt to fill an awkward silence and forgetting that my microphone was turned on, asked if there was a national anthem of Wales which obviously didn’t go down very well nor help in convincing anyone of my heritage…

(The answer is yes they do, if you were also wondering)

Regardless, I had a really fun weekend and my main takeaways were: 1. Why aren’t Welsh cakes widely eaten in England? 2. Maybe presenting is my calling? 3. The Welsh are alarmingly nice people. So nice, that the hardened Londoner in me suspected fakery and once I realised they were being genuine, wanted them to go home as soon as possible to protect themselves from the cruelty of London.

So, for this week’s post, I thought I would share one of the recipes from the festival. This isn’t the first, nor will it probably be the last, that a tart like today’s has featured on my Substack which goes to show how delicious, but also versatile it is. It’s a year-round recipe that only requires you to swap out the vegetable depending on the season; asparagus in May, tomatoes in July, or pumpkin in December like I did this Christmas. I’ve used a soft goat’s cheese here, but again, you can switch this out for seasoned ricotta, cream cheese, whipped feta, a soft blue, or a harder one, let down with some double cream. It’s the recipe that keeps on giving and today, it’s giving leek and goat’s cheese. I’ve made a walnut, tarragon and caper salsa to go with - the vinegary-slightly-pickledness of which marries perfectly with the sweet leeks and creamy cheese.

Leek and Goat’s Cheese Puff Pastry Tart with Walnut, Tarragon, and Caper Salsa

Serves 6

Ingredients:

For the tart:

• 3 medium leeks, sliced and washed

• 2 cloves of garlic, grated

• 1 tbsp chopped thyme

• 1 tbsp butter

• 375g pack ready-rolled puff pastry

• 250g soft goat’s cheese

• 1 egg, beaten

• 5g Parmesan

• salt and pepper

• Olive oil

For the walnut salsa:

• 50g walnut halves, toasted

• 1 tbsp capers

• 2 tbsp fresh tarragon

• Zest and juice of 1 lemon

• Salt and pepper

• 50ml extra virgin olive oil

Method:

1. Preheat the oven to 200C. Heat the butter and a tablespoon of olive oil in a large frying pan over a medium heat. Once the butter is foaming, add the leeks and a large pinch of salt and cook until softened. Add the garlic and thyme and continue to cook for a few more minutes, being careful they don’t begin to colour. Remove from the heat and set aside.

2. Roll out your puff pastry and transfer to a baking tray lined with parchment (or keep it on the paper that it comes on). Score a border about an inch in from the edge around the perimeter using a sharp knife, being careful not to cut all the way through the pastry.

3. Inside the border, spread the goat’s cheese over the pastry base. Top with the cooked leeks and arrange evenly across the goat’s cheese.

4. Brush the border with the beaten egg and finish with the Parmesan grated freshly over the top of the whole tart.

5. Bake in the oven for 15-20 minutes, or until the pastry is puffed up and golden brown.

6. Meanwhile, make the dressing by roughly chopping the walnuts, capers and tarragon and adding to a bowl. Add the lemon zest and juice, the olive oil and a pinch of salt and pepper to taste.

7. Once the tart is ready, remove from the oven and drizzle with the dressing. Cut into 6 squares, and serve with a crisp, green salad.

A few weeks ago, I was cooking for an event with Nutella, which involved making about 300 crêpes for one of their suppliers ahead of the big day itself. I came away from the job with as many jars of Nutella as I could fit in my bag, as well as a ziplock filled with leftover batter which went straight into my freezer, earmarked for this Tuesday. We invited some friends over for the evening, and I made an amatriciana for mains to prepare our blood sugar levels for the amount of Nutella we were about to consume, then laid on a pancake spread with all of the usual suspects.

Every year I toy with the idea of doing something fancy with my pancake toppings, but I fear this would be an Americanisation of a truly British day and, quite honestly, I don’t think you can beat lemon and sugar - I know everyone would be secretly disappointed if it wasn’t on the table!

Whilst pancake day was a staple of my childhood, so was Lent. Going to a C of E primary school and growing up attending church every Sunday meant that the two were part and parcel, and the whole family would always join in giving something up until Easter Sunday.

My dad always gives up chocolate - one of his only vices. One year I gave up sandwiches because I was bored of having them in my packed lunch every day, and my poor mum actually made me all manner of different school lunches for the whole of Lent - pasta salads, filled pitas, probably a sausage roll or two. I can’t imagine I will be quite so accommodating to the demands of my future children!

One year, when I was slightly older, I went vegetarian, and there was another when my mum, sister, and I did the ‘whole foods challenge’, where we were only allowed to eat ingredients and strictly no processed foods. I can’t remember how long we managed that one for…

Perhaps the most famous Lent in our family history, however, was the year that my brother and sister gave me up. I must have been about ten, making my brother 14 and my sister 16 - a fraught time when I was still at primary school and they were at secondary, so the peak of my FOMO. The rules were as follows: they weren’t allowed to address me or speak to me; they could only reply to me with a nod of their head. In my memory this lasted weeks, but in reality it probably only went on for a day or two before my parents intercepted. I’m laughing out loud thinking back whilst writing this, but you can imagine my petty RAGE as an annoying little sister being unable to bug my older siblings and being outright ignored by them for days!!

Anyway, this year all the siblings are still talking to each other and I’m giving up eating after dinner during the week as I’ve recently found that so often I’m struggling to get to sleep with an uncomfortably full stomach and chocolate buzzing through my veins. We’ll see how long this one lasts - longer than my brother and sister’s attempt to give me up, I hope!

Are you giving anything up this year?

Anchovy, Rosemary, and Caper Pangrattato

This week’s recipe is for a particularly delicious pangrattato (fried breadcrumbs) that you can use on so many dishes for an extra salty crunch. So far, I’ve sprinkled it on top of a celeriac and apple soup, a lentil and radicchio salad, and - as I have below - with tenderstem broccoli dressed in olive oil and a jammy boiled egg. You could also reconstruct this recipe by making a garlicky chilli, broccoli, and anchovy pasta sauce and topping it with the pangrattato — I think that dish has to be in my top five pastas of all time.

There are a few ways to make pangrattato: either roasting in the oven, deep-frying, or pan-frying. By deep-frying you get a more even golden colour and a more satisfying crunch; in the oven you really have to keep an eye on it so that the top layer of crumbs doesn’t catch whilst underneath stays pale; and pan-frying allows you to add in extra tasty bits, as I’ve done here. Either way, plenty of olive oil is key!

It will keep quite well, stored in an airtight container for up to three days.

INGREDIENTS:

100g stale bread, crusts removed

100ml olive oil (or 50ml oil from the anchovies + 50ml olive oil)

1 clove of garlic, smashed

1 tbsp capers

1 small sprig of rosemary (about 2-3 inches tall)

250g tenderstem broccoli

Parmesan, a few shavings to serve

salt and pepper

extra olive oil for dressing

METHOD:

1. Blitz up your bread in a food processor. I like a rough crumb rather than a fine crumb for my pangrattato - but the choice is yours.

2. Heat the oil in a frying pan over a medium heat. Add the garlic, capers, and rosemary and sizzle these in the pan until the garlic is just beginning to brown and the capers crispy.

3. Add your breadcrumbs and coat in the oil. Continue to stir the breadcrumbs around in the pan until they turn golden brown and crispy.

4. Meanwhile, bring a small pan of salted water to the boil. Once boiling, add the broccoli and cook for around 4 minutes, or until tender - you don’t want them crunchy (we have the pangrattato for crunch!), but equally don’t want them to be mush. When cooked, drain, transfer to a bowl and dress with olive oil, salt and pepper.

5. Once the breadcrumbs are ready, transfer to a plate or baking tray lined with kitchen roll to absorb the excess oil - this will make them last longer when stored.

6. To serve, arrange the dressed broccoli on a plate, sprinkle liberally with the pangrattato, and top with a few shavings of parmesan.

For the majority of January I was firmly in the former camp, complete with a steady workout routine, dedicated to getting my steps in (even in the rain!) since I’m not running around a kitchen all day like I used to. Then, February hit and so did an almighty cold which meant that by the end of the first week, I had transitioned alarmingly seamlessly into the latter camp, feeling betrayed by my body having treated it so well the month prior. Whilst I craved a warm bowl of stodge for dinner most evenings, I felt conflicted knowing that what my body probably needed most was something with a little less cheese, and a little more green.

Enter, today’s two recipes: one to heal the soul, and one to heal the body. In my books, pasta should be eaten all year round and irrespective of what school of diet thought you’re choosing to follow. Whether you’re drinking your greens, or drinking your cheese this February, I think both of these recipes deserve a spot at your dinner table.

Both also start the cooking process by frying off a salty cured meat in a small amount of olive oil until golden and crispy, removing this from the pan and cooking the rest of the vegetables in its rendered fat before eventually adding it back in towards the end. You don’t need to use much for this to have a huge impact on the flavour of the final dish, just make sure to be slightly more sparing when adding salt to taste. If you’d rather leave the pancetta out of the first recipe, then be my guest - just make sure to sweat down the onion, celery, and garlic until really buttery and soft to get as much flavour out of them as possible.

Cavolo nero, carlin pea, and pasta broth

You can use any bean here, I just really liked the look of the black carlin pea with the dark green of the cavolo nero making it feel appropriately moody on a rainy winter’s evening.

INGREDIENTS:

100g pancetta, diced (optional)

1 white onion, roughly chopped

1 celery heart, roughly chopped

3 garlic cloves, finely chopped, or grated

pinch chilli flakes

200g cavolo nero

250g carlin peas (I used about ½ bold bean jar)

100g short pasta of your choice (I used fusilli, but something much smaller, like orzo, would also work well)

olive oil

salt and pepper

METHOD:

1. Place a wide, large pan over a medium heat and add a small amount of olive oil. Once heated, add the pancetta if using and fry until golden and crispy. Remove with a slotted spoon and set aside.

2. Meanwhile, strip the leaves from the stalks of the cavolo nero. Chop the stalks into 1cm pieces, then roughly cut through the leaves.

3. Lower the heat of the pan, then add the white onion, celery, garlic, cavolo nero stalks, and chilli flakes to the pan and a small pinch of salt. Stirring occasionally, cook this until buttery soft and just beginning to brown.

4. Meanwhile, pop the kettle on. Once the vegetables are looking ready, return the pancetta to the pan and add the beans and cavolo leaves followed by 1.5 litres of water straight from the kettle and a good grinding of black pepper. Bring to the boil, then reduce to a simmer and allow to bubble until the cavolo leaves are tender.

5. Remove from the heat and briefly blitz with a hand blender. You only want to do this in a few short bursts to thicken the soup slightly whilst still retaining most of the brothy texture - about 3 ladlefuls will do.

6. Return to the heat, add the pasta and continue to simmer until cooked - you may want to top up with hot water if you feel it’s beginning to lose its soupy-ness.

7. Ladle into bowls, and top with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and a grating of Parmesan, if you wish.

Chorizo and leek carbonara

This recipe is not for the carbonara purists and I’m sure my friends at the cafe will be rolling their eyes (as I would have too), but time away changes you. Of course, there is always a place for the unadulterated classics which should be followed as their Italian ancestors intended. I also know when recipes are taken too far (miso-gochujang-hot-honey-brown-butter carbonara I’m looking at you…), but sometimes it’s important to not take food too seriously, to be inspired by the classics, and take them in a slightly different (geographical) direction. It’s also important to use up what’s in your fridge, as I did here!

Black pepper in carbonara is very much an ingredient, rather than an afterthought as it appears in most recipes; you really want to be able to taste it so freshly cracked is best.

We ate this alongside a very welcome sharp and crunchy salad of radishes, celery, and butterhead lettuce with a vinaigrette made with red wine vinegar.

Serves 2

INGREDIENTS:

125g chorizo, broken or crumbled into chunks

2 leeks, finely sliced

2 egg yolks + 1 whole egg

75g pecorino, grated + extra for sprinkling (or manchego would work great seeing as we’re already in Español with the chorizo)

1 tsp freshly ground black pepper

200g pasta (I used rigatoni because I love the way the sauce gets into the tubes)

Salt

METHOD:

1. Begin by bringing a large pan of well-salted water to the boil. In a separate frying pan over a medium-low heat, fry the pieces of chorizo until they release their oils and begin to crisp up. Remove with a slotted spoon and set aside, leaving their juicy red oil in the pan.

2. Keeping the heat the same, add the sliced leeks and a pinch of salt and leave to cook, stirring occasionally until they are very soft, and only just beginning to colour.

3. Meanwhile, mix the eggs, pecorino, and black pepper in a small bowl and whisk until well combined. Add the pasta to the boiling water to cook for 8 minutes.

4. Once the leeks are ready, return the chorizo to the pan and turn the heat right down.

5. When the pasta is cooked, reserve a large mug full of the cooking water, drain the rest away, then add the pasta to the leeks and chorizo.

6. Add half of the reserved pasta water to the egg mixture and whisk quickly to loosen, then add this into the pan with the pasta, keeping the heat on low.

7. Toss together fairly vigorously until a glossy sauce begins to form. You can remove the pan from the heat completely if you’re worried about it scrambling, and if it’s looking a bit stodgy, add more pasta water - don’t be afraid to add too much, you’ll need more than you think to create a lovely sauce. You can return briefly to a low heat to help it emulsify, but keep tossing and mixing for a couple of minutes if you need to.

8. Once ready, serve in bowls with extra cheese and a fresh grinding of black pepper on top, and retire to the sofa for the evening.

Whilst a pudding may last a dinner, with maybe some leftover for the next day, a cake can last a week - ah, a loophole! Enter today’s recipe.

I was inspired by Ravneet Gill’s rhubarb and custard cake where she pours a whole tin of custard over the cake before baking it in the oven (how could you not be inspired by that?!). I’ve done the same here, but topped it with crumble so it really becomes an all-in-one pudding-cake situation which sounds like a pretty good situation to be in, if you ask me.

I had a rather empty week last week, so I decided to get on the train to see my grandma and grandad for lunch which was a great excuse to bake such a fun cake. The custard submerges itself into parts of the sponge so you get pockets of creamy custard amongst sharp, cinnamon-y apple, a light sponge, and a crunchy crumble topping - what a cacophony of textures!

My grandma had been raving about the carrot cake I made for my cousin’s engagement party which was a Nigel Slater recipe, so I gave her a couple of my favourite books of his - A Cook’s Book (were the carrot cake recipe came from), and A Thousand Feasts (not a recipe book, but a collection of food memories and moments from his life), alongside the cake.

She called me a few days later to thank me for the cake and to tell me that Nigel is “very deep, isn’t he”. Yes, grandma, he is.

Admittedly, I had intended to use rhubarb here and went to more shops than I’d care to admit in search of some with no luck; I think I was a week or two too early for rhubarb to be found in the darkest depths of Camden. So, swap the apples for the same weight in rhubarb if you’re lucky enough to get your hands on some. Pears would also work great this time of year, and I have a sneaky suspicion that this is going to be a versatile recipe for all the fruits of the year - I’ll have to test and find out, and I’ll report back soon.

Apple and Custard Crumble Cake

Ingredients:

For the apples:

350g bramley apples, peeled, cored and chopped into 2cm cubes (rough cubes!)

50g soft dark brown sugar

1 tbsp cinnamon

For the crumble:

100g plain flour

50g butter

50g demerara sugar

For the sponge:

200g butter, softened

80g caster sugar

65g soft dark brown sugar

2 eggs

1 tsp vanilla extract or paste

200g self-raising flour

50-100ml whole milk

400g tin of custard (I used a carton of Jude’s, Birdseye would also work great)

Method:

1. Preheat the oven to 180C and grease and line a 20cm x 30cm baking tray with butter and parchment.

2. Combine the ingredients for the apples and set aside.

3. Make the crumble by working the flour and butter together between your fingertips until it resembles breadcrumbs, then stir in the sugar. Leave in the fridge for now.

4. For the cake, cream together the softened butter and both the sugars for 4-5 minutes until light and fluffy.

5. Add the eggs one at a time, mixing them thoroughly between additions. Add the vanilla and stir to combine.

6. Sift in the self-raising flour and cinnamon and fold into the cake batter with a large spoon until just combined, add a splash of water to loosen the mixture so that it dollops easily off of your spoon.

7. Fold in half of the apple mixture then pour into your prepared tin and smooth over, scatter the remaining apples on top and gently press them into the batter.

8. Then, pour over the tin of custard and spread into an even layer on top of the sponge. Using a small spoon or butter knife, you can carefully swirl this into the cake batter. Remove the crumble mixture from the fridge and add ½ tbsp of cold water to the bowl, gently shake or stir so that clumps of crumble begin to form. Scatter evenly over the top of the custard

9. Place in the oven for 45-50 minutes, or until a skewer comes out clean when inserted. Leave to cool in the tin for at least 30 minutes to allow the custard to set, before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely. Slice up and enjoy with extra custard if you wish!

I was 18, had finished my A-Levels only a couple of months prior, was resolute about not going to university despite pleas from my teachers (I was a straight A* student), and had got a job as a commis chef working at a five-star hotel not far from where I lived.

I was in the buffet restaurant of the hotel and in charge of making the salads for lunch and dinner. There were always at least six on offer and the selection changed daily. They were all vegetarian, and there had to be a range to cover most dietary requirements. At first, I just rotated preset salad options from the kitchen’s menu - ones they had been using for years - but after a month they allowed me to plan the salad menu for each day. I would flick through cookbooks for inspiration at home the night before, then come in the next day, run my ideas by the head chef, then write him an order list. It was thrilling having autonomy over a section and being trusted to do so, despite my complete lack of confidence and experience.

I’m not exaggerating when I say I cried every day for the four months I worked in that kitchen (we won’t get into that now), but I did learn how to make a really great salad.

I was introduced to new ingredients and new ways of cooking with them: roasted celeriac, confit Jerusalem artichoke, curry leaf pesto, crispy rice, pickled shallots. Suddenly, salads weren’t just some chopped iceberg lettuce with slices of cucumber and tomato. They were exciting, complex, full of flavour and texture - whole meals in their own right - something to spend time making rather than just assembling. Ever since, I’ve always loved making salads and changing people’s minds about them.

Admittedly, salads are much more effortless to make during spring and summer, when an abundance of fruit and vegetables that can be eaten crunchy and raw means that making a salad is a joy - something to quickly rustle up on a hot day when you don’t want to labour in the kitchen for too long.

Unfortunately for us in the UK, these warmer months feel far and few between. And, whilst I love a comforting bowl of warm stodge for dinner on a rainy January evening, I do also find myself craving something more fresh and vibrant, with a bit of tang. It seems a shame to have to deny myself that just because it’s dark outside.

Salads in winter just need a bit more time and thought put into them, but that doesn’t mean they need to be complicated. There’s still so much delicious winter produce that works beautifully in a salad, as long as you know how to use it. To name a few:

• Chestnuts and walnuts (toast or roast with salt, honey and rosemary)

• Apples and pears (slice thinly)

• Citrus fruit - satsumas, oranges, grapefruit (remove the rind and slice or segment)

• Pomegranate

• Kale (you know my thoughts on this—get baby kale if you can find it, and massage very well until tender)

• Radicchio - radicchio has many guises: treviso, tardivo, castelfranco, grumolo, radicchio di Chioggia, and rosa del Veneto among others

• Root veg - beetroot, pumpkin, squash, carrots, parsnips, celeriac, cauliflower (roast with plenty of hardy herbs and spices like caraway or cumin seeds)

• Cabbages (shred for slaw)

• Onions and shallots (pickled)

• Leeks (sauté with thyme until caramelised)

• Broccoli - tenderstem, classic, or purple sprouting (blanch first)

• Winter salad leaves - purslane, endive, dandelion, mustard leaf, baby chard

The protein question

I know a lot of people will tell you that a salad needs protein in order to feel substantial, but I would beg to differ. Putting a hunk of meat on top just for the sake of #gainz is, in my opinion, a great way to ruin a lovely salad.

That being said, if you are looking to add a bit more sustenance in the form of protein, may I suggest beans? Any bean will do—preferably jarred, as we all know a jarred bean is better than a tinned bean. I recently got sent some from Bold Bean Co which, as we also all probably know, are the best jarred beans in the business, but your local Middle Eastern corner shop will also sell some really great ones.

Beans integrate seamlessly into a salad, providing a different texture and acting as an effective vessel for soaking up dressing.

If you’re using tinned beans, I like to roast them in the oven until they blister, then immediately submerge them in my salad dressing so they soak it all up while still warm.

Some important things I’ve learnt about salads over the years that you might want to know:

• The Golden Dressing Ratio: The ratios for the perfect salad dressing are really up to you and your palate. Traditionally, a 3:1 ratio (oil to acid) will give you a well-rounded dressing, but if you like something sharper and tangier you can increase this to 2:1 or even 1:1. My favourite acids are orange or lemon juice, and red wine vinegar, and I always use extra virgin olive oil. I make dressings by putting everything into a jar, popping the lid on and giving it a good shake until emulsified - much quicker than standing there with a fork. Always add a good pinch of flaky sea salt and black pepper; you may also need a pinch of sugar depending on the acid and its quality.

• Raw onion: When adding raw onion to a salad, slice it thinly, douse in red wine vinegar and a big pinch of salt, then scrunch with your hands and set aside while you prepare the rest of the salad. I often do this step first and put the onions at the bottom of my mixing bowl, layering each element on top as they’re prepped. By the time you’re ready to toss, the onions will have lost some of their pungency and be lightly pickled!

• Dressing the leaves: Make sure your leaves aren’t wet, otherwise the dressing will just slide right off. Wash and spin them in a salad spinner if you have one, or shake them out onto a tea towel, gently roll it up into a loose swiss roll and leave to dry. Season the leaves first with extra virgin olive oil and sea salt, then add half your dressing and half your toppings. Get your hands in there to coat and distribute everything evenly, saving the rest of the dressing and toppings for layering up on the serving platter.

• Temperature matters: You don’t want to serve a fridge-cold salad, especially in the middle of winter. Leave your ingredients out for half an hour or so to lose their chill before assembling - unless, of course, you’re making a warm salad. My exception to this rule is during a heatwave, when you want something thirst-quenchingly cold and refreshing - think watermelon, cucumber, mint and feta!

With all this in mind, I thought it could be useful to create a foolproof guide to building a winter salad. Below is a table, or matrix if you will, that you can follow strictly, use as a starting point, or simply draw inspiration from. The aim is to guide you in constructing a delicious, exciting, well balanced salad to cheer up a dreary winter’s day.

How to Build A Salad

Radicchio, fennel, and blood orange salad with cannellini beans, marinated feta, and toasted pine nuts

Today’s recipe is a celebration of the winter salad. All of the ingredients are at their best right now, and together, they make a sustaining, refreshing, bitter yet sweet, salty, and creamy salad - an antidote to the depressingly grizzly skies we’ve got at the moment. I had this for lunch, then zhuzh-ed it up for dinner with a spatchcocked chicken I roasted in the oven over some new potatoes and rosemary branches. You should be able to find radicchio di Chioggia in the supermarket (its the reddy-pink ball shaped variety), but if you’d like to include others, you may want to go to a good greengrocers.

Serves 4-6

Ingredients:

• 1 head radicchio di chioggia

• 1 head radicchio trevise

• 1 head castelfranco

• 1 large fennel bulb

• A sprig of rosemary, finely chopped (optional)

• 150g feta

• 1/2 tsp dried oregano

• 2 blood oranges (normal oranges will also do!)

• 200g cannelini beans

• 50g pine nuts, toasted

• 15g chives, finely chopped

• Salt and pepper

For the dressing:

• 150ml extra virgin olive oil (plus a little more for drizzling)

• 35ml red wine vinegar

• 35ml blood orange juice (leftover from slicing)

• Salt and pepper

Method:

1. If you want to roast your fennel, rather than shaving it raw, preheat your oven to 180C, remove the stalks and the outer layer from the bulb, cut in half and slice each half into quarters so you get 8 wedges. Toss with olive oil, the chopped rosemary, salt and pepper, and roast for 15-20 minutes until golden and tender. If you’d prefer not to turn the oven on, remove the stalks and the outer layer from the bulbs, cut in half and slice as thinly as possible. Place in your mixing bowl, and douse in olive oil to prevent browning.

2. Next, prepare your radicchio leaves. Remove any limp outer layers, then peel back the leaves one by one - you may want to cut off the root end to make this easier. I ended up slicing my radicchio di chioggia into similar sized wedges to my fennel for a bit of variation, but you don’t need to do this. Submerge in cold water to wash, then either dry in a salad spinner or lay out onto a clean, dry tea towel and roll up into a loose swiss roll whilst you prepare the rest of the salad.

3. Crumble the feta into large chunks and place in a bowl with a few peelings of blood orange rind, some dried oregano, black pepper, and cover in extra virgin olive oil. Set aside.

4. Remove the rind from the remaining blood oranges by using a serrated knife to top and tail the orange then slice away the peel and white pith following the curve of the fruit, working down to the flesh. Slice into rounds about 1/4-1/2cm in thickness and set aside. Pour any remnants of juice into a small jar or tupperware to use for your dressing.

5. To make the dressing, add the remaining ingredients into the jar or tupperware, put the lid on and give it a good ol’ shake until emulsified. Taste and adjust according to what you think it needs - a pinch of sugar, some more salt, a dash more vinegar.

6. Ready to assemble! Place all of your washed and dried leaves in a large bowl, drizzle with some extra virgin olive oil and a pinch of salt, and massage with your hands to coat. Then, add half the amount of each element, including half the dressing and give it a toss together until everything is evenly incorporated.

7. Arrange on your serving platter, then layer on top the remaining elements to make it look pretty (the order I did this in: fennel, orange, beans, feta, pine nuts, chives). Drizzle with the rest of the dressing, or leave on the side for people to serve themselves.