I went into the cinema to watch Tony with no expectations. I consider myself a proper fan of Anthony Bourdain, but I am not one of those who needs their icons kept in glass cases to collect dust.

I wept three times. First, when he gets his first chef whites. Second, when he stumbles, confused, between calling himself a writer or a chef. And third, when he puts down his Escoffier book just before stepping into his interview at the Culinary Institute of America. I wept because it was precisely how I had pictured his early life over two decades of reading him.

Directed by Matt Johnson, the film eschews standard biopic gloss for a loose, verité, punk-infused rhythm. Johnson frames young Bourdain (played with twitchy, romantic insecurity by Dominic Sessa) not as a legend, but as a messy 19-year-old in Provincetown trying to figure out who he is or what he wants. It is an adaptation, sure—more raw energy than literal history—but it captures the pulse long before the making of Kitchen Confidential.

On my first chef job, I joined a brigade much like the one on screen. A month in, a line cook named Marco handed me a worn copy of Bourdain’s memoir. “He’s the man who saved us,” Marco said. Bourdain gave meaning to the chaos and served as a beacon for misfits like us.

Kitchen comradeship is hard to explain. You spend hours together in high-heat pressure cookers; these people know every sweating surface of your body. They are not corporate colleagues you get drunk with once a year at a Christmas party, nor are they the friends you sit with in safe zones to discuss feelings. They are mercenaries who have your back as long as you are on the line. They even know if you want to get laid after your shift by the deodorant you wore in the morning (true story). If I called Marco today—20 years later—I know he’d pick up and drive wherever I was.

Being a chef over the last 30 years was a career for people with immense, volatile energy to exhaust. The kitchen was where you let it burn, and the brigade were witnesses to the making of a trade. It was never clean. It was never easy, and we didn’t get rich. But we found ourselves—even if I still can’t answer the question: Are you a chef or are you a writer?

We weren’t washing away our sins; as they say in the film, we were proud “sin eaters.” Bourdain was the first to break out without donning a floral apron on daytime TV to bake sponges. My copy of Kitchen Confidential is practically transparent, every page worn thin. I read it on the tube before my shifts and on the way home, exhausted or half-cut. It gave me hope that the voice buried inside me could survive—that I could write about food rather than die in a kitchen that demanded every ounce of my spirit for pennies.

Yet, reading the current cultural commentary surrounding Tony, critics are queueing up to cleanse Bourdain with the holy water of hyper-moralism, adopting a Gilead-like attitude to dismantle a man who can no longer defend himself. We build a monster just so we can stone him with likes.

The irony is that Bourdain did apologise. He publicly re-evaluated his past writings in the wake of #MeToo, spurred partly by his relationship with Asia Argento. He was capable of growth, a quality our current commentary rarely permits. Look at how language is poached and sanitised. “Slay”—a term forged in the Black trans ballroom scene—is now printed on tote bags for white cisgender women looking to weaponise performative confidence. Or consider RuPaul, who infamously claimed in The Guardian that drag loses its “sense of danger” if it isn’t men doing it, implying fully transitioned trans women had no place on Drag Race. RuPaul publicly apologised, the casting criteria changed, and trans queens went on to dominate the crown.

Culture moves forward when we allow human beings the space to evolve. I stand proud of how far my own community has marched—from the riot at Stonewall to seeing drag queens celebrated on high-street coffee mugs. Liberation requires room to stumble, reckon, and rewrite the rules.

Yet we never extend that same grace to chefs, neurodiverse narratives, or punk icons. We could commodify redemption and mainstream acceptance for drag queens, but not for line cooks.

In the rush to judge him, critics miss the reality. He graduated from the CIA, wrote bestsellers, earned an honorary doctorate, and became a pioneering documentary host who sat on a plastic stool in Hanoi sharing a $6 bowl of bún chả and a cold beer with Barack Obama. Early in life, he had his own Proustian moment with a bowl of cold vichyssoise, realising a truth that drove his entire life: food is power. I still get emotional reading that page.

Today, an icon like him feels alien because wellness is power. Populism is the new God. Someone on TikTok will tell you to substitute double cream for vegan cream in that vichyssoise to sell functional benefits. We use food to tame our fear of mortality. We have traded rich Lobster Thermidor for chia seed yoghurts. While punks lean into existential panic, modern food influencers try to dilute that fear into gut-healing concoctions. We are all going to die. Some of us will go out having tasted butter-dripping lobster cooked in egg yolks and cognac with The Cramps playing; others will mindfully eat coconut yoghurt with Stevia while listening to a meditation mix. As the horror punk band the Misfits put it: Death comes ripping.

I never got on that train to Florence. He was shooting an episode of Parts Unknown in Italy, and a journalist friend interviewing him called me in a rush: “He’s wearing the exact same Cramps t-shirt as you—you’ll get on like a house on fire.” I sat waiting for the production crew to call back so I could board the train and meet him. I spent those hours rehearsing the conversation we’d have. The call never came: “Productions are messy, sorry, we’ve moved to the next city.”

Twenty-four hours later, he was gone. Friends and even my mum called to offer condolences; that’s how woven his spirit was into my life. The sense of a missed connection stayed with me, but never boarding that train forced me to process him differently. The day after his death, I was back on the line, running the pass for a massive film production, head down, cooking through the grief—just as he taught us. A month later, I picked up a pen and started writing visceral food memories on scrap paper. Grief birthed another trade I needed to learn. Not meeting him allowed me to honour his legacy on my own terms, framing him with the dignity, raw words, and respectability he earned.

Matt Johnson’s film protects that legacy not by polishing his halo, but by exposing the fragile, tragic mechanism beneath it.

And here is the truth we refuse to face: We didn’t just love Bourdain for saving us; we fed on him. We romanticised his exhaustion and turned his self-destruction into an aesthetic. We demanded he stay the swaggering, ciggie-smoking, piratical anti-hero forever, long after the real man desperately wanted to lay down his blade. We turned his trauma into a style and called it punk. Critics want to condemn him for his flaws, while fans want to freeze him as a martyr who burned out for our sins. Neither side wants to grant him the one thing he actually spent his life searching for: his humanity.

Tony gave us permission to be loud, broken, and brilliantly alive in an industry that uses human beings as kindling. But the real tragedy isn’t that society got too sanitised for Anthony Bourdain. It’s that we built an altar out of hot line grease and cigarette ash, sat him on top of it, and then acted surprised when the flame consumed him whole.

In the end, we didn’t want a reformed man; we wanted a martyr who could bleed for our appetites and pass as art. We demanded he stay at sea forever so we could feel alive from the safety of the dining room. But when the tide recedes, no amount of wellness saves us from the shore. Because when the ticket machine finally stops bleeding, the fans go home, and the gas fires fade to ash, we all have to face the same quiet room.

Those who’ve stood on the line know the truth: the house always wins, the fire always goes out, but God—while it burned, what a glorious racket we made.

Long live the misfits. Long live Anthony.

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I investigate the intersections and collisions of cultures—interrogating how shared flavours can pull us together while history and narrative fiercely drive us apart. In the process, I question the very root of migrant identity and the origins of prejudice, both in food and in people.

Naturally, I am not exempt from this prejudice. It would be entirely unhealthy for someone whose entire journey revolves around identity and food to like everything and everyone. The truth is, I profoundly dislike a lot of people, and an equal number of food combinations.

Football. Matcha. Madonna. Coconut. Populism. Grapefruit.

But above all, I despise pineapple—particularly the tinned variety.

I find it vulgar, cloyingly sweet, and an outright affront to fruit kind. You can spot it instantly in a dish or a fruit salad; it is that vibrant, overbearing, sugary chunk. It is the narcissistic guy you dated in secondary school—the overachiever who couldn’t stop bragging about his pecs or his parents’ car. Both the guy and the fruit are overcompensating for an absolute lack of versatility or capacity for adaptation.

On top of a pizza, pineapple is a riotable offence. Worse still, it was the prized highlight of a recipe championed by a bully I once worked with: “I make this incredibly posh pineapple carpaccio. I slice the pineapple, then sprinkle it with lime and pepper. It’s a showstopper!”
It’s a bloody fruit salad gone wrong, love.
Don’t call it a carpaccio if it isn’t meat, and especially if you can’t pronounce it.

See? Pineapple brings out my aggressive side. I hate it.
That is why it is strictly banned across all my kitchens, menus, and family gatherings. We have lived happily without it so far, and we shall continue to do so.

Consequently, whenever I encounter a recipe featuring the offender, my brain activates a brilliant mechanism I like to call Selective Cooking Memory. It automatically deletes the ingredient and swaps it for something worthy. It is a fascinating psychological process; I have absolutely no recollection of that mac and cheese or the lasagne soup. Do you remember that trend when everyone was talking about Matcha Tiramisu? I don’t! Thank you, brain.
It works just as effectively with ex-boyfriends, the football player from Birmingham who? But that is a whole different story.

On that swapping note, I wanted to celebrate a 1920s American classic (I thought I would die before saying something like that)—the pineapple upside-down cake—or perhaps its more elegant cousin, the 1880s French upside-down pastry Tarte Tatin (that sounds more like me)... using beautiful, seasonal peaches instead.

Peaches are sexy.

Peaches are in season and are a spectacularly versatile fruit. If they are not quite ripe, you can macerate them with a splash of sugar and some crumbled ginger nuts. You can drop them into chilled white wine, grill them to toss with salty feta, or fill them with goat’s cheese, honey, and walnuts. Or, you can simply devour them when they are perfectly ripe and juicy. Peach juice dripping from your mouth is the ultimate image of summer liberation.

Diana Henry—her majesty—wrote an entire book about them. The book cover has that tactile, fuzzy feeling of touching the fruit. You should absolutely buy How to Eat a Peach because it is a masterpiece.

The sharp, tangy contrast of a rich, sour yoghurt cutting through the sweet, caramelised peach topping is pure perfection. Here is your blueprint to ensuring the cake turns out beautifully light and the fruit caramelises flawlessly.

Upside-Down Peach Cake

Prep time: 20 mins | Baking time: 40–50 mins | Tin: 23cm round cake tin

Ingredients

For the Topping

• 50g butter

• 50g light soft brown sugar

• 4 peaches, sliced

• 10 glacé cherries

For the Cake

• 150g butter, softened

• 150g golden caster sugar

• 3 eggs

• 150g self-raising flour

• 1 tsp baking powder

• 1 tsp ground ginger

• Zest of 1 lemon

Method

1. Prep the Tin and Oven

Preheat your oven to 180°C (160°C fan/gas mark 4). Line a 23cm round cake tin with baking parchment.

2. Create the Caramel Fruit Layer

Melt the 50g of topping butter and mix it with the light soft brown sugar. Spread this evenly over the base of the lined tin. Arrange the peach slices and glacé cherries beautifully on top of the sugar mixture.

3. Cream the Sugar and Eggs

In a large bowl, beat the golden caster sugar and eggs together until pale, thick, and fluffy.

4. Incorporate the Remaining Ingredients

Gently whisk in the 150g of softened butter, followed by the self-raising flour, baking powder, ground ginger, and lemon zest. Mix until you have a smooth, well-combined batter.

5. Layer and Bake

Carefully spoon the batter over the arranged fruit in the tin, smoothing the top with a spatula. Bake for 40 to 50 minutes, until the centre feels firm to the touch and a skewer inserted comes out clean.

6. The Flip and Serve

Leave the cake to rest in the tin for 5 minutes to let the caramel settle. Place a serving plate over the tin and confidently turn it upside down. Peel away the parchment paper to reveal the gorgeous fruit top.

Serve it warm, generously dolloped with the most wonderfully sour, rich yoghurt you can lay your hands on. Enjoy!

A lot of recipes seem designed to put you off. The moment a method mentions fetching a specific griddle or hunting down a piece of muslin cloth to drain yoghurt, you can feel your enthusiasm evaporating.

Making food accessible is a fine art—a clever little escamotage, like sneaking a spoonful of stock into a sauce to instantly enhance the flavour. Trust me, the gourmet police are not watching, and they won’t judge you.

Take goat’s curd. It is a spectacular, creamy delight, but standard culinary wisdom dictates you must heat goat’s milk, introduce an acidifier like lemon juice, and leave the whole business hanging from a kitchen cupboard in a cloth. I am quite sure I’ve already lost you.

And rightly so! Nobody has time for that. There is vital scrolling to be done, pals to catch up with, and television marathons to conquer. It is summer (ish), after all. Why spend it watching milk split?

My entire job as a food writer developing recipes is to hunt down the perfect shortcuts, mostly because my current motivation is to rewatch the entirety of The Walking Dead. One must have the right priorities in life.

So, how do we cheat a goat’s curd? Simple: combine soft goat’s cheese for punch, yoghurt for creaminess, and lemon for tang.

And what about charred asparagus? It is a stressful vegetable. Cook it raw in a pan, and you never quite know if it’s cooked through or just burnt on the outside and rock-hard in the middle. The solution? Pre-boil them with a splash of lemon to infuse the flavour, then give them a swift flash in a hot pan.
And really, who actually owns a griddle pan? They take up far too much cupboard space. A heavy frying pan does the job beautifully.

Dress everything up handsomely, pair it with a glass of sweet white wine, and Bob’s your uncle.

Actually, my uncle is Giuseppe. I don’t know a Bob, I just got carried away.

Charred Asparagus with ‘Cheated’ Goat’s Curd & Pecorino

Because nothing says “gourmet” quite like deliberately scorching a vegetable you’ve just boiled. This is a brilliant, punchy starter that balances bright, smoky crunch with a velvety, zesty base.

• Prep time: 10 minutes

• Cooking time: 5 minutes

• Serves: 2–4

Ingredients

The Asparagus:

• 1 bunch of fresh asparagus, woody ends snapped off

• ½ lemon, juiced (for the boiling water)

• A drizzle of olive oil

The ‘Goat’s Curd’:

• 100g soft goat’s cheese

• 2 tbsp thick Greek-style yoghurt

• Zest of 1 lemon

• A pinch of freshly cracked black pepper

To Serve:

• A generous grating of Pecorino Romano (or Parmesan)

Method

1. Blanch the Asparagus: Bring a large pan of water to a rolling boil and add the lemon juice. Drop in the asparagus and blanch for just 2 minutes until vibrant green but still holding its crunch. Drain immediately and pat the spears dry.

2. Get Charring: Heat a heavy-bottomed frying pan (or a griddle, if you are one of those people who enjoys losing cupboard space) over a high heat. Drizzle the asparagus with a little olive oil, then place them into the screaming hot pan. Sear for 2 to 3 minutes, turning occasionally, until beautifully striped and smoky.

3. Whipped the ‘Curd’: While the asparagus is working, place the soft goat’s cheese, yoghurt, lemon zest, and black pepper into a small food processor or blender. Blitz until completely smooth, creamy, and well combined.

4. Assemble: Spoon the whipped cheese onto the base of your serving platter, smoothing it out elegantly with the back of a spoon. Arrange the warm, charred asparagus over the top, and finish with a generous, snowy shower of grated Pecorino for that perfect salty kick.

Personally, the heat is not my friend. My summer strategy involves spending as little time as humanly possible near a hot stove, ideally preserving my skin inside a dark, cool basement coffin. To make matters worse, it’s the season of shedding layers, which means I am forced to “watch what I’m eating”.
Honestly, even writing that phrase makes me laugh. As if.

When the panic sets in, I usually retire to a mundane routine of chicken, rice, and vegetables, or massive salads. Less carbs, less baked goods, less joy.
But the universe works in mysterious ways. Whilst typing up my latest culinary attempt to survive the summer, my autocorrect suggested CAVOLO HERO. There is absolutely no way I am correcting this technological gem. It’s the title it deserves.

The other day, I raided the fridge to rescue myself from diet boredom. The result? A sharp, punchy vinegar, garlic, and rosemary chicken that fills the kitchen with a fantastic, aggressive aroma. I elevated it with pickled silverskin onions and a generous handful of good olives. For the side, I whipped up a steamed cavolo nero doused in a ridiculous amount of lemon and chilli.

An absolute result. It was so delicious, I actually wrote it down to share.

The Cavolo Hero & Sassy Vinegar Chicken

Yield: Serves 3–4 | Prep time: 15 mins | Cook time: 35–40 mins

Ingredients

For the Chicken

• 1kg Chicken thighs (skin on, or skinless if you are panicking about the 50 calories per thigh... yes, I checked)

• 6 Garlic cloves

• 3 sprigs Fresh rosemary, leaves picked

• ½ jar Pickled silver skin onions (plus a splash of the vinegar from the jar)

• ½ jar Black or green olives (good quality, please—life is too short for rubbery olives)

• 1 tbsp Olive oil

• Salt and black pepper

For the Cavolo Hero

• 200g Cavolo nero, woody stems removed

• 1 Lemon (cut in half)

• 1 tsp Dried chilli flakes (or more if you like a micro-pain kick)

• 1 tbsp Extra virgin olive oil

Method

1. In a mortar and pestle (or a small food processor), pound the garlic cloves, rosemary leaves, a pinch of salt, and a generous splash of vinegar from the silver skin onion jar until you have a rough, fragrant paste.

2. Loosen the skin of the chicken thighs and stuff that glorious garlic-rosemary paste right underneath it. If you went skinless to save your waistline, just rub it all over the meat. Season the outside with salt and pepper.

3. Preheat your oven to 200°C. Arrange the chicken in a roasting tin, scatter the onions all around it, and drizzle with a tablespoon of olive oil. Roast for 30–35 minutes until the chicken is cooked through, and the onions are slightly charred. Toss the olives into the tin for the final 5 minutes of cooking just to warm them through.

4. While the chicken rests, squeeze the juice of half a lemon into a small bowl. Whisk in the chilli flakes and a splash of good extra virgin olive oil.

5. Bring a pot of water to the boil, drop the spent lemon half into the water for extra aromatic points, and steam the cavolo nero for 5 minutes (or until it reaches your preferred texture). Drain well, then toss the greens immediately in the lemon-chilli oil.

6. Plate up a massive mound of the spicy greens, top with the sticky, vinegary chicken, and spoon the roasted onions and olives over the top. Bon appétit.

And so, it is.

Another biscuit, another piece of bread, another plate of ravioli, please.
Every time I cook one of your recipes, I do nothing but return in my mind to that cellar where we kept the hams and where we piled the pasta. Crumbs of memories where time was fixed, motionless, and all the bad things had not yet arrived.
I remember only smiles, flour, and the scent of the oven warming up.
Fiadoni: those bites of warm cheese with the small, fiery explosions of salt from the chopped ham in the filling; the pepper that arrived afterwards—a taste so adult I couldn’t tell if I liked it or if it just bothered my tongue. I didn’t understand the sting of pepper or the tiny pain of chilli; I knew no sorrow, only curiosity and a great hunger.

Another biscuit, another piece of bread, another plate of pasta, Grandma, please.

The truth is, I have felt lost so many times amidst changes of character and unforeseen geographies that the only place I find comfort is in the kitchen, with flour on my hands and a river of memories that carries sensations of love and fullness. I wanted to conquer the world, but I settled for conquering my fears and learning how to cook everything—absorbing all my past, the present, and the influences of people and nations that my ancestors perhaps didn’t even know existed.

“What is behind the mountain, Grandma?” “The world,” you would tell me.

That world I went out to claim because the city felt too small, because the Sunday tie never quite fit me. After all, I always made a mess while eating, and because I was never truly sated. I wanted more.
Another biscuit, another piece of bread, and another city to see.

I have learned to call things by their true names. I have learned to transform anger into dough for bread, and not to deny myself a smile or a kiss. I always clean up after every commotion in the kitchen. I cry rarely, or only when no one sees me. I still kiss the leftover bread before throwing it away because “otherwise, it’s a sin.”
I have this compass inside me, made of flour, salt, oil, and all the memories I fear will disappear with me.

Though I have put on a new face and a good suit, I recognise myself in my own eyes; in the mirror stands a man who is no longer afraid, and who remembers that absence is a precious thing.
There is a pressing need to inhabit the rooms of memory while I cook. Nostalgia is needed to crystallise memories and then perform your gestures—rolling out the pasta, mixing the filling, cleaning the table. The same grace and the same impatience.

Everything begins; it changes shape, rises, bakes, and grows old. Even the most complicated question finds its answer.

Another Sunday has arrived, for life breaks in impetuously with the urgency of perspective and the future.
“Hurry, before the fiadoni get cold—eat them while they’re still warm.”
In that moment when it is neither day nor night, when I haven’t slept because thoughts, like grains of flour, accumulated in the corners, I rolled out the dough. In that liminal space between day and night, reality and memory, we were together again. Your hands rolled it out with mine, and I told you of my long journey far from the mistakes I had made, and you told me that there is no such thing as mistakes: “It’s all grist to the mill; everything serves a purpose.”

Everything begins, changes shape, rises, bakes, and grows old. Even the greatest sorrow can be tamed.

In the reflection of the oven glass, I saw your face, which made me smile. I had spent whole stretches of time without a smile until that moment. I wanted answers on how to cook venison with cherries, how to shape pasta evenly or how to cure the illness that made you waste away.

One must accept that sometimes there is nothing you can do; one must accept that the pasta must rest for 30 minutes, and the bread needs the whole night to rise.

I want to tell you that the journey hasn’t changed me—that the starting point and the destination shared the same coordinates of flavour. The goal was never a place, but what we feel, and we aren’t meant to know how or when we will arrive.

I thought you were far away, but it wasn’t true that I could do nothing about it.
I found you again in all these steps of the recipe, in every corner of my memory, in every gesture, prayer, and smile. Even if it belongs to another religion or another love story in another language, it is always the same.

Another biscuit, another slice of bread, another fiadone.

Fiadoni

Yield: 16 pieces | Prep time: 40 mins | Bake time: 15–20 mins

Ingredients

For the Dough

• 200g Plain flour

• 2 Medium eggs

• 1 tbsp White wine

• 1 tbsp Olive oil

• 1 pinch Salt

For the Filling

• 100g Grated cheddar

• 100g Grated Pecorino Romano (or Parmesan)

• 100g Prosciutto or salami, chopped into small pieces

• 2 Medium eggs

• 1 Egg yolk

• 1 pinch Black pepper

For the Glaze

• 1 Medium egg, beaten (for brushing)

Method

1. Mix the flour, eggs, salt, wine, and olive oil together until a dough forms. Knead for a few minutes until smooth. Wrap in cling film and leave to rest at room temperature for 30 minutes.

2. Make the Filling: In a medium bowl, combine the grated cheddar, pecorino, pepper, eggs, egg yolk, and chopped prosciutto. Mix thoroughly until the filling is well incorporated.

3. Preheat your oven to 180°C. Roll out the dough thinly on a lightly floured surface. Cut out 16 circles or squares. Place a generous spoonful of filling in the centre of each piece.

4. Lightly brush the edges of the dough with a little water or leftover egg white. Fold the dough over the filling and seal the edges tightly by pressing down with the tines of a fork.

5. Place the fiadoni on a tray lined with baking parchment. Brush the tops evenly with the beaten egg. Bake for 15–20 minutes until they are puffed and golden brown.

In Latin, we have the saying Nomen Omen—the name is a prophecy. Or, for those of us who prefer our wisdom served with a side of British pragmatism: “the clue is in the name.”

If you’re feeling particularly academic—or perhaps just want to sound like you’ve spent too much time in the staff room of a broadsheet newspaper—you might call this phenomenon an aptronym. It’s that delightful quirk of fate where a name is oddly appropriate for a person’s existence. Think of a world-class sprinter named Bolt, or a baker named Mr Bun. Conversely, when the universe decides to be ironic, we get the malapronym: the two-metre-tall man cursed with the surname “Short,” or the guy I dated at university whose surname was “Happy.” Trust me, no amount of joy ever came from an indie rocker who listens to Morrissey.

There is a certain weight to the idea of “name by name, nature by nature”—a concept as old as the Book of Genesis. (Yes, I’m quoting the Bible; oops, I’m burning.) It’s the belief that the very essence of a thing is inextricably tied to what we call it. It is the linguistic equivalent of that iconic 1994 Ronseal advert: the promise that a product “does exactly what it says on the tin.” It’s honest. It’s transparent. It’s a wood stain that actually stains wood.

But in the chaotic world of food, the tin is a total liar.

Enter the Genovese, an identity crisis on a plate.
If you were to follow the logic of the aptronym, you would expect a dish steeped in the maritime traditions of Genoa—perhaps something bright with basil or salty with Ligurian anchovies. Instead, the Genovese delivers the soul of Naples. It says “Genoa” on the label, but it delivers a rich, onion-laden hug from the shadow of Mount Vesuvius.

Most culinary titles are a chaotic cocktail of migration routes, distorted history, Chinese whispers, and pure, unfiltered madness. Take your average trendy restaurant menu: “Delicious Soy Burger.” Every single word in that sentence is a lie for a dozen omnivore reasons. It’s usually a tasteless slab of imported beans currently destroying the soil and your stomach, but I suppose “Ecological Disaster Patty” is a bit harder to market.

Names are tricksters. Years ago, I was working in a vineyard in the South of Italy (my career has been a series of difficult, wine-soaked sacrifices, I know), there was a Neapolitan matron there, a woman of formidable presence, who was fiercely proud of a recipe passed down through generations: Pasta alla Genovese. It was, hands down, one of the tastiest things I’ve ever put in my mouth.

In her proudest moment, while she was serving the dish and inhaling a mixture of steam and attitude, I made the mistake of asking: “Why is it called Genovese if it’s from Naples?”

She claimed it was invented by a Genovese chef working in Naples. My curiosity got the better of me—was it a Northern recipe? A Southern one? Tomato, tomahto, potato, potahto; Genovese, Genofraud. No one actually knew.

To add another layer of mystery and cultural confusion, I mentioned that my dad used to make a Roman version called Tacchino alla Genovese (Turkey Genovese). We’d have the meat and onions for lunch, then toss the leftover sauce over pasta with a literal waterfall of Pecorino and pepper for dinner.

Her face shifted instantly into the “Woman at the Pie Contest” from Little Britain.

“TURKEEEEYYYY???” How dare I steal her thunder and suggest this Neapolitan crown jewel had a Roman sibling? The truth is, La Genovese is a culinary ghost. It is a dish “from Genoa” that exists solely in the “Neapolitan tradition” with a “Roman” turkey cousin. No one can truly claim it, except for one singular, universal truth: it is bloody delicious.

So, why the identity crisis? Historically, La Genovese is a “white ragù”—meat and onions simmered so slowly they surrender into a sweet, enveloping cream. It’s one of the oldest dressings in the Neapolitan repertoire, popping up in medieval scrolls like the Liber de Coquina in the early 14th century.

How did a Genovese name stick to a Neapolitan soul? Some say it was Genovese cooks working in the port taverns of Naples in the 15th century. Others swear it was the nickname of a famous local chef, “’O Genovese.” There’s even a theory involving Swiss mercenaries from Geneva who had a suspicious obsession with onions.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. In the 1800s, “alla Genovese” was simply a stylistic label in Italian cookbooks, like “fashionable” or “gilded.” It wasn’t an origin; it was an attitude.

Do we really care about the exact coordinates of its birth? If we want to pay respect to indigenous culinary roots—like the current trend for authentic Kimchi—then perhaps (sorry Korea, if hipsters are killing your heritage). But this is a case of beautiful, messy contamination. Sometimes we need to move away from the historical debates and the hunt for the perfect lighting for our food photos and just EAT.

Tailor it to your needs. Make it your own. Start with my father’s Roman-style turkey version—it’s sensational, unpretentious, and guaranteed to offend at least one Neapolitan matron.

RECIPE: Tacchino alla Genovese (The Roman Rebellion)

This is the ultimate “two-for-one” meal. The turkey provides the protein, but the onions—slowly melted into a jam-like consistency—provide the soul.
And the leftovers ARE PERFECT with pasta.

Ingredients

• 1 kg Golden onions (thinly sliced—yes, all of them)

• 500g–750g Turkey leg (bone-in for better flavour)

• 2 Celery stalks (finely chopped)

• 2 Carrots (finely chopped)

• A splash of dry white wine

• 500 ml Chicken or vegetable stock

• Extra virgin olive oil, salt, and black pepper

Method

1. In a large, heavy-bottomed pot, sweat the celery and carrots in a generous glug of olive oil.

2. Season the turkey leg with salt and pepper and add it to the pot. Brown it slightly on all sides to lock in the juices.

3. Dump the entire kilogram of sliced onions on top of the turkey. It will look like too much. It isn’t.

4. Pour in the splash of white wine and let the alcohol cook off for a minute. Add the stock.

5. Cover the pot and turn the heat down to a whisper. Let it simmer for 2 hours. Check occasionally; you want the onions to dissolve into a dark, sweet sauce and the turkey to be falling off the bone.

6. Serve the turkey meat as your main course. Save the remaining onion sauce to toss with ziti or rigatoni the next day, topped with a mountain of Pecorino.

Eat it, love it, and remember: a recipe isn’t a museum piece—it’s a prophecy of a good night in. Cheers!

Welcome to wild garlic season—that fleeting, four-week window where the British woodlands smell divine and I make my annual, solitary attempt at “foraging.”
By foraging, of course, I mean stumbling back from the pub and liberating a handful of greens from my neighbour’s garden under the cover of darkness. (True Story. Hi Mark! I hope you weren’t planning on making a salad with those.)

The thing is, nature is a bit of a tease. You have to be careful not to pick the Lily-of-the-Valley, a poisonous lookalike that is far prettier with its delicate, bell-shaped flowers but ultimately useless in the kitchen—unless, of course, your goal is to murder someone. Sometimes beauty is entirely ornamental, and the best life choice is to skip the “prettiest girl in the valley” and go for her pungent, garlicky cousin: Allium ursinum.

(Deadly vd Edible)

In Italy, this stuff is known as Aglio Ursino (Bear’s Garlic). Legend has it that Italian brown bears, emerging from hibernation groggy, grumpy, and in desperate need of a spa day, feast on these greens to reclaim their strength. It is the true herald of spring: a mellow, earthy alternative to the aggressive, sharp punch of a standard garlic bulb.

But wild garlic is a shy creature; if you cook it for too long, the flavour simply vanishes into the ether. My secret? Always save a handful to whizz into a quick pesto or a loose, oily sauce. You want to drizzle it over everything.
“Drizzle” is such a fantastic onomatopoeic word—and let’s be honest, it’s quite gay.
I love it.

In our current era of “Ozempic Zombies” and hyper-masculine “Alpha Men” assertively stating, “Mummy, I don’t want a juice bar,” there is something profoundly radical about the Gay Bear community.

Within the queer spectrum, Bears are a sanctuary of body positivity and masculine warmth. Historically, the subculture emerged as a hairy middle finger to the “twink” or “gym-body” archetypes that dominate mainstream media. Bears celebrate the natural: facial hair, body hair, sturdier frames, and a spasmodic, unashamed love for food. It is a community built on inclusivity, camaraderie, and the sacred ritual of the meal.

I came out as a Bear in my early teens, back when a checked shirt, a beard and a few tattoos were the secret uniform of a gay subculture, not the default outfit for a contestant on Love Island. There is an emotional gravity to finding your tribe—much like those bears emerging from the dark of winter, we find our strength not in restriction, but in the feast.
I recently served this majestic porchetta to my beloved neighbours—two Bear men, obviously—and let’s just say the hibernation is officially over.

Eat it, love it, and for heaven’s sake, don’t breathe on anyone until the weekend is over. Cheers!

The Recipes

Wild Garlic Porchetta

This is peak spring. The pork belly is slow-roasted until the fat renders into liquid gold. It is herbaceous, unashamedly fatty, and magnificent.

Ingredients

• 2.5 kg Pork belly (skin-on, butterflied)

• Filling: 100g Wild garlic, 3 tbsp toasted fennel seeds, 2 tbsp cracked black pepper, 6 minced garlic cloves, 3 sprigs chopped rosemary, 1 tsp grated nutmeg, sea salt.

• 1 glass of white wine.

Method

1. Score the flesh (not the skin). Rub in the salt, spices, minced garlic, rosemary, and nutmeg.

2. Cover the meat with a flat, lush layer of whole wild garlic leaves.

3. Roll it tightly and tie it with twine. Crucial: Pat the skin bone-dry. If there is moisture, there is no crackling.

4. Add the wine to the bottom of the pan. Slow roast at 160°C for 3 hours.

5. Crank the heat to 230°C for 20 minutes until the skin is shattered glass.

6. Let it sit for 30 minutes. Be patient. Slicing too early is a sin.

Bear’s Garlic & Walnut Pesto

Robust and woodsy, this is the perfect companion for your porchetta or a bowl of pasta.

Ingredients

• 150g Wild garlic leaves (washed thoroughly)

• 30g Walnuts (toasted)

• 50g Parmesan or Pecorino (grated)

• 150ml Extra virgin olive oil

• 1/2 tsp Sea salt

• 1 tbsp Lemon juice

Instructions

1. Remove thick stems and roughly chop the leaves.

2. Blitz the leaves and walnuts in a food processor into a coarse paste.

3. Emulsify: With the motor running, slowly drizzle in the oil until glossy but still textured.

4. Stir in the cheese, salt, and lemon juice by hand to keep that vibrant green popping.

Whether you are celebrating the “bears” in your social circle or the “bear’s garlic” in your garden, both represent a beautiful return to nature and a rejection of the artificial.

Ox Cheek Stew with Spinach Mash and Burnt Lemon

I have a very peculiar relationship with social media. By which I mean: I don’t need validation from strangers.
I already have a magical mirror on the wall that answers my questions truthfully, so social media remains merely a tool. It is a way to expand my social skills or watch videos on how to clean an oven or how to turn a poky bathroom into a miniature Versailles.
You know, the usual.

I've found a whole community here and, frankly, I’ve learned that bicarbonate of soda and lemon juice are the solutions to almost all of life's problems.
Obviously, you can use these platforms however you please, but I have learned a profound truth that needs to be properly digested (pardon the pun):
Some people won’t like you.
FULL STOP.

And that’s perfectly fine. Because, deep down, you have to ask yourself: “Do I really like everyone?” Now, give it a Freudian twist: “Do I really want to be liked by everyone?”
For someone with my particular brand of sociopathic tendencies and a playlist featuring bands like Social Distortion and the Misfits, the answer is a resounding: HARD PASS.

I don’t believe there is a universal language we can speak to become popular, especially in the world of food. Yes, we all have one thing in common: we need to eat to survive, but we can pick and choose our ingredients just as we pick and choose our people. There will never be a food writer, a recipe, or a single ingredient that pleases them all. Or will there, mirror, mirror?

We come from different backgrounds and develop our own tastes based on memories and experiences. On my first date with my husband, I cooked Chicken Cacciatora, and now that recipe is etched into my heart. Conversely, my narcissistic ex from Birmingham was a “Muscle Mary” who lived on vanilla protein shakes; consequently, I now loathe vanilla. Experiences, memories, and Darwinism. Simple.

Think of it like a buffet: avoid the prawns that have been sitting out too long, the needy souls who won’t stop tagging you, the carb-avoidant narcissists, and the white supremacists asking relentlessly: 'But is it local?' (is the new version of “is it gluten-free?”).

As long as we can respectfully disagree, we can take some healthy steps towards a well-deserved distance. We should all be allowed to feed our personal algorithms with what actually nourishes us. Mine, for example, is full of sumptuous food and bearded chunky men. That’s me! That's simple!

Take the lemon. It is fiercely sharp and possesses a “love it or hate it” attitude. You could soften it for a lemon drizzle cake—drowning it in sugar and poppy seeds to make it more acceptable—but MEH.

I like drama, both on the BBC and on my plate. So, I burnt the lemon (while screaming “Dracarys!” at the pan—true story) until the flavour became pungent, smoky, and deep.

You might not like this.
While you are sipping that squidgy bubble tea for the sake of a trend, or while you are busy debating the existence of only two genders because of the political climate, or while you are under the delusion that tossing pomegranate seeds on a dish automatically makes it “fancy,” you might think: “Oh, I don’t like this recipe and I don’t like burnt lemon.”

I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, that I don’t care.
Cheers, then.

Ox Cheek Stew with Spinach Mash and Burnt Lemon

This dish is like the realisation above: tough at first, but with enough time, heat, and patience, it transforms into something incredibly tender and rich. The burnt lemon provides that sharp, acidic reality check we all need.

Ingridients

• 1kg Ox cheeks, trimmed and cut into large chunks

• 500ml Robust red wine (don’t use something you wouldn’t drink)

• 2 Carrots, roughly chopped

• 2 Celery stalks, chopped

• 1 Large onion, diced

• 2 tbsp Tomato purée

• 1L Beef stock (or a bit less, and you add more gradually if you have food anxiety like me)

• Bouquet garni (thyme, bay leaf, rosemary)

• For the Mash: 500g Maris Piper potatoes, 200g fresh spinach (wilted and blitzed), 50g butter, a splash of milk.

• The Finisher: 2 Lemons, halved.

Method

1. Season the ox cheeks heavily. In a heavy-bottomed pot, sear them until they are dark and defiant. Remove and set aside.

2. Soften your vegetables in the same pot. Stir in the tomato purée and cook until it darkens—this is where the depth lives.

3. Pour in the wine, scraping up all the “truth” from the bottom of the pan. Add the stock, the herbs, and the meat. Cover and simmer low and slow for 3 to 4 hours. It’s done when it falls apart at the mere suggestion of a fork.
   I usually cook it in the oven with a cast iron pot (160 degree 3 hours).

4. Make your mash as usual, but fold in the blitzed spinach at the end for a vivid, vibrant green.

5. Place the lemon halves cut-side down in a smoking hot, dry pan until they are charred and blackened (scream DRACARYS! in the process).
   Squeeze this smoky, caramelised juice over the stew right before serving.

Enjoy—or don’t. It’s your plate.

Puttanesca is, quite simply, a riot in a pan.
It’s a combination of tomatoes, anchovies, capers, olives, and a pinch of chilli that refuses to be ignored. I’ve added oregano and parsley to mine—because a little extra herb never hurt anyone, and I make the rules in my kitchen.

A tray-bake dinner always feels like a bit of a cheat in the kitchen, doesn’t it?
It is one of those glorious tricks that allows you to infuse every morsel with deep, concentrated flavour without chaining yourself to the stove for hours.
It’s the ultimate “low-effort, high-reward” path to a healthy meal, but still…cheating.
Fittingly, the story behind the name Puttanesca is all about tricks, cheating, and luscious, unapologetic convenience.

The word itself carries a certain… reputation.
It translates, rather cheekily, to something like “The Lady of the Night.” While there are several romanticised versions of its history, they all point toward the same gritty, fast-paced Neapolitan soul.

The most famous legend suggests the name comes from puttana (prostitute). The story goes that the pungent, salt-heavy aroma was used to lure men into the brothels, or perhaps it was just a quick, cheap meal the women could throw together between “appointments” using only the long-lasting staples in their larder.

Others say it’s the “Garbage Theory.” In Italian, adding the suffix -ata turns a word into a general descriptor. Puttanata is common slang for “crap” or “rubbish.” Legend says a group of hungry customers burst into a restaurant late one night and barked at the chef, “Facci una puttanata qualsiasi”—essentially, “Make us whatever rubbish you’ve got.” He threw the scraps of his larder together, and a masterpiece was born.

Where the truth lies, no one knows. Italian food culture is full of these stories.
One thing we know for sure is that it first appeared in cookbooks in the mid-20th century.
But it is a fiercely identifiable combination of flavours, and today, I’m taking the carbs out and putting the meat in. Or at least, this is how I roll.

(Watercolour illustration by Emiliano Amore)

The One-Tray Wonder

Chicken Puttanesca with Confit Tomato

Ingredients

• 6 Chicken thighs (skin on)

• 300g Cherry tomatoes

• 1 tin of Anchovies (30g)

• 1 Entire garlic bulb

• 100g olives (pitted)

• 1 tbsp Capers

• Pinch of dried chillies

• 2 tsp Dried oregano

• Handful of fresh parsley

• Zest of ¼ lemon to finish (Just because!)

Method

1. The Paste: Take 2 cloves of garlic, 3 anchovies, and a handful of parsley. Mince it finely, blitz it, or punch it into a paste while thinking of your boss.
   Whatever floats your boat—just get it smooth.

2. Gently loosen the skin on the chicken thighs and shove that salty, green paste underneath. This is where the magic happens.

3. Grab a baking tray and scatter some olive oil. Cut the entire garlic bulb in half horizontally and place it face down on the tray. Add the olives, the capers, and the remaining anchovies. Pour in the oil from the anchovy tin too—you aren’t on a diet, love.

4. Nestle the chicken into the tray and scatter the cherry tomatoes all around them. Scatter the oregano over everything like confetti.

5. Bake at 180°C Fan for 35–45 minutes until the chicken skin is dangerously crispy, and the tomatoes have collapsed into a jammy confit.

6. Let it cool slightly so you don’t burn your fingers, and apparently, the ladies of the night had it at room temperature. Squeeze the softened, roasted garlic out of its skins and stir it into the tomato juices. Top with fresh lemon zest (that’s my signature to elevate everything).

Eat it, you luscious Lady of the Night.

Out of sheer necessity, I made pear and ginger sugar-free scones.

Sometimes life deals you a difficult hand. When you reach that crossroad, there are usually only two directions. One is despair, where the problem remains, but you have added the heavy weight of sorrow to your luggage. The other is the “Buddhist solution”: turn poison into medicine. You act, you move, you transform the situation into something that nourishes.
In the kitchen, this transformation is our greatest power.

Years ago, I worked on a project for people living with diabetes. My task was to create recipes that were vibrant and healthy, but with a “Britalian” twist. The brief was essentially: “Please, not another rice pudding with oat milk.” I promised them there wouldn’t be a chia seed concoction in sight either. Eurgh.

The villain to be eradicated from the pantry was, of course, refined sugar.

I developed soups, stews, and raw food combinations, but what everyone truly craved was a biscuit. Biscuits are notoriously difficult to master without the structural help of sugar, so I looked toward the ultimate English afternoon ritual: the scone.

Sucrose vs. Fructose

To make a scone sing without the “white stuff,” you have to understand the chemistry of sweetness. While we often demonise table sugar (sucrose), we forget that fructose—the sugar found naturally in fruit—is its high-spirited, more intense cousin.

Both provide 4 calories per gram, but they are processed differently by the body. Sucrose is a disaccharide (half glucose, half fructose), while fructose is a monosaccharide. Because fructose is nearly twice as sweet as glucose, you can use significantly less of it to achieve the same “hit” of joy. In these scones, the fructose doesn’t just provide sweetness; it brings moisture and a complex, jammy depth that refined sugar can only dream of.

I chose the most succulent pears available and created a Pear and Ginger Scone. The sweetness came from a concentrated essence of baked fruit and pure mango juice (instead opf yogurt). It wasn’t just healthy; it was addictive.

Lately, my work has pivoted to five-year-olds, and I find myself facing the exact same challenge: developing exciting recipes with zero added sugar.
I heard a story on the radio recently about “intergenerational” projects in the UK—places where care homes for the elderly and nurseries for the young are combined under one roof. It is a beautiful, symbiotic world where the older generation finds purpose in the presence of the little ones, and the children find a calm, storied wisdom they cannot get elsewhere.

It is fascinating—and deeply moving—that at the dawn and the dusk of our lives, we have the same fundamental nutritional needs.

The two ends of my career—the care home and the nursery—suddenly felt connected by an invisible thread. Whether you are five or eighty-five, we are all looking for excitement in our flavours and care in our food. These scones are the result of that thread: a perfect, defiant combination of pears and ginger.

The Recipe: Pear & Ginger Scones

No sugar. No dairy. No despair.

Ingredients

• 375g Self-raising flour (plus extra for dusting)

• 1 tsp Baking powder

• 80g Dairy-free butter (cold and cubed)

• 2 Large, ripe pears (cored and finely diced)

• 1 tbsp Fresh ginger (peeled and finely grated)

• 150g Dairy-free yoghurt

Method

1. Heat oven to 180°C Fan.

2. Rub the cold butter into the flour and baking powder until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs.

3. Stir in the diced pears and grated ginger, ensuring the fruit is well-coated.

4. Bind the dough by adding the yoghurt. Use a knife to mix until a soft dough forms—handle it gently; do not overwork it.

5. Shape the dough on a floured surface to 3cm thickness. Cut into rounds.

6. Bake for 12–15 minutes until risen and golden.

Cooking should be authentic, not perfect. That is why my message is always about real cooking for real people; using a recipe, an ingredient, or a trend as a vessel to talk about emotions and social issues.

I find those flawless kitchens—bathed in clinical lighting with someone wearing Comme des Garçons while stirring a pot—terribly absurd.
And as much as I admire Samuel Beckett, that brand of absurdity has no place in the heart of a home.

In the theatre, Vladimir and Estragon spend their lives waiting for Godot—an enigmatic saviour, a sense of purpose that remains perpetually out of reach.
In my world, Godot is “Perfection.”

We’ve been conditioned to wait for this flawless version of our lives to arrive, searching for meaning in a polished marble worktop or a perfectly staged plate bejewelled with pomegranate seeds. We are constantly waiting: for the bigger house, the backyard extension, the new KitchenAid; for the skinnier version of ourselves, the kinder friends we’ve yet to meet, or the “big fat salary” that requires zero effort. All these delusions of a better life—the greener grass, the immaculate kitchen—are just ghosts.

Beckett never defined his character, leaving him to symbolise the futile human search for a purpose that doesn’t exist. Looking at the filtered perfection of modern food media, I’ve started to think that perhaps Godot was simply the original food influencer: an ideal we all anticipate, but who never actually shows up to do the washing up.
Lazy little so-and-so.

We need, and deserve, the truth—at least in the kitchen.
To be flawed is an ethical choice; it is a defiant message about the inherent beauty of our own imperfections.

Among the cultural neologies I’ve discovered over the years in England, one has been buzzing in my mind lately. I recently learned the expression “meat and two veg,” though I found it used not as a description, but as a derision. A couple of attendees in my classes were discussing their upbringings and a perceived lack of culinary curiosity, lamenting that their childhood diets were “merely” meat and two veg. It was used to describe an unimaginative, basic, and dreadfully common food culture.

Somehow, in my hybrid brain, I felt a surge of genuine upset.

I kept asking myself: “Why is this derogatory? Meat and two veg is a balanced meal!”
I realised then that in Italy, almost every meal is essentially a triad: Pasta, followed by meat and two veg. I shall, quite likely, reclaim it within my little Britalian world. This is, unapologetically, a “meat and two veg” kind of dinner.

As a teenager, escaping the routine was my only prerogative. I was fuelled by that restless, rebellious steam that demands you do the exact opposite of every adult in your orbit. I tried so hard to outrun the tedious traditions of my ancestors—both the Italian and the English ones—yet here I am, finding myself quite contentedly preparing this exact type of meal.

Because, truth be told, there is no problem with it at all.

When you are nesting, there is a quiet necessity in creating your own habits. To keep things from becoming monotonous, I’ve added a little “Britalian” flair: a pinch of smoked paprika here, a few sun-dried tomatoes there. It transforms the mundane into something soulful. If you’re trying to impress someone (or simply taking a photograph), you could add a drizzle of feta and yoghurt sauce or a parsley reduction. But for a Tuesday night? This is more than enough.

Now that I am an adult—I shall carefully avoid the word “old”—I find myself genuinely enjoying the ritual. There is a deep comfort in a dinner like this, especially when followed by a BBC drama. What happened to the young punk I once was? He’s still there, somewhere; he just prefers to go to sleep at a reasonable hour now.

The ultimate challenge, of course, was to take a pleasing picture of meatloaf. It is a task that borders on the impossible. Every professional food photographer will advise you to keep it whole, to obsess over the lighting, and bla bla bla.

But this is honest food, captured with amateur photography. I may not have the perfect lens or the clinical lighting of a studio, but at least I’m funny.

Britalian Meatloaf with Lemony Veg

The Meatloaf

A sturdy, flavourful loaf that bridges the gap between a classic British roast and an Italian polpettone.

Ingredients (Metric)

• 500g Beef mince

• 500g Pork mince

• 5 slices of Bread (white or wholemeal), shredded

• ½ mug of Milk

• 2 eggs, lightly beaten

• 150g Grated cheddar cheese

• 8 Sun-dried tomatoes, blitzed into a purée

• Zest of ½ Lemon

• 30g Fresh parsley, finely chopped

• 1 tbsp Smoked paprika

• 2 generous pinches of Sea salt

Method

1. Place the shredded bread in a bowl and pour over the milk. Let it soak until soft and mushy.

2. While the bread soaks, blitz your parsley and sun-dried tomatoes into a rough, vibrant paste.

3. To the bowl of milky bread, add the beef, pork, eggs, cheddar, tomato-parsley paste, lemon zest, salt, and paprika.

4. Mix everything thoroughly with your hands (the only way to do it properly). Cover and let it rest in the fridge for at least 30 minutes—though 3 hours is better if you have the patience. This allows the flavours to introduce themselves to one another.

5. Shape the mixture into one large “sausage” (or two medium ones). Roast in the oven at 180°C for 45 minutes.

6. Let it rest for a few minutes before slicing. Serve with a big dollop of mayonnaise if the mood strikes you. (And it usually should.)

The Lemony Veg

Bright, crunchy, and designed to rescue you from the “grey” of traditional boiled vegetables.

Ingredients

• 200g Cavolo nero

• 200g Tenderstem broccoli

• 1 Lemon, sliced

• 1cm Fresh ginger, sliced

Method
In Italy, many people discard the stems of the cavolo nero, fearing the bitterness. In England, I find the stems are perfectly fine—even pleasant—so keep them. We aren’t looking for waste here.

Set up your steamer with water in the bottom pan, adding the lemon slices and ginger to the water to scent the steam. Place the broccoli on the first tray and the cavolo nero on the second. Steam for about 15 minutes, or until they reach your preferred texture. Personally, I need my veg to have a defiant crunch and stay a bright, vivid green. Anything less is a bit depressing, isn’t it?

Between first and second sleep, I found myself whispering: “the emotional weight of an ingredient.” I let the phrase settle before slipping back into slumber.

It was a question posed to me by Alessandra Pino during an interview about ‘Britalian’ life, and at the time, I found it daunting to answer.
It is a heavy thing, after all—the gravity of a memory tied to a flavour. I struggled because of that weight, because of the depth of the question, and because of the sudden, echoing hollow that opens up when you lack the one specific ingredient needed to bridge the gap between a kitchen and a home.

“Mention the word ‘Caprese’ to anyone who has ever ventured into a proper Italian restaurant, and their mind immediately drifts to the salad: those perfectly layered slices of mozzarella and tomato, drizzled with oil and finished with a flourish of basil—just because, as my inner Italian chef would say.

But for the true Italian cuisine aficionados, Caprese means cake.

It is a classic of the South, born on the rugged island of Capri (hence the name), though it is now inextricably linked to the grand culinary traditions of Naples. At its heart, it is a marriage of almonds, butter, and rich chocolate, resulting in a famously moist, dense consistency that sits somewhere between a torte and a dream.
I call it ‘delightful’ because it masquerades as gluten-free, but let’s be realistic: it is composed of equal parts nut flour, butter, sugar, and eggs, usually finished with a heavy hand of dark chocolate. It might be flourless, but we are far from the realm of ‘healthy’ recipes here—just as every proper pudding should be.

The beauty of a recipe, however, is that it is as fluid as your wardrobe, your gender, or your opinions; you can tailor it to suit whichever version of yourself feels most appropriate that day. Building a repertoire is about the arbitrary choice of what you like—a glorious dictatorship of flavours that doesn’t have to please anyone but yourself and your guests.

Preserving a recipe isn’t about freezing it in amber; it’s about keeping the soul of a dish alive while allowing it to breathe the air of where you actually live. True tradition is a living thing—a baton passed from a Roman nonna to a Brighton queer kitchen—and we pay it the highest homage not by being rigid, but by being brave.
The magic lies in the reinvention. By introducing thoughtful swaps, we aren’t erasing the original; we are simply continuing the conversation. It is a ‘culinary conversion’ that finds the common ground between heritage and the present, creating something that feels nostalgically familiar yet authentically new.
RECIPES ARE CONVERSATIONS.

My sister-in-law recently produced a ‘White’ version of this cake. It was a bit controversial (which we obviously embrace in our family) and, naturally, she doused the whole thing in Amaro del Capo; she is from Calabria, and I think that Amaro comes out of the tap in her village.
It was outrageously delicious—rich, decadent, and soaked in enough alcohol to make everything feel right with the world.

A Note on Amaro

If you aren’t familiar with it, Amaro (Italian for ‘bitter’) is the collective name for those dark, herbal Italian liqueurs traditionally sipped after a meal to help with the ‘digestive heavy lifting.’ It is a complex, syrupy infusion of herbs, roots, flowers, and citrus—a liquid botanical garden that tastes like a bittersweet hug from an Italian grandmother.

If you have a bottle of Amaro in your cupboard, good for you; either you are an Italian connoisseur, or you’ve been sleeping with one. Either way, use it for this recipe.

If, however, it’s hard to find, use Whisky. Any kind will do. A peated malt usually works miracles here, but honestly? Use that bottle you like the least. It’s a much more efficient way to get rid of it than waiting for that one family member you can’t stand to come over so you can pour it for them.

The “Britalian” Lemon & Almond Torta

A flourless, boozy citrus reimagining of the Neapolitan classic.

The Kit:

• 200g Ground almonds (almond flour)

• 4 Large eggs (separated)

• 1 Zest of a large organic lemon

• 160g Caster sugar

• 150g Butter (melted and cooled)

• 30ml Whisky or your favourite Amaro

• 70g cornflour

• 8g Baking powder

• Icing sugar for a final, snowy dusting

The Method

1. Take two generous bowls. Crack the eggs, placing the whites in one and the yolks in the other.

2. Using an electric whisk, beat the egg whites until they reach stiff, snowy peaks. Set these aside; they are the “air” of your cake.

3. Turn your attention to the yolks. Add the lemon zest and sugar, then whisk until the mixture is pale and voluminous. Pour in your melted butter, the Whisky (or Amaro), and sift in the cornflour gradually.

4. Continue whisking until the batter is smooth and glossy, then fold in the baking powder.

5. Now, put down the whisk and pick up a spatula. Gently fold the egg whites into the golden yolk mixture. Do this with a light hand—you want to keep all that beautiful aeration. Finally, fold in the ground almonds bit by bit until just combined.

6. Line the base of a 24cm springform tin with baking parchment. Pour in the batter and smooth the top so it’s level and ready for its transformation.

7. Slide it into the centre of the oven. Bake at 180°C (static) or 170°C (fan) for roughly 40 minutes.

8. Once golden and firm, remove from the oven and let it rest for a few minutes before releasing it from its tin. When completely cool, shower it generously with icing sugar.
   
   Serve with frosted almonds and vanilla ice cream…drenched in liquor!
   
   This is a picture of HOW CAMP my family is.

   

   Frosted Almonds

   Ingredients:

   • 220g Whole almonds (skin on)

   • 220g Caster sugar

   • 120ml Water

   Method:

   1. Throw all ingredients into a wide, heavy pan over medium heat.

   2. Stir constantly as the water evaporates. The sugar will eventually turn dry and sandy—don’t stop stirring.

   3. Keep going until the sugar begins to melt slightly and turns a light amber, clinging to the nuts in craggy, matte clusters.

   4. Tip onto baking parchment and separate immediately. Let them harden into a “Brighton-rock” crunch.
      
      

      Amaro Gelato

      Amaro gelato is, quite simply, vanilla (or perhaps honeycomb) gelato topped with a generous, unapologetic drizzle of amaro. Shop-bought gelato, obviously—because life is far too short to squeeze a clunky, mediocre ice-cream machine into the clean lines of a minimalist kitchen.

1. The Butcher

2. The Barber

3. The Tat Gang (my beloved inner circle addicted to vintage interiors and expensive wine).

Quite frankly, I can’t imagine navigating the horrors of adult life without this holy trinity in Brighton.
However, the other day, the unthinkable happened: my butcher closed unexpectedly for renovations.
I felt utterly betrayed. I loved those 70s tiles, and I certainly don’t want a curated hipster sticker on my meat.

So, there I was: wandering through town, sad and scorned, blasting country music to ensure the cinematic pathos was at an all-time high.

Naturally, I ended up in the supermarket—the classic refuge for a desperate housewife in search of answers. We’ve all been there.
The supermarket is a strange, liminal space.
Sometimes you find yourself in the baking aisle having a stream of consciousness, and you suddenly book a flight to Paris; other times, you’re in the veg section and realise you need to quit your job.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve entered a supermarket overthinking my entire existence, only to exit with the “Ultimate Answer” while sobbing a heartfelt “thank you” to a cashier who is quite clearly judging my life choices.
He is judging. I can tell.

Some people go to exotic retreats to “find themselves” while wearing ridiculous yoga pants; others, like us, find enlightenment in the aisles while wearing Carhartt.
Trust me, it’s far more dignified.

It was in the midst of this specific crisis that I found myself in Waitrose, staring at a shelf of actual Bone Marrow and a particularly sexy Bone Marrow gravy.
It was a revelation. Even the supermarkets are at it now.
But as I stood there, a wave of guilt hit: Was I cheating on my butcher? Was I supposed to be strictly ‘meat-free’ until his shutters went back up? Was I making eye contact with the cashier for slightly too long? As usual, I was overthinking it.
Then, it happened: The Bone Marrow Epiphany.

This is what progress feels like, I thought. Sometimes the answer isn’t another stock cube, more salt, or an existential crisis over the gentrification of your local high street. Sometimes, you simply need to treat yourself with that ultimate natural flavour enhancer in all its rich, savoury splendour. It is a shot of concentrated meatiness designed to elevate everything on the plate—and, more importantly, to make you feel significantly better about your life choices.

Plus, it’s packed with collagen, which is exactly why I have no wrinkles.
It’s a strict regime of bone marrow and the occasional human sacrifice to Cthulhu.

This dish is the epitome of “Sanctuary Food”. It takes a tough, overlooked cut of meat lkke cheeks and transforms it, through sheer patience, into something incredibly decadent.

Slow-Braised Beef Cheek with Bone Marrow Mash

Serves 2

1. The Beef
Ingredients:
2 large beef cheeks
500ml robust red wine
500ml beef stock (or beef and bone marrow gravy from Waitrose)
1 carrot 1 onion 1 celery stick (all roughly chopped)
2 bay leaves, a sprig of thyme.

Method: Season the cheeks heavily with salt. Sear them in a hot pot until dark brown on all sides. Remove the meat, throw in the veg until softened, then deglaze with the wine. Add the stock, herbs, and meat back in.
Cover and braise at 140°C for 4–5 hours until you can cut it with a spoon.

The Sauce:
Strain the cooking liquid into a pan and boil it down until it’s thick, glossy, and coats the back of a spoon.
If you want a creamier version rather than a standard gravy, purée the cooked vegetables and add them back into the sauce with a splash of double cream.

2. The Mash
Ingredients:
500g potatoes,
50g butter,
a splash of double cream,
salt.
Cooked bone marrow.
Method:
Cook the marrow in the oven for 30 mins until bubbling and soft. Pass it into a sieve to remove gristle and bones.
Boil the potatoes until tender. Pass them through a ricer for that ultra-smooth texture seen in your photo. Fold in the butter and cream. It should be thick enough to hold the weight of the beef but soft enough to swirl.

3. The Greens
Ingredients:
A large handful of Cavolo Nero or Spinach,
a knob of butter.

Method:
Sauté quickly in butter and a splash of water until wilted but still bright green. This provides the necessary “lift” against the dark meat.

Assembly (Pro-Plating)
1. Spoon a generous circle of mash into the centre of a wide white bowl. Use the back of the spoon to create a slight “nest.”
2. Place the wilted greens directly on top of the mash.
3. Carefully sit the beef cheek on the greens. It should look architectural and proud.
4. The Gloss: Pour the reduced red wine jus over the beef, letting it pool around the base of the mash.
5. Finish with a high pile of crispy shallots for texture.

I am often reminded of Ferzan Özpetek’s film La Finestra di Fronte. There is a character, Davide Veroli, a Holocaust survivor whose memory has been fractured by trauma. When the shadows of his past close in, he begins to bake a ridiculous, magnificent amount of desserts. Once a master baker, Davide transforms a modest kitchen into a sanctuary of colour. To Giovanna, a woman dulled by the grey grind of a chicken factory, his cakes are a sensory awakening—a reminder that life should be savoured, not just endured. That man, that scene with all the cakes and the act of cooking for an army to stave off despair, shaped me.

The Allergy to Heritage

In the modern culinary world, there is an allergy spreading faster than any other: a disdain for the word “traditional.”

To some, pulling a face at pineapple on pizza or chicken on pasta seems like a petty overreaction—a matter of personal taste. But food is not merely an evolving machine; it is a vessel of preservation. Take the Saddle of Veal Orloff, a 19th-century masterpiece of French-Russian haute cuisine. It is a classic because of its structural genius, and it is cooked traditionally because that is how history is kept alive.

Today, preservation and heritage are treated as allergens. We avoid the “traditional” conveniently, perhaps because acknowledging it would force a difficult conversation about cultural appropriation.

The other day, when I was nervous, I surrendered to the therapeutic effort of a recipe that demands time. These recipes are doorways; they allow you to walk into the rooms of your memory and bring the dead back to life.

Ribollita is famous, but at its heart, it is humble: a bread soup, reheated (literally, “re-boiled”). It is a frugal dish that finds its glory in rest and its soul in the frying pan. As I prepared it, I felt a karmic pull. I had to resist the “Orphic” temptation to look back—to add parsley oil, crunchy fried onions, or ‘nduja-spiced croutons. My subconscious screamed at me to “elevate” it, to change it, to make it modern.

But I refused.

It was my Nonna’s birthday. She would have been 110 years old this Monday. Rather than lighting a candle or posting a picture online (just in case the underworld hasn’t got Wi-Fi yet), I chose to celebrate her by reliving what she gave me endlessly: honest food.

It is difficult to grasp this emotional hunger if it isn’t in your heritage—if your relationship with family isn’t rooted in the soil, in specific local products, or the necessity of the harvest. This is an authentic story and recipe, not another pre-crafted cultural mess of the “new and old.”
Despite my urges to “improve” it, I paid my homage.

My husband, a Northerner through and through, has been exposed to every Michelin-starred and fusion creation imaginable.
He took one bite and said, “This is probably in the top five best things you have ever cooked.”

I bet Nonna is smiling now, wearing a look of patriotic smugness. Her recipe survived the decades. Her grandson found his way, his place, and his personal happy ending. And because she knew me—because she raised me—she always placed a piece of pecorino beside me when having this soup, whispering, “I know you want to do it.”

The Sanctity of the Original

Respect is a value one must learn.
Nonna used to say, “Beware of these godless creatures who have no respect for anything.” This is my recipe, my story, and my memory. Why would I want to change it?

Valentino’s red is iconic; it doesn’t need golden polka dots. November Rain is a masterpiece; it isn’t screaming for an electronic remix. The words of Pablo Neruda are raw and sensual; they do not need censorship to be “actualised.”
Neither does this soup.

It requires nothing more than for you to sit with your instincts and tame them.
It is about respect for the food, the heritage, and my people.

You are free, of course, to twist it—to add your trendy spices or exciting new discoveries.

You godless creature.

MINESTRA DI PANE (and RIBBOLLITA)

Ingredients:

200g dried Cannellini beans
Soaked overnight, cooked with sage, bay leaves, and garlic
1 bunch Cavolo Nero stalks removed, leaves chopped
500g Mixed vegetables (whatever you have in the fridge or freezer: Cabbage, potatoes, carrots, celery, red onion)
250g Stale bread, sliced or torn
Extra Virgin Olive Oil: The best quality you can find
Fresh Thyme
(A big pinch of salt or granular veg stock)

Soak the beans overnight, change the water the day after and cook them on low until soft. KEEP THE COOKING WATER!

1. The secret is the beans’ cooking water. Keep half the beans whole; purée the other half into the liquid to create a creamy, rich foundation.

2. Sauté the onion in a generous amount of olive oil. Add the mixed vegetables, let them soften, and then add the Cavolo Nero. Season with salt and plenty of thyme.

3. Pour the bean purée and liquid over the vegetables. Simmer gently for one hour. Add the whole beans at the end. You now have Minestra di Pane.

4. In a deep bowl, layer the stale bread and the hot soup. Let it rest. The bread must soak up every drop of flavour until it is heavy with history.

5. The following day, heat the mixture in a pan with a splash of oil until it is thick, creamy, and a golden crust forms at the bottom.

I don’t need a mountain of frosting or gold leaf. I want a dish with a “plot twist”—that unexpected hum of cardamom or the brightness of orange that reminds you that you’re dealing with a Britalian.

The Torta al Semolino is exactly that. It is the culinary equivalent of a grandmother’s kindness—quiet, steady, and exactly what you need. In Naples, they call it Migliaccio and weigh it down with ricotta, but this Tuscan original is leaner and more practical. It relies on the humble contents of your cupboard; that bag of semolina flour usually reserved for dusting homemade pasta finally gets its moment in the spotlight.

Think of it as the Italian “Old School” answer to the Basque cheesecake. It’s lighter, cheaper, and arguably more sophisticated. It lacks the aggressive richness of cream cheese, offering instead a silky, custardy texture that feels like a warm embrace rather than a heavy blow.

Notes from the Scholar: The Roman Legacy of Semolina
While this cake is a celebrated Tuscan staple, its DNA is ancient. The use of semolina (from the Latin simila, meaning the finest flour) dates back to the Roman Empire. Long before maize arrived from the Americas to create polenta, the Romans relied on durum wheat semolina as their primary grain.

In Roman street food culture, “puls” (a thick grain porridge) was the fuel of the masses. Eventually, the more refined Libum—a sacrificial cake made of flour and cheese—evolved into the sweet, custardy desserts we see across Italy today. The Torta al Semolino is the elegant, modern descendant of these rustic beginnings. It represents a culinary bridge: the moment where the “grain of the people” was transformed by the Renaissance kitchens of Tuscany into something light, citrusy, and fit for a refined table.

The Chef’s Twist: Mastering the Infusion
To truly make this cake your own, you have to look at the milk as a blank canvas. In professional kitchens, we call this “layering.” Instead of just adding vanilla at the end, we infuse the liquid base to create a flavour that lingers.

Before you add the semolina, add 3 or 4 bruised cardamom pods and a wide strip of orange peel to the cold milk. Bring it slowly to that near-boil, then turn off the heat and let it steep for 10 minutes. Strain the milk, then proceed with the recipe. The cardamom brings a floral, sophisticated heat that cuts through the creaminess of the semolina, while the orange provides a brighter, more aromatic lift than lemon alone.

The “Scholar-Cook” Tip:
If you want to lean into the “Basque” inspiration, don’t be afraid of the heat. In the final five minutes of baking, turn your oven up to 200°C or kick on the grill for sixty seconds. You’re looking for those deep, “leopard-spot” charred patches on the surface. It adds a bitter, caramelised edge that balances the sweet, custardy interior perfectly.

The Ingredients

1L Full-fat milk (If you can find Jersey milk, the golden fat content is a game-changer)
250g Semolina flour (Fine)
1 Lemon (Zest)
200g Caster sugar
4 Eggs
50g Butter
100g Sultanas (Soaked in rum or whiskey until plump and boozy)
1 tsp Vanilla essence(Or cinnamon, if you’re feeling earthy)
A generous pinch of caster sugar(For the pre-bake crunch)

To Decorate:
Almonds
Icing sugar

The Method

1. Try to peel the lemon skin in one continuous piece. Bring the milk to a near-boil with the lemon peel. Just as it begins to shiver at the edges, slowly rain in the semolina flour. Whisk continuously for about five minutes until the mixture thickens into a smooth, heavy cream. Once thickened, remove the lemon peel.

2. Remove the pan from the heat. Stir in the butter and vanilla, then whisk in the caster sugar and the eggs one by one. The residual heat of the semolina will cook the eggs slightly, creating that signature custard base.

3. The Twist: Fold in your boozy sultanas, including any excess spirit. This is the “soul” of the cake.

4. Pour the batter into a 22cm round tin lined with baking parchment. Sprinkle the top with an extra dusting of caster sugar—this creates a delicate, crackling crust that mimics the char of a professional dessert.

5. Bake at 170°C for 40 minutes. When it comes out, resist the urge to slice it immediately. It needs to cool down completely to set its internal architecture.

6. Once stone-cold, finish with a light dusting of icing sugar and a scattering of almonds for a bit of crunch.

It’s simple, it’s honest, and it’s proof that sometimes, the most refined things in life come from a cupboard and a whisk.

The other day, while strolling along and listening to a podcast titled “Communism and Constipation,” I spotted something that demanded my attention.
A swede. For five pence. BARGAIN!
That is the extent of my working-class roots (pardon the pun), despite my otherwise pervasive “Proustian Attitude.”

Now, every time I see a swede, my brain immediately cues the music:
“Here they come / The beautiful ones / The beautiful ones / La, la, la, la...”

As a foreigner, the name simply sounds too much like my favourite indie rock band for me to ignore. I still don’t know how to pronounce either of them.

Before moving to England, I had never even encountered a Swede. In Italy, it simply wasn’t on the menu. But here in England, I’ve been exposed to the full weight of its cultural baggage. I’ve heard all the fuss about how the swede was the hero of the war because it could grow in the snow and save a nation from starvation la la la la. It’s a vegetable with a history as hardy as its skin; even its name, a simple shorthand for “Swedish turnip,” hints at its rugged Scandinavian roots—though the Americans, in their typical fashion, prefer the more guttural “rutabaga,” plucked from the Swedish dialect rotabagge. La la la la.

Usually, a swede will sit in my fridge until it begins to turn, or until I do what every man does when pretending to be a “Wannabe Healthy” type: I stand in the kitchen eating crisps and drinking beer while staring intensely at recipes for root vegetables. I’ll read about how it is a Burns Night staple—the legendary “neeps” (from the Old English næp) traditionally mashed with haggis (my one true love) and tatties to celebrate Robert Burns. I’ll tell myself that its profile is arguably sweeter and more fragrant than a white turnip, especially after the first frost has kissed the soil.

But then reality hits. The swede starts going off, and I am forced to throw it away, haunted by the deep-seated guilt ingrained in me by my grandmother regarding food waste. I’ll have a minor meltdown and call my brother, sobbing, “Why am I such a mess?”
You know, just my usual quirky self.

“But we’re trash, you and me / We’re the litter on the breeze...”

The truth is, despite its historical importance and its ability to bulk out a winter stew, swedes generally suck. My family upbringing strictly forbids me from saying “I don’t like this,” but let’s be honest: you can roll a swede in glitter, but it still tastes fundamentally of “Earth.” Modern chefs try to remodel it via Dauphinoise—which I mean, come on... It’s just covering it in cheese. That’s a trick I use to get children to eat!

However, the other day, before my 5p bargain turned into a science experiment, I decided to take action. I sliced it into batons and whipped up a basting sauce: ketchup, Sichuan paste, salt, smoked paprika, and vegetable oil. I brushed them liberally and roasted them until charred. Served with a sprinkle of smoked salt and fresh thyme... NOT BAD AT ALL!

I mean, I could probably have cooked a piece of cardboard using that technique and achieved the same result, but it cost me five pence. BARGAIN!

“She gives a little bit of attitude / Gives a little bit of something new / Gives a little bit of attitude / Gets a little bit tacky too...”

The 5p Sichuan “Cardboard” Cure

A recipe for the intellectual on a budget.

This recipe takes the “earthy” (read: dirt-adjacent) flavour of the Swedish turnip and drags it, kicking and screaming, into a world of smoky, spicy sophistication.

The Components

• 1 Swede: Ideally snatched from the supermarket for 5p, though any “rutabaga” will do.

• The Basting Sauce:

• 2 tbsp Ketchup (The “Jenny from the Block” secret weapon).

• 1 tsp Sichuan Paste (For that intellectual sting).

• 1 tsp Smoked Paprika.

• A generous pinch of Salt.

• 2 tbsp Vegetable Oil.

• A sprinkle of Smoked Salt.

• Fresh Thyme leaves.

The Method

1. Preheat your oven to 200°C. Peel the swede—a task that requires the patience of a saint and the arm strength of a dockworker—and cut it into thick, sturdy batons.

2. In a small bowl, whisk together your ketchup, Sichuan paste, oil, paprika, and salt. It should look vibrant, glossy, and entirely too good for a root vegetable.

3. Toss the swede batons into a baking dish and brush them liberally with the sauce. Don’t be shy; we are trying to mask the taste of “Earth” here.

4. Slide them into the oven for 30–40 minutes. You want them tender on the inside but slightly charred and caramelised on the edges.

5. Remove from the oven and immediately hit them with the smoked salt and fresh thyme.

Serve immediately while listening to The Beautiful Ones at a slightly-too-loud volume. It’s tacky, it’s cheap, it’s attitude in a bowl.

Janus is the Roman god of beginnings and ends. Celebrated in January, he looks forward and backwards at the same time—which is easy to do when you have two faces. How convenient!
I’ve got two faces as well lately—one looking back at the half-empty jar of olives from NYE, and one looking forward to a version of me that actually eats fibre.

This recipe captures that specific post-Christmas mood where we crave lightness and nutrition, but our kitchens are still haunted by the remnants of holiday hosting, at least minb is. It’s a “clean out the cupboard” strategy disguised as a gourmet Mediterranean braise. It represents the end for the ingredients nearing their expiry and a glorious beginning for the fresh, light vibes we need in our fridges.

Grains often have a reputation for being stodgy or a bit “heavy metal” for a Tuesday night. That’s why we’re giving them a makeover; we’re turning them into a salad with a sharp Mediterranean twist.

January is often a month of culinary penance, but it doesn’t have to be a month of bland, sad food. This dish is my favourite midweek reset—a recipe born from the necessity of emptying the fridge and the soul-soothing desire for a warm, healthy meal.

The “Dump-and-Bake” Wonder

This is an oven-to-table masterpiece that feels far more sophisticated than the effort suggests. By slow-roasting the grains and fish together in a cast-iron pot, you create a deep, savoury foundation that honours the humble pantry staples: that bag of lentils bought for a forgotten resolution, the jar of sun-dried tomatoes left over from an antipasti board, and that lonely bag of white fish sitting in the back of the freezer.

The magic lies in the contrast of temperature and texture. While the base is earthy and warm, the topping is a cold, sharp, and zesty feta cream that wakes up the palate. It’s healthy, it’s high-protein, and it’s remarkably efficient.

In my house, we call this “The Overnight Miracle.” You cook it tonight, let the flavours introduce themselves properly in the fridge, and eat it tomorrow. It’s the perfect antidote to holiday excess—absolute proof that “cleaning out the cupboard” can yield a masterpiece.

Recipe: Slow-Roasted Spelt, Puy Lentils, and White Fish

Prep time: 10 mins | Cook time: 40 mins | Serves: 4

Ingredients

• 150g Puy lentils

• 150g Pearled spelt

• 500g White fish (cod, haddock, or hake—frozen works perfectly)

• 2 Shallots (finely chopped)

• 10 Sun-dried tomatoes (sliced)

• A handful of pitted green olives

• 700ml Vegetable or fish stock

• A generous splash of dry white wine

• A pinch of sea salt

• ½ bunch of fresh basil

The Garnish:

• 100g Natural yoghurt whisked with 50g crumbled feta

The Finishing Oil:

• ½ bunch of fresh basil

• 2 tbsp Extra virgin olive oil

• Zest of ½ lemon

The Method

1. In a heavy-bottomed cast-iron pot, combine the lentils, spelt, fish, shallots, olives, and sun-dried tomatoes. Pour over the stock and white wine until everything is just covered. Season with a big pinch of salt.

2. Cover and cook in the oven at 180°C for 40 minutes. Check halfway through—if the grains have soaked up all the liquid, add a splash more water.

3. Once cooked, let the pot cool completely. As with many Italian grain dishes, the flavour matures overnight; I highly recommend eating this the following day at room temperature.

4. Blend or vigorously whisk the yoghurt and feta until smooth. For the basil oil, blitz the remaining basil with the olive oil and lemon zest until you have a vibrant, neon-green oil.

5. Serve the grains with a generous dollop of the cold feta cream in the centre and drizzle the basil oil over the top for a final punch of colour and aroma.

The “Zero-Waste Fridge Raid” Checklist

In my kitchen, the most “political” thing you can do is refuse to throw away food. This dish is a celebration of the “scraps”—the small amounts of ingredients that usually end up in the bin but, when combined, create something greater than the sum of their parts.

1. The Base (Grains): Out of spelt? Use pearl barley, bulgur wheat, or brown rice. You just want “pearled” or whole grains that can withstand a 40-minute braise without turning into porridge.
2. The Liquid Gold: No stock? Use the water from a jar of chickpeas (aquafaba) or hot water with a squeeze of tomato purée and lemon. If you have an open bottle of Prosecco from the holidays, use that instead of white wine!
3. The Savoury Punch: No sun-dried tomatoes? Raid the jar shelf. Capers, artichoke hearts, or roasted peppers all add that necessary acid and salt.
4. The “Sad” Veg: If you have half a fennel bulb, a few celery stalks, or some wilted spinach in the crisper drawer, chop them up and throw them in. Fennel, in particular, loves fish and lentils.
5. The Protein: No white fish? Frozen prawns or even canned butter beans (for a vegan version) work perfectly. Pro-tip: If using prawns, add them in the last 10 minutes so they don’t turn into rubber.
6. The Garnish: No feta? Use goat’s cheese, ricotta, or even a spoonful of mascarpone thinned with lemon juice.

In the world of modern branding, there is a thin, dangerous line between “cheeky” marketing and regressive stereotyping. Last week, an Italian ice cream shop crossed that line by labelling a pink-tinted pistachio flavour as “Gay Pistachio.” Shortly after, *Corriere della Sera*—one of Italy’s most prominent newspapers—decided to carry the story.

Now. I don’t tolerate misogyny or artificial coloured food (Though, to be fair, I remain a devoted fan of the late, great Fanny Cradock—a woman who could turn a trout blue and make it look like a revolution).

But I feel that I want to spend my two cents on this.

Probably because I’m still drenching revolutionary vibes from the Lee Miller’s exhibition I went to see yesterday at Tate Britain.
So, on the journey back on the train while reading the article, I thought to myself: What would Lee Miller do?
(The voice in my head is usually “what Malala Yousafzai would do?” But that’s because I watched the second season of We Are Ladyparts).

What followed was not a nuanced discussion on inclusion, but a masterclass in low-level clickbait.

This isn’t about a cheap artificial gelato; it is a mirror reflecting a tired, lazy trend in both journalism and marketing. The article was a digital trap designed to polarise: on one side, those accusing the LGBTQ+ community of being “too sensitive,” and on the other, a community exhausted by having to explain the obvious.

Let’s look at the mechanics of the insult.
Associating the colour pink with the “feminine” and then by extension using it to label something “Gay,” reduces a complex human identity to a 1950s caricature.

Behind the “playful” use of the colour lies a deeply rooted prejudice: the idea that femininity is a joke, a weakness, or a costume to be worn for a laugh. This is not just an insult to gay men; it is a direct affront to every woman. It reinforces the patriarchal notion that “feminine” traits are something to be mocked or used as a “quirky” differentiator for a product.

When a national masthead like Corriere chooses to “ride” this story without taking a stance, they are engaging in a deplorable act of media scavenging. By presenting the story as “lighthearted,” they validate the marginalisation.

Journalism has a responsibility to direct the conversation toward progress. Instead, they chose to toss a match into the dry grass of internet culture wars just to reap the rewards of a few thousand extra clicks.

Identity is Not a Flavour Profile

If a community tells you they are offended, the message is offensive. It is not the place of a shop owner, or a straight observer, to establish the threshold of our dignity or tell us when we have the “right” to be hurt.

To the customers—and especially the younger generation—walking into that shop: know that there is no honour in mocking diversity under the guise of irony. True inclusion doesn’t look like a pink food colouring; it looks like respect, policy, and genuine support.

Take it from me: a gay man, a bearded chef, a kick-boxer, and a scholar of culture. My identity is not a gimmick, it doesn’t have a pre-defined aesthetic, and quite frankly…I hate PINK.

As for the gelato? If you’re so desperate for attention that you have to sell stereotypes and artificial dyes, you can eat it yourself.

I call it “cultural translation.”
It’s how I stop myself from feeling 1,500 miles away from my roots. It’s my culinary bridge, and lately, that bridge has been paved with cabbage.

Recently, we headed to Piedmont for a friend’s birthday weekend. We stayed in a mansion in Bra, simply glorious! I love my life, and I love sentences that sound like they belong in a Jane Austen novel adapted by Federico Fellini. For 48 hours, I was an “archaeologist of the appetite,” digging for the most traditional dishes I could find.

Piedmontese cuisine has always fascinated me; it has layers of flavour second to none. Their use of vinegar is bold, sexy, and frankly, exactly my kind of palette.

Bra is famous for Salsiccia di Bra, a unique and protected (PAT) raw sausage. Historically linked to the local Jewish community—and we Romans share a deep soul-bond with Jewish cuisine—it’s made primarily from lean veal with just enough pork fat to give it a creamy texture. Seasoned with cinnamon, cloves, and pepper, it is sweet, spiced, and utterly heavenly when eaten raw with a dollop of mustard.
We paired it with French Pommery mustard, and honestly? It felt like 1533 all over again, when Catherine de' Medici married Henry II of France—the perfect Italo-French wedding on a plate.
I was tempted to start quoting Dalida singing Buscaglione, but I realised that might be a bit too "niche gay" for the general public.

I think I went back for it four times during dinner. Irresistible. And don’t even get me started on Castelmagno—the “King of the North” in the Game of Thrones of cheeses.

But the star that I had to bring home was the Capunet.

Usually, these are cabbage leaves stuffed with minced meat, parmesan, and herbs, then pan-fried or baked. They are simple, rustic, and deeply layered. Since I’m currently cutting back on dairy, I’ve created a “Britalian” version: dairy-free, but still punchy, served with a velvety potato base and a sharp, British-style celeriac remoulade.

This dish is the child of the cucina povera of rural Piedmont—a “don’t waste a single scrap” philosophy born in the frozen winters when the only thing surviving in the garden was the hardy Savoy cabbage.

If you dig into the archives, the history is as layered as the cabbage itself. Some culinary historians trace the dish all the way back to the 15th century. But it’s the name Capunet that really tickles me. It likely stems from the Piedmontese word for “capon” (that’s a castrated rooster, for those not up on their medieval poultry). It was essentially a culinary metaphor—a cheeky way of making a humble cabbage roll sound as expensive and luxurious as a rich bird. It’s the original “fake it ‘til you make it,” 1400s style.

Of course, the concept of wrapping something delicious in a leaf is a global obsession. You’ll find the Capù in Lombardy, Gołąbki in Poland, and Sarmale in Romania.

It’s a staple of Northern Italy, but with my Britalian twist, it’s ready for a Sussex winter.

The remoulade was crying out for a kick, so I introduced a layer of depth and acidity using the brine from the preserved lemons. I use this stuff for everything; it is, quite literally, my secret weapon.

The Recipe: Capunet alla Britalian

For the Capunet:

• 10 large leaves of Savoy cabbage

• 1 heart of Savoy cabbage (finely chopped for the filling)

• 10 slices of prosciutto

• 5 sun-dried tomatoes (chopped)

• Zest of 1 lemon

• A handful of fresh parsley

• A handful of breadcrumbs (to bind it all)

• Optional: a grating of parmesan or cheddar if you aren’t being “good” like me.

For the Potato Vellouté:

• 2 large potatoes (peeled and diced)

• 1/2 leek (chopped)

• 1 tsp vegetable stock

For the Remoulade:

• 1 small celeriac

• 4 tbsp mayonnaise

• 1 tbsp English mustard (the English bite!)

• Juice of 1 lemon

• 1 tbsp preserved lemon juice (for that fermented depth)

• A big pinch of salt

Instructions

1. The Remoulade (The Zesty Sidekick): Peel and grate the celeriac. Toss it in a bowl with the mayo, mustard, lemon juice, and salt. Transfer to a Tupperware and let it chill in the fridge. Yes, it’s more washing up, but trust me—the acidity against the fried cabbage is worth every bubble in the sink.

2. Carefully peel off the 10 large cabbage leaves. Steam them for 2–4 minutes until they are soft and pliable. Do the same with the chopped heart of the cabbage, but give it 5 minutes until it’s tender.

3. The Filling: In a bowl, combine the chopped, steamed cabbage heart with the prosciutto (I actually rolled it with the leaves, but your choice), sun-dried tomatoes, lemon zest, parsley, and breadcrumbs. You should have enough for 10 generous tablespoons of filling.

4. Take a steamed leaf and trim the tough bottom of the stalk. Place a tablespoon of filling at the base, fold in the sides like a little green burrito, and roll it up tight.

5. Place the rolls in a pan, seam-side down. Add a generous glug of olive oil and a splash of white wine. Cover with a lid for 8 minutes to steam through, then remove the lid and fry until the bottoms are golden and crispy.

6. The Vellouté: While the cabbage sizzles, boil the diced potatoes and leek in just enough water to cover them (plus 1cm). Add the stock. Once soft, blitz them until smooth. I like mine quite “loose” and silky—not like mash, but like a warm hug.

7. The Grand Finale: Ladle a pool of the potato vellouté onto the plate. Nestle the golden Capunet on top, and place a dollop of the cold, crunchy remoulade on the side.

It’s Piedmont meets Brighton. It’s bold, it’s creamy, and it’s a little bit sexy.