Focaccia and the Problem With Instructions

A few months ago I spent nearly two hours making a friendship bracelet.

Or, more accurately, not making a friendship bracelet.

The children had a kit. The kit had written instructions. I followed them. Nothing happened that bore any resemblance to a friendship bracelet.

I started again.

Still nothing.

After approximately two hours — by which point friendship was probably the last thing the bracelet represented — I found a video online.

Thirty seconds later I could do it.

This is a fairly good summary of my relationship with instructions.

I don’t necessarily need things to be easy. I just need to understand what I’m doing.

Tell me to put something in the fridge overnight and I want to know why.

Tell me not to touch it for three hours and I will immediately want to touch it.

Tell me to stretch it every thirty minutes and I need to know what stretching achieves and what terrible fate awaits us if I stretch it after forty-five.

This is possibly why I had never made bread.

Bread seemed to involve an awful lot of instructions of this kind.

Worse still, bread is alive.

Not in an alarming sourdough-starter-in-a-jar sense, but genuinely alive. We are adding yeast — a living microorganism — and then spending the next twenty-four hours trying to manage what it does.

Which means bread comes with far too many variables for my liking.

It cares whether your kitchen is warm. It cares whether your water is cold. It cares whether you leave it for two hours or four. It behaves differently in August than it does in January. You can follow exactly the same recipe twice and the dough may be ready at a different time.

I prefer a recipe to tell me what to do, for me to do it, and for both parties to honour the arrangement.

Bread does not appear to have agreed to these terms.

I have children. I do not need another living thing in the house whose mood I am expected to interpret.

Until I experienced the simplicity of eggs and soldiers — with a twist.

I came across Allpress in Dalston almost by accident, tucked behind a gate off a busy East London road.

You walk through it and suddenly there is a courtyard full of greenery and a remarkably inconspicuous café. A sort of small urban Garden of Eden, except with very good coffee.

I was having one of those rare days in London without the children, which meant the usual order of my day was already somewhat amiss.

As it turned out, so was my food order.

There was a muddle. My order was forgotten. Then remembered. Then, eventually, something arrived.

It wasn’t my croissant.

Instead, there were eggs and soldiers.

With a twist.

The soldiers were focaccia.

Eggs and soldiers are nostalgic by their very nature. They are also, ordinarily, a meal in which both the egg and the soldiers know their place.

The egg is the main event.

The toast is there simply for use as a vessel — in place of cutlery — for the purposes of dipping.

Focaccia is another proposition entirely.

Fresh and airy. Oily. Crisp on the outside, soft and chewy within. It doesn’t merely transport the yolk. It brings a whole lot more to the table.

I love this sort of food.

Focaccia, to me, is an indulgence. Something torn from a loaf in a restaurant, usually while trying not to think too carefully about how much olive oil it has absorbed.

Eggs and soldiers are breakfast.

Put the two together and suddenly something that feels like a treat has become an entirely reasonable thing to eat in the morning.

This is the sort of logic I can get behind.

I wanted to make it at home.

Unfortunately, this involved making bread.

The bread least likely to expose me:

Focaccia seemed like a sensible place to start because it is no-knead.

I had never made bread before and kneading felt like precisely the sort of activity during which experienced people would know, through some ancient understanding of dough, when it was done.

I would not.

No-knead sounded safer.

And it is.

This focaccia is genuinely simple to make.

It is also extremely slow.

These are not the same thing.

Time, it turns out, is an ingredient.

There is very little actual work involved. Mix. Wait. Fold. Wait. Fold again. Wait considerably longer. Go to bed. Wake up. Wait some more.

For someone who likes cooking, the difficult bit is accepting that most of the recipe is happening while you are not involved.

Which brings us back to my problem with instructions.

I couldn’t simply write a recipe that said:

Leave overnight.

I needed to know what overnight was doing.

The annoying bits matter - so I did my research.

The water matters.

This is a very wet dough. Uncomfortably wet, initially. The sort that makes you assume either you or the recipe has made a mistake.

But that water eventually becomes steam in the oven, helping create the light, open interior I was trying to recreate.

The folds matter too.

Because I wasn’t kneading the dough, but instead stretching and folding which builds the gluten structure that will eventually hold all those bubbles in place.

And the waiting really matters.

I know this because I tried not doing it.

I made the focaccia in a day.

It was good.

My husband ate it and said it was really good, which was pleasing.

Then he added that it was more filling than the first one.

Less pleasing.

But correct.

After inspection the crumb was tighter. The bread was denser. The first loaf — which had spent the night doing absolutely nothing useful as far as I could see — had been lighter, airier and better.

Except, of course, it hadn’t been doing nothing.

It had been fermenting.

Fermentation is one of those words bread recipes use as though we all attended the same meeting.

Very simply: those little beige granules of yeast are living, single-celled microorganisms. They are essentially dormant when we buy them. Give them water and food and they become active.

The food is sugar.

At which point I had another question.

What sugar?

Flour is mostly starch. Naturally occurring enzymes in the flour break some of that starch down into simpler sugars that the yeast can use. In this recipe I also add a little honey, so there is some immediately available too.

The yeast uses those sugars and produces carbon dioxide gas.

The gluten I had been strengthening with all those seemingly pointless folds traps that gas.

The trapped gas makes bubbles.

The bubbles make the dough rise.

Finally, everyone is working together.

And this is why the overnight wait matters.

Putting the dough in the fridge doesn’t stop fermentation. It slows it down. The yeast keeps working, just much more slowly, while the rest of the dough gets time to develop better flavour and structure.

So when I say leave it in the fridge overnight, I’m afraid I really do mean it.

I tested the shortcut so you don’t have to.

Unfortunately, dough cannot tell the time

I could write leave for two hours in this recipe, but the dough has other considerations.

How warm is your kitchen?

How active is your yeast?

Did you put the bowl next to the Aga?

Have you gone to collect the children and accidentally stayed out for three hours?

All of these things matter.

And once I knew what fermentation actually was - I knew why they mattered and everything made rather more sense.

Warmth makes the yeast more active. It produces gas more quickly, so the dough rises faster.

A cooler room slows it down.

The fridge slows it considerably. It is, for practical purposes, the closest thing dough has to a pause button — useful if you suddenly have children to collect or somewhere else to be.

This is the bit I wish recipes explained.

Because once you understand it, bread becomes considerably less frightening.

You stop thinking:

I’ve missed the thirty-minute mark. I’ve ruined it.

You start looking at the dough.

Has it grown?

Are there bubbles?

Does it wobble?

When you try to stretch it into the corner of the tin and it springs straight back, don’t fight it. The gluten is tight. Leave it alone for twenty minutes and it will become more willing.

This is useful information.

Simply writing “Gently stretch into the corners” is of no use if it doesn’t work.

The point at which the recipe appears to turn against you

There are several of these.

The brine is one.

You have spent the best part of twenty-four hours encouraging this dough to rise and then you pour salty water over it.

Next, you stick your fingers into it.

Deeply.

Neither feels sensible.

The dimples redistribute the gas so the focaccia doesn’t inflate into one enormous bread balloon. They also create little pockets for the oil and brine.

The brine seasons the crust and keeps the surface moist during the first part of the bake. This delays the crust setting, giving the bread a little longer to expand in the oven.

There is, incidentally, an upper limit to the amount of salt required here.

I discovered that too.

Then there is the olive oil.

A frankly unreasonable amount of it.

The oil underneath isn’t merely there for flavour. As the bread bakes, the base is essentially frying in it.

The distinction, I discovered, is between frying and swimming.

Too little oil and you lose that extraordinary crisp focaccia crust. Too much and the bottom can emerge beautifully golden but oddly soft and oily.

I managed this twice before accepting that perhaps enthusiasm wasn’t the appropriate unit of measurement.

You also need heat underneath it. The bottom needs the opportunity to crisp before the top has finished baking. A hot oven and a low shelf matter rather more than I had previously understood.

And use baking parchment.

This is not traditional wisdom passed down through generations of Italian bakers.

This is advice from a woman who has stood over a roasting tin attempting to remove the bottom of a focaccia with a palette knife.

Some lessons require less explanation than others.

So, is it foolproof?

Actually, yes.

Or about as close as exceptionally delicious home baked focaccia is prepared to get.

It doesn’t require a mixer. There is no kneading. There is very little technique and perhaps twenty minutes (if that) of actual hands on involvement.

But it does require time.

You cannot make the best version of it quickly.

So don’t.

Make it on a slow weekend. Start it while you’re making dinner the evening before. Fold it between whatever else you’re doing. Put it in the fridge. Go to bed.

The following day, let it take as long as it takes.

You just have to resist the modern urge to make it happen faster and enjoy the process (it’s addictive I promise).

If you need to go out, use the fridge.

If your kitchen is warm, check it earlier.

If it springs back, leave it alone.

If it is enormous, bubbly and wobbling before the recipe says it should be, believe the focaccia rather than me.

Then bake it properly. Dark gold. Crisp underneath. Soft and full of air inside.

Eat some warm.

But save enough for the next morning.

Cut it into thick soldiers and crisp them until the outside crunches and the middle is warm and chewy. Boil an egg so the yolk is still runny.

Dip.

Because it turns out the person at Allpress who decided toast was the weak link in eggs and soldiers was somewhat of a genius.

Egg & Focaccia Soldiers Recipe

A no-knead overnight focaccia with a crisp olive-oil crust and an airy, chewy centre, cut into soldiers for dipping into soft-boiled eggs.

Category: Weekend / Breakfast

Serves: 6–8 as focaccia, or allow 2–3 soldiers and 1 egg per person for breakfast

Prep: Approx. 20 minutes hands-on, plus folding and proving

Cook time: Approx. 20–25 minutes

Make ahead: Yes — the dough should be started the evening before

Tin: Approx. 33 × 20cm metal roasting tin

Calories: Approx. 480 (1 egg, 2-3 chunky soldiers)

Why These Steps Matter

• This is a simple bread, but not a quick one. There is very little actual work involved; most of what makes the focaccia good happens while you leave it alone. Time is an ingredient.

• The dough is deliberately very wet. That water creates steam in the oven and helps produce the light, open crumb we’re after, so resist the urge to add flour simply because it looks alarmingly unlike conventional dough.

• The folds replace kneading. Stretching and folding strengthens the gluten — essentially creating a structure capable of trapping the gas produced by the yeast. Those trapped bubbles are what eventually creates an airy focaccia.

• The overnight rest matters too. The fridge slows fermentation rather than stopping it, giving the dough time to develop flavour and structure. I tested a same-day version: it was still very good, but noticeably tighter, denser and more filling. The overnight version was lighter and airier.

• Temperature matters because yeast is alive. A warm room makes it work faster; a cold one slows it down. This is why timings are a guide rather than an appointment. Look for a dough that has visibly grown and become bubbly and wobbly. If you need to go out, the fridge is the closest thing dough has to a pause button.

• If the dough refuses to stretch into the corners of the tin, leave it alone. The gluten is simply too tight. Another 15–20 minutes at room temperature will usually make it considerably more cooperative.

• The brine and dimpling may both feel slightly counterproductive after spending hours encouraging the dough to rise. They aren’t. Dimpling redistributes the gas and creates pockets for the brine and oil; the brine seasons the surface and keeps it supple during the beginning of the bake, allowing the focaccia to continue expanding before its crust sets.

• Finally, the base needs oil and heat. The olive oil gives focaccia its extraordinary golden, almost fried underside — but the distinction is between frying and swimming. Too much left my test loaves soft and oily underneath, so I’ve reduced it here. Baking parchment prevents sticking, whilst a low oven shelf and preheated heavy tray give the base enough immediate heat to crisp before the top becomes too dark.

Ingredients

For the focaccia

• 500g strong white bread flour

• 425g cold water

• 4g instant dried yeast

• 10g fine sea salt

• 10g honey

• 20g extra-virgin olive oil

For the tin

• Baking parchment

• 30g extra-virgin olive oil

For the brine

• 30g cold water

• 4g fine sea salt

• 15g extra-virgin olive oil

For the garlic & parsley oil

• 2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

• 1 small garlic clove, very finely grated or crushed

• Small handful flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped

To serve

• Eggs — allow 1 per person

• Black pepper, optional

Method (method without photos at the bottom)

The night before

1. Mix the dough

Put the flour and cold water into a large bowl.

Mix with your hand until there are no dry patches of flour.

It will be very wet, sticky and rather unpromising-looking. This is correct. Do not add more flour.

Cover the bowl and leave for 20–30 minutes.

2. Add the yeast, salt, honey and oil

Add the yeast, fine sea salt, honey and 20g olive oil.

Use your hand to squeeze, fold and work everything through the dough until evenly incorporated.

It still won’t resemble a neat ball of bread dough and don’t try to make it one. (it looks more like a brain at this stage).

Cover (I used a large plastic bag loosely wrapped around the bowl - but a damp tea towel also works - nothing too airtight) and leave for 30 minutes.

3. First stretch and fold

Wet your hand first - so it doesn’t stick to the dough.

Reach underneath one edge of the dough, gently stretch it upwards until you feel some resistance, then fold it over the middle.

Turn the bowl a quarter turn and repeat.

Do this on all four sides

That’s one set of folds.

Don’t knead it and don’t keep folding indefinitely. Four sides, then stop.

Cover and leave for 30 minutes.

4. Repeat twice more

Repeat exactly the same process twice more, resting for approximately 30 minutes between each set.

That’s 3 sets of folds in total or, as I realised somewhere around the third episode of Amanda Land, roughly three episodes of Amanda Land in total.

Each time, the dough should gradually become smoother, stronger and more elastic. You may also start seeing bubbles.

After the third and final fold, cover the bowl well (with plastic bag tightly folded underneath bowl) and put it into the fridge.

Leave overnight for approximately 12–18 hours.

The next day

5. Prepare the tin

Line a roughly 33 × 20cm metal roasting tin with baking parchment.

Pour 30g olive oil over the parchment and spread it across the base and lightly up the sides.

Take the dough from the fridge and gently ease it into the tin.

Don’t try to force cold dough all the way into the corners.

Leave it alone for 20–30 minutes first.

6. Gently stretch it

Using lightly oiled fingers, gently encourage the dough towards the edges and corners.

If it goes willingly, carry on.

If it stretches and immediately springs back, stop. The gluten is telling you it isn’t ready.

Leave it another 15–20 minutes, then try again.

It should become noticeably more relaxed as it warms.

7. Leave it for its final prove

Cover the tin loosely and leave at room temperature until the dough is:

• noticeably larger and puffier

• full of visible bubbles, including some beneath the surface

• soft and aerated-looking rather than tight

• wobbly when you gently shake the tin

At a room temp of around 20°C, expect roughly 2–4 hours, but this is deliberately a range.

The dough decides when it’s ready, not the clock.

A warmer room speeds things up; a cooler room slows them down.

If you suddenly need to go out for several hours, put the dough in the fridge rather than leaving a nearly proved focaccia somewhere warm. The fridge is the closest thing dough has to a pause button.

8. Heat the oven to 220°C

Give it plenty of time to preheat

Put a heavy baking sheet or roasting tray onto a low shelf while the oven preheats.

Don’t dimple the focaccia simply because you’re waiting for the oven.

Wait until the oven is properly hot.

Brine & dimple

9. Make the brine

Mix:

• 30g cold water

• 4g fine sea salt

Stir until the salt has dissolved.

10. Pour over the brine

Once the focaccia is fully proved and the oven is ready, pour the brine evenly over the surface, along with 15g of olive oil.

11. Dimple properly

Oil both hands.

Spread your fingers naturally and use the four fingers of each hand — eight fingers in total. You don’t need your thumbs.

Hold your fingers fairly vertically over the dough.

Push all eight fingertips straight down, firmly and almost to the bottom of the tin.

Then lift them straight back out.

Don’t drag your fingers sideways through the dough.

Move your hands to the next undimpled area and repeat:

For this size focaccia, aim for around 4–5 deliberate two-handed presses across the surface — approximately 32–40 deep dimples.

You’re not repeatedly stabbing the same areas.

Press. Lift. Move. Press.

The dough will lose a little height where you press it. That’s normal. Don’t deliberately flatten the rest of it.

And don’t pop all those beautiful bubbles you’ve spent a day creating.

Small and medium bubbles stay.

If you have one enormous balloon-like bubble threatening to become a separate loaf, gently pop that one.

Then get the focaccia into the oven.

12. Bake until properly golden

Put the focaccia tin directly onto the hot preheated tray. It gives the bottom an immediate hit of heat and helps it crisp before the top becomes too dark.

AGA: Use the roasting oven, positioning the tin where it receives good heat underneath. If your AGA already gives the tin strong bottom heat, you don’t need the additional preheated baking sheet.

Bake at 220°C conventional for approximately 20–25 minutes.

You’re looking for a deep golden-brown top, not pale blond bread.

AGA: Bake in the roasting oven and begin checking at around 15–18 minutes. Move the tin if necessary if the top is colouring considerably faster than the bottom.

13. Check the bottom too

The top doesn’t get the final vote.

Carefully lift an edge of the focaccia and look underneath.

The base should be golden, cooked and crisp, not pale, wet or sitting in oil.

If the top is beautifully done but the underside still feels soft, remove the focaccia completely from the tin and parchment and put it directly onto the oven rack for another few minutes.

Check frequently. We want to crisp it, not bake it for a second time.

Finish

14. Make the garlic & parsley oil

While the focaccia bakes, mix:

• 2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

• 1 small garlic clove, very finely grated or crushed

• a small handful of finely chopped flat-leaf parsley

Don’t add salt.

There’s already salt in both the dough and brine.

15. Brush — don’t pour

As soon as the focaccia comes out of the oven, lightly brush the garlic and parsley oil over the hot crust.

You may not need all of it.

The idea is to lightly gloss the hot bread, not saturate it with another layer of oil.

16. Get it out of the tin

Don’t leave the focaccia sitting in its hot tin.

Lift it out, remove the parchment and transfer it immediately to a wire rack to cool.

Air needs to circulate underneath it; otherwise the steam escaping from the bread gets trapped against the base and your crisp bottom becomes soft again.

Allow it to cool before cutting.

Make the soldiers

17. Cut

Once the focaccia has cooled enough to cut cleanly, slice it into thick soldiers.

For eggs and soldiers, you want them substantial enough to stay soft and chewy inside rather than becoming thin pieces of toast.

18. Crisp before serving

If you’re eating the focaccia later — and particularly the following morning — crisp the soldiers in a hot oven until:

• the outside and cut edges are crisp

• the middle is warm, soft and chewy

You’re reheating and crisping, not drying them out.

19. Boil the eggs

Allow 1 egg per person.

Soft-boil them so the whites are set but the yolks remain properly runny (I do 6.5 mins on a hard boil - me and my dad have had countless bordering on aggressive debates about how long to soft boil an egg).

Transfer to egg cups, crack the tops, season with black pepper if you like, and serve immediately with the warm focaccia soldiers.

Dip and reap the rewards of waiting.

Method (method without photos)

The night before

1. Mix the dough

Put the flour and cold water into a large bowl.

Mix with your hand until there are no dry patches of flour.

It will be very wet, sticky and rather unpromising-looking. This is correct. Do not add more flour.

Cover the bowl and leave for 20–30 minutes.

2. Add the yeast, salt, honey and oil

Add the yeast, fine sea salt, honey and 20g olive oil.

Use your hand to squeeze, fold and work everything through the dough until evenly incorporated.

It still won’t resemble a neat ball of bread dough and don’t try to make it one. (it looks more like a brain at this stage).

Cover (I used a large plastic bag loosely wrapped around the bowl - but a damp tea towel also works - nothing too airtight) and leave for 30 minutes.

3. First stretch and fold

Wet your hand first - so it doesn’t stick to the dough.

Reach underneath one edge of the dough, gently stretch it upwards until you feel some resistance, then fold it over the middle.

Turn the bowl a quarter turn and repeat.

Do this on all four sides

That’s one set of folds.

Don’t knead it and don’t keep folding indefinitely. Four sides, then stop.

Cover and leave for 30 minutes.

4. Repeat twice more

Repeat exactly the same process twice more, resting for approximately 30 minutes between each set.

That’s 3 sets of folds in total or, as I realised somewhere around the third episode of Amanda Land, roughly three episodes of Amanda Land in total.

Each time, the dough should gradually become smoother, stronger and more elastic. You may also start seeing bubbles.

After the third and final fold, cover the bowl well (with plastic bag tightly folded underneath bowl) and put it into the fridge.

Leave overnight for approximately 12–18 hours.

The next day

5. Prepare the tin

Line a roughly 33 × 20cm metal roasting tin with baking parchment.

Pour 30g olive oil over the parchment and spread it across the base and lightly up the sides.

Take the dough from the fridge and gently ease it into the tin.

Don’t try to force cold dough all the way into the corners.

Leave it alone for 20–30 minutes first.

6. Gently stretch it

Using lightly oiled fingers, gently encourage the dough towards the edges and corners.

If it goes willingly, carry on.

If it stretches and immediately springs back, stop. The gluten is telling you it isn’t ready.

Leave it another 15–20 minutes, then try again.

It should become noticeably more relaxed as it warms.

7. Leave it for its final prove

Cover the tin loosely and leave at room temperature until the dough is:

• noticeably larger and puffier

• full of visible bubbles, including some beneath the surface

• soft and aerated-looking rather than tight

• wobbly when you gently shake the tin

At around 20°C, expect roughly 2–4 hours, but this is deliberately a range.

The dough decides when it’s ready, not the clock.

A warmer room speeds things up; a cooler room slows them down.

If you suddenly need to go out for several hours, put the dough in the fridge rather than leaving a nearly proved focaccia somewhere warm. The fridge is the closest thing dough has to a pause button.

8. Heat the oven to 220°C

Give it plenty of time to preheat

Put a heavy baking sheet or roasting tray onto a low shelf while the oven preheats.

Don’t dimple the focaccia simply because you’re waiting for the oven.

Wait until the oven is properly hot.

Brine & dimple

9. Make the brine

Mix:

• 30g cold water

• 4g fine sea salt

Stir until the salt has dissolved.

10. Pour over the brine

Once the focaccia is fully proved and the oven is ready, pour the brine evenly over the surface, along with 15g of olive oil.

Don’t panic.

It will look wet.

It’s supposed to.

11. Dimple properly

Oil both hands.

Spread your fingers naturally and use the four fingers of each hand — eight fingers in total.

Hold your fingers vertically over the dough.

Push all eight fingertips straight down, firmly and almost to the bottom of the tin with conviction.

Then lift them straight back out.

Move your hands to the next undimpled area and repeat:

For this size focaccia, aim for around 4–5 deliberate two-handed presses across the surface — approximately 32–40 deep dimples.

You’re not repeatedly stabbing the same areas.

Press. Lift. Move. Press.

The dough will lose a little height where you press it. That’s normal. Don’t deliberately flatten the rest of it.

And don’t pop all the bubbles you’ve spent a day creating.

Small and medium bubbles stay.

If you have one enormous balloon-like bubble threatening to become a separate loaf, gently pop that one.

Then get the focaccia into the oven.

Bake

12. Bake until properly golden

Put the focaccia tin directly onto the hot preheated tray. It gives the bottom an immediate hit of heat and helps it crisp before the top becomes too dark.

AGA: Use the roasting oven, positioning the tin where it receives good heat underneath. If your AGA already gives the tin strong bottom heat, you don’t need the additional preheated baking sheet.

Bake at 220°C conventional for approximately 20–25 minutes.

You’re looking for a deep golden-brown top, not pale blond bread.

AGA: Bake in the roasting oven and begin checking at around 15–18 minutes. Move the tin if necessary if the top is colouring considerably faster than the bottom.

13. Check the bottom too

The top doesn’t get the final vote.

Carefully lift an edge of the focaccia and look underneath.

The base should be golden, cooked and crisp, not pale, wet or sitting in oil.

If the top is beautifully done but the underside still feels soft, remove the focaccia completely from the tin and parchment and put it directly onto the oven rack for another few minutes.

Check frequently. We want to crisp it, not bake it for a second time.

Finish

14. Make the garlic & parsley oil

While the focaccia bakes, mix:

• 2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

• 1 small garlic clove, very finely grated or crushed

• a small handful of finely chopped flat-leaf parsley

Don’t add salt.

There’s already salt in both the dough and brine.

15. Brush — don’t pour

As soon as the focaccia comes out of the oven, lightly brush the garlic and parsley oil over the hot crust.

You may not need all of it.

The idea is to lightly gloss the hot bread, not saturate it with another layer of oil.

16. Get it out of the tin

Don’t leave the focaccia sitting in its hot tin.

Lift it out, remove the parchment and transfer it immediately to a wire rack to cool.

Air needs to circulate underneath it; otherwise the steam escaping from the bread gets trapped against the base and your crisp bottom becomes soft again.

Allow it to cool before cutting.

Make the soldiers

17. Cut

Once the focaccia has cooled enough to cut cleanly, slice it into thick soldiers.

For eggs and soldiers, you want them substantial enough to stay soft and chewy inside rather than becoming thin pieces of toast.

18. Crisp before serving

If you’re eating the focaccia later — and particularly the following morning — crisp the soldiers in a hot oven until:

• the outside and cut edges are crisp

• the middle is warm, soft and chewy

You’re reheating and crisping, not drying them out.

19. Boil the eggs

Allow 1 egg per person.

Soft-boil them so the whites are set but the yolks remain properly runny (I do 6.5 mins on a hard boil - me and my dad have had countless bordering on aggressive debates about how long to soft boil an egg).

Transfer to egg cups, crack the tops, season with black pepper if you like, and serve immediately with the warm focaccia soldiers.

Dip and reap the rewards of waiting.

There are foods that transport you to a place, and then there are foods invented because you need to get to one.

Read more

Nothing prepares you for how much of early parenthood is spent standing beside mundane municipal climbing equipment.

Before I had children, parks were places I crossed on the way to somewhere else. After my first son was born nine years ago, they became destinations, social clubs, emergency energy-burning facilities and, on particularly long afternoons, open-air prisons.

The playgrounds themselves were often desperately uninspiring: a few tired swings, a rusty climbing frame and a bench positioned just beyond any useful line of sight, making sitting down impossible.

But it was the food that really tested me.

Park cafés appeared to follow a peculiar business model: take a captive audience of exhausted parents, serve them weak coffee and a plastic-wrapped sandwich, and assume nobody would have the strength to complain. They were usually right.

This was a time when I could expect to visit a playground every day, sometimes twice a day. I loved being with my son, but sadly, love does not make a sad little panini taste any better. I wanted him to have somewhere brilliant to play—and I wanted a lunch that didn’t make me regret being hungry.

Fortunately, we moved near a great little local park, Hilly Fields, where the café understood the assignment. It served good soup in winter, hot potatoes in their jackets, little BLT baguettes and a good cup of coffee. Nothing cheffy; nothing trying to reinvent lunch. Just simple food, done well.

That café changed the way I planned our days. I began judging parks by two equally important criteria: the quality of the playground and the likelihood of finding something decent to eat nearby. A magnificent slide could compensate for an average flat white, but only up to a point.

Over the years, we found Peckham Rye, with its brilliant playground and The Round café; Crystal Palace Park, with its dinosaurs and the fabulous Brown & Green—their Sri Lankan dhal later inspired my own version, published here on the Substack; and, more recently, Sylva in Folkestone Gardens, serving the sort of food that would once have been unimaginable beside a set of swings.

The park-food landscape has changed considerably since those early years, helped along by people such as Emmy of Bablands, who has performed the vital public service of establishing which London playgrounds are worth crossing the city for.

But one park has always remained my favourite.

Beckenham Place Park ticks every box: woodland, enormous stretches of open ground, two great playgrounds, a wild-swimming lake, and tracks for bikes, scooters and whichever wheeled object your child insisted on bringing before immediately asking you to carry it.

What was once a golf course is now one of those rare London parks where you can arrive in the morning and still be there hours later—not because you have lost the will to leave, but because there is genuinely nowhere else you need to be.

Although, if I’m honest, what first drew me there was lunch.

The Homestead Café sits in the courtyard of a beautifully restored Georgian stable block, overlooking the gardens and down towards the lake. It is almost always busy, yet from a relatively small kitchen it manages to produce the sort of food most cafés fail to get right and any decent restaurant would be happy to serve.

It would be easy for Homestead to rely on geography. You are already in the park. Your children are hungry, you have forgotten half the picnic and nobody has the emotional reserves to walk elsewhere. They could serve almost anything.

But they don’t.

The people behind Homestead are lovely, and they care deeply about the food. More than that, they understand that a park café isn’t merely an amenity: for parents, it can genuinely change the shape of a difficult day.

Early parenthood—and the park life that comes with it—contains an extraordinary number of small breaking points. A missed nap. A lost shoe (on occasion, briefly, a lost child). A wrestle in the sandpit. A tantrum over ice cream before lunch. A refusal to leave the swings despite having spent the previous hour demanding to go home.

On those days, a properly made coffee and something genuinely good to eat can feel less like lunch and more like an intervention.

I have always found a bland meal faintly depressing. I don’t believe every lunch needs to be revelatory, but food can be simple and inexpensive while still being properly seasoned, thoughtfully made and worth looking forward to. Convenience and quality are not opposing ideas.

Homestead understands this, but it also understands something bigger: food gives people a reason to gather and, crucially, to stay.

The courtyard has hosted children’s events, rap and breakdancing workshops, summer discos, beer festivals, circuses and carnivals. On any given day, it functions as café, meeting place, village square and refuge for parents who have reached the outer limits of their enthusiasm for pushing a swing.

For years, our regular order was the bacon-and-egg brioche: a soft bun, thick smoked bacon cooked properly crisp, a fried egg and grilled tomato. Four things, all doing exactly what they were supposed to do.

The pizzas were another staple—homemade dough, blistered edges and toppings chosen by people who understood that a children’s playground nearby was no reason to abandon ’nduja, chilli or truffle oil.

Then came the fish burger.

A thick piece of pollock, hot and flaky beneath a properly crisp coating, piled into a soft bun with shredded lettuce, sharp pickled red onion and plenty of tartare sauce. It was crunchy, creamy, salty and acidic—messy, yet structurally sound enough to eat with both hands while watching a child disappear towards the climbing frame.

It proved the point Homestead had been making all along: park food can be convenient without tasting like somebody has given up. More importantly, it serves a purpose—and a very important one at that.

Feed tired parents and they will come.

Feed them properly and they will stay.

Feed them exceptionally well and they will return.

Some of us will even cross London for you.

And others will go home and recreate your dishes.

Crispy Cod Milk Bun

with Dill tartare, quick-pickled red onion & Little Gem

The first version of this sandwich was surprisingly close to the one I wanted. The cod was juicy, the lemon panko stayed beautifully crisp and the tartare had exactly the right balance of richness and freshness. The real testing came afterwards.

I tried different breads, wondering whether a sturdier brioche would better support such a generous piece of fish. But every time I came back to the Japanese milk buns. They’re softer, lighter and less sweet than most brioche buns, and although they make for a gloriously messy sandwich, they also make it taste better. Sometimes the technically “perfect” option isn’t actually the most delicious.

The only real changes were small but important: seasoning every layer of the coating, using far more of the quick-pickled onion than I first thought, and toasting the bottom bun a little longer so it better held the filling. They’re the sort of tweaks that don’t sound significant on paper but transform the finished sandwich.

Category: Weekend

Serves: 2

Prep: 35 minutes (including brining & pickling)

Cook time: 10 minutes

Calories: Approx. 600 kcal per sandwich

Why These Steps Matter:

• Don’t skip the brine. Twenty minutes is enough to season the cod throughout and keep it beautifully juicy.

• Season every layer. The flour, egg and panko should all be seasoned—it’s a small detail that makes a big difference.

• Use more onion than you think. The generous pile of quick-pickled red onion is what balances the richness of the fish and tartare.

• Toast the bottom bun a little longer. It helps support the filling without losing the softness that makes the milk buns so good.

• Use kewpie mayo if you can. It has a richer, eggier flavour and a subtle savoury depth that works particularly well with fried fish. Mixing it with a little Greek yogurt keeps the tartare light without sacrificing richness, so you get all the flavour with less mayonnaise.

Ingredients

Fish

• 2 thick cod loin (or pollock) fillets (150g each)

• 500ml cold water

• 25g fine sea salt

• 10g caster or granulated sugar

Lemon Panko Coating

• 40g plain flour

• 1 large egg, beaten

• 60g panko breadcrumbs

• Finely grated zest of ½ lemon

• ½ tsp fine sea salt

• Freshly ground black pepper

Dill Tartare

• 60g Kewpie mayonnaise

• 40g full-fat Greek yogurt

• 1 tbsp cornichons, finely chopped

• 1 tsp capers, finely chopped

• ½ tsp Dijon mustard

• Finely grated zest of ½ lemon

• 1 tbsp dill, finely chopped

• Black pepper

Quick-Pickled Red Onion

• ½ medium red onion, very thinly sliced

• 40ml red wine vinegar

• 40ml water

• 1 tsp sugar

• Pinch of fine sea salt

Salad

• ½ Little Gem, finely shredded

• Small handful dill fronds

• Squeeze of lemon juice

• Pinch of flaky sea salt

To Finish

• 2 Japanese Style Milk Buns (M&S do these)

• 10g butter

• Neutral oil for frying

Method

(Method without photos below)

• Brine the cod

Mix the water, salt and sugar until dissolved. Submerge the cod for 20 minutes in the fridge, then remove and pat completely dry.

• Pickle the onion

Heat the vinegar, water, sugar and salt until the sugar dissolves. Pour over the sliced onion and leave for 30–45 minutes.

• Make the tartare

Mix together the mayonnaise, yogurt, cornichons, capers, Dijon, lemon zest, dill and a few grinds of black pepper. Chill until needed.

• Prepare the salad

Toss the shredded Little Gem with the dill, a squeeze of lemon juice and a pinch of flaky sea salt.

• Crumb the cod

Season the flour generously with salt and pepper.

Season the beaten egg with a pinch of salt and pepper.

Mix the panko with the lemon zest, ½ tsp fine sea salt and several grinds of black pepper.

Coat each fillet in flour, then egg, then the seasoned panko, pressing the crumbs firmly onto the fish.

• Fry

Heat approximately 1cm of neutral oil in a frying pan over a medium-high heat.

Cook for 3–4 minutes per side until deeply golden and crisp.

Drain on a wire rack for 2 minutes and season immediately with flaky sea salt.

• Toast the buns

Butter the cut sides and toast in a frying pan until lightly golden, giving the bottom bun an extra 30 seconds to help support the filling.

• Assemble

Spread 1 tablespoon of tartare over the bottom bun.

Top with the shredded Little Gem.

Add the crispy cod.

Pile generously with the quick-pickled red onion — more than you think you’ll need.

Finish with another spoonful of tartare before adding the top bun.

Serve immediately while the fish is still crisp and the bun is warm and soft.

Method (without photos)

• 1. Brine the cod

Mix the water, salt and sugar until dissolved. Submerge the cod for 20 minutes in the fridge, then remove and pat completely dry.

2. Pickle the onion

Heat the vinegar, water, sugar and salt until the sugar dissolves. Pour over the sliced onion and leave for 30–45 minutes.

3. Make the tartare

Mix together the mayonnaise, yogurt, cornichons, capers, Dijon, lemon zest, dill and a few grinds of black pepper. Chill until needed.

4. Prepare the salad

Toss the shredded Little Gem with the dill, a squeeze of lemon juice and a pinch of flaky sea salt.

5. Crumb the cod

Season the flour generously with salt and pepper.

Season the beaten egg with a pinch of salt and pepper.

Mix the panko with the lemon zest, ½ tsp fine sea salt and several grinds of black pepper.

Coat each fillet in flour, then egg, then the seasoned panko, pressing the crumbs firmly onto the fish.

6. Fry

Heat approximately 1cm of neutral oil in a frying pan over a medium-high heat.

Cook for 3–4 minutes per side until deeply golden and crisp.

Drain on a wire rack for 2 minutes and season immediately with flaky sea salt.

7. Toast the buns

Butter the cut sides and toast in a frying pan until lightly golden, giving the bottom bun an extra 30 seconds to help support the filling.

Assemble

Spread 1 tablespoon of tartare over the bottom bun.

Top with the shredded Little Gem.

Add the crispy cod.

Pile generously with the quick-pickled red onion — more than you think you’ll need.

Finish with another spoonful of tartare before adding the top bun.

Serve immediately.

The first time I ate yakisoba wasn’t in Japan, but halfway down a red run in the French Alps.

We’ve skied as a family every year since I was two years old and have been returning to the same resort ever since. I actually got married there (even the man who runs the local ski hire shop came to our wedding!), so it’s a place that’s woven into some of my happiest memories.

And, if I’m being completely honest, I ski to eat.

My routes are planned around the best mountain restaurants. Long lunches after freezing mornings on sketchy slopes, numb hands slowly coming back to life by the fire, the sweet relief of unbuckling your ski boots and tables laden with every comforting carbohydrate imaginable.

There’s something about mountain food. A bit like how everything tastes better by the sea, food somehow tastes even better in the mountains. That first sip of cold beer after a scorching day on the beach is akin to that first mouthful of vin chaud warming you from the inside out after hours in the snow.

Oozy raclette scraped over potatoes, tartiflette rich with cream and Reblochon, steak frites, wood-fired pizzas, onion soup with that glorious ribbon of melted cheese stretching from bowl to mouth without ever breaking, enormous bowls of pasta and the occasional mammoth mountain burger with a knife straight through the middle to hold it all together. Best of all, you’ve earned every mouthful. After hours skiing in sub-zero temperatures, your body craves warmth, comfort and enough fuel to send you back out into the snow.

After almost forty years of eating classic French mountain food, a few years ago we accidentally stumbled across something completely different.

Hidden just off what the locals insist is really a black run masquerading as a red was a tiny Japanese restaurant that was almost impossible to spot unless you knew it was there. You had to schuss straight past it on the way home, so most people never even realised it existed.

Inside was everything you could possibly want after a morning on the slopes: warm timber walls, an enormous roaring fire, a giant antler shaped chandelier, a slightly frisky dog (who took a liking to our legs) snoozing in the corner and an open kitchen sending out bowl after bowl of ramen, noodles and hot bowls of steaming edamame. Ice-cold Japanese beer on tap and picture-postcard views of the snowy peaks beyond the huge glass windows.

As much as I adore traditional mountain food, eating raclette and tartiflette every day eventually catches up with you and your waistline. And this meal somehow hit exactly the same spot as those traditional mountain meals - warming, deeply comforting and satisfying after a day in the cold , but with a freshness and brightness that my body had quietly started craving.

Yakisoba itself has surprisingly humble origins. Despite its name, it’s made with wheat noodles rather than buckwheat soba and became hugely popular in post-war Japan as an affordable street food, made from inexpensive, readily available ingredients. I love dishes like that. Time and again, some of the very best recipes begin with making the most of what you have.

When I was developing my own version, I wanted something indulgent enough for a Friday night with an ice-cold beer, but balanced enough that we’d happily make it every other week. The vegetables can change depending on what’s in the fridge, but the sauce is the part that really matters. It has to be unmistakably yakisoba: savoury, slightly sweet and glossy.

But what really makes this dish sing are the Japanese condiments — and, for me, they’re non-negotiable.

A drizzle of Kewpie mayonnaise, bonito flakes dancing on the hot noodles, bright pink pickled ginger, nutty sesame seeds and that unmistakable dusting of green aonori transform it from a good bowl of noodles into something genuinely special. Japanese mayonnaise in particular has become a permanent resident in our fridge and somehow finds its way into sandwiches, salads and countless weeknight dinners.

This has quickly become one of those recipes we make on repeat. Usually on a Friday evening, cold beer in hand, when we’re craving something hearty. And every single time, it transports me back to that tiny Japanese restaurant hidden in the mountains — a little piece of the Alps we brought home with us.

YAKI SOBA RECIPE

Category: Weekday
Serves: 2
Prep time: 10 minutes
Cook time: 15 minutes
Calories: Approx. 600 kcal per serving

My Recipe Notes:

• Chicken breast, not thigh. Traditional yakisoba often uses thigh (or pork), but I wanted a lighter version. A quick soy, water and cornflour marinade keeps the breast moist and juicy without adding extra calories (I actually preferred this version to the thigh).

• A lighter sauce won. I tested richer, sweeter versions with more oyster sauce and darker sugars, but they masked the freshness I loved in the Alps. This version is savoury, glossy and balanced enough to eat every week.

• Don’t skip the toppings. Japanese mayonnaise, pickled ginger, bonito flakes and aonori aren’t just garnishes—they’re what make the whole dish taste like proper yakisoba.

Ingredients

Chicken Marinade

• 320g chicken breast, cut into bite size chunks

• 1 tsp soy sauce

• 1 tsp water

• ½ tsp cornflour

Stir-fry

• 280g yakisoba noodles

• 165g peeled raw king prawns

• 2 tsp neutral oil

• 1 large onion thinly sliced

• 1 large red pepper thinly sliced

• 150g white cabbage, finely shredded

• 100g bean sprouts

• 2 garlic cloves, finely minced

• 1 tsp fresh ginger, finely minced

Yakisoba Sauce

• 2½ tbsp Worcestershire sauce

• 1 tbsp soy sauce

• 1 tbsp oyster sauce

• 1 tbsp ketchup

• 1½ tsp caster sugar

• 3 tbsp water

Toppings

• 20g Japanese mayonnaise

• 20g pickled ginger

• 5g bonito flakes

• 1 tsp aonori

• 1 tsp toasted sesame seeds

Method

(Method without photos at the bottom)

• Combine the chicken with the marinade ingredients. Leave to marinate for 20 mins while you prepare the remaining ingredients.

• Mix together all of the sauce ingredients and set aside.

• Heat 1 tsp oil in a large frying pan or wok over a high heat. Cook the chicken until just cooked through with a little caramelisation, around 2 minutes per side.

  Remove and set aside.

• In the same pan, cook the prawns for 2 minutes until pink with a little colour. Remove and set aside with the chicken.

  

• Add the remaining teaspoon of oil to the same pan. Fry the garlic and ginger for around 10 seconds before adding the onion. Cook for 3-5 minutes until softened with a little colour.

• Add the red pepper and cook for a further 2 minutes before stirring through the cabbage and cooking for another 2 minutes.

  (key for the veg is quick cook, high heat and a light char)

• Add the noodles to the pan and leave them undisturbed for 30 seconds to lightly before tossing everything together.

• Return the chicken and prawns to the pan, add the bean sprouts and pour over the yaki soba sauce. Toss over a high heat for 1–2 minutes until everything is glossy and evenly coated.

  

• Divide between two bowls and finish with toppings.

Method (without photos)

• Combine the chicken with the marinade ingredients. Leave to marinate for 20 mins while you prepare the remaining ingredients.

• Mix together all of the sauce ingredients and set aside.

• Heat 1 tsp oil in a large frying pan or wok over a high heat. Cook the chicken until just cooked through with a little caramelisation, around 2 minutes per side.

  Remove and set aside.

• In the same pan, cook the prawns for 2 minutes until pink with a little colour. Remove and set aside with the chicken.

• Add the remaining teaspoon of oil to the same pan. Fry the garlic and ginger for around 10 seconds before adding the onion. Cook for 3-5 minutes until softened with a little colour.

• Add the red pepper and cook for a further 2 minutes before stirring through the cabbage and cooking for another 2 minutes.

  (key for the veg is quick cook, high heat and a light char)

• Add the noodles to the pan and leave them undisturbed for 30 seconds to lightly before tossing everything together.

• Return the chicken and prawns to the pan, add the bean sprouts and pour over the yaki soba sauce. Toss over a high heat for 1–2 minutes until everything is glossy and evenly coated.

• Divide between two bowls and finish with toppings.

Generally I don’t eat breakfast (very naughty of me I know).

It’s always been my least favourite meal of the day. I think mainly because mornings are usually such a rush trying to get three kids ready and out the door, I rarely have the time to spend on breakfast that I’d like.

I tend to survive on a coffee and a cereal bar on the go just to tide me over,…

Read more

I’m a big fan of complex food and bold flavours. I find cooking therapeutic, and I love recipes that ask you to slow down and enjoy the process. Some of the recipes I’ve developed have ingredient lists as long as my arm.

But this recipe reminded me that complexity doesn’t always come from adding more.

Nothing is technically difficult. Nothing is particularly expensive (although I do recommend investing in the best quality cheese you can for this one). Just a handful of simple ingredients that, when treated with a little care, become something that tastes far more complex than you’d ever expect.

It’s little more than good sourdough, goat’s curd and aged goat’s cheese, black grapes and a handful of toasted hazelnuts.

But with a little thought, they turn from something good into something exceptional.

Roasting the grapes with sherry vinegar gently concentrates their sweetness while creating just enough sticky, tangy juices to soak into the toast. Using two different goat’s cheeses gives the dish both freshness and depth – the curd light and tangy, the Perrigon rich, savoury and almost nutty. Toasted hazelnuts add crunch, while fresh thyme and pink peppercorns bring freshness and a gentle floral warmth. Finally, a tiny drizzle of Aleppo hot honey adds just enough sweetness and gentle heat to tie everything together without ever overpowering the dish.

Not every recipe needs another ingredient.

Sometimes it’s just about knowing where to stop.

RECIPE

Roasted Black Grapes, Goat’s Curd & Perrigon on Charred Sourdough

with thyme, pink peppercorns and hot honey

Sweet roasted grapes, tangy goat’s curd, savoury aged goat’s cheese and toasted hazelnuts on charred sourdough, finished with sherry vinegar, pink peppercorns and Aleppo hot honey. A simple lunch with unexpectedly complex flavours.

Serves 1

Approx. 550 kcals

Weekday Almanac Recipe

Prep: 10 minutes
Cook: 20–25 minutes

INGREDIENTS

• 75g Jason’s Great White Sourdough (1 large slice)

• 60g Goat’s Curd (Neals Yard do a great one)

• 25g Perrigon goat’s cheese (or a good quality soft goat’s cheese)

• 100g black seedless grapes

• 10g hazelnuts, roughly chopped

• ½ tsp olive oil

• 1 tsp sherry vinegar

• 1 small sprig thyme

• 1 tsp fresh thyme leaves

• ½ tsp pink peppercorns, lightly crushed

• Flaky sea salt and freshly ground black pepper

Aleppo Hot Honey

• 1 tsp honey

• Pinch of Aleppo pepper (or chilli flakes)

Serve with (optional)

Serve with a handful of watercress dressed in little olive oil, lemon and salt

METHOD

(full method without photos at the bottom)

• Toss the grapes with the olive oil and a pinch of flaky sea salt.

• Roast for 12–15 minutes at 200°C fan

• Add the sherry vinegar and thyme sprig, then return to the oven for a further 5 minutes, until a few grapes have burst, most still hold their shape and there’s a small amount of sticky syrup in the dish.

• Remove the thyme sprig.

• Toast the hazelnuts in a dry frying pan for 2–3 minutes, until lightly golden and fragrant.

• Warm the honey in a frying pan on a low heat with a pinch of Aleppo pepper and set aside.

• Toast or grill the sourdough until deeply golden with lightly charred edges.

• Mix the goat’s curd with roughly one-third of the Perrigon and a few twists of black pepper.

• Spread generously over the warm toast.

• Spoon over the roasted grapes, followed by all of the sticky grape and juices.

• Scatter over the remaining Perrigon and the toasted hazelnuts.

• Finish with the fresh thyme leaves, crushed pink peppercorns, a pinch of flaky sea salt and a final grind of black pepper.

• Drizzle over the Aleppo hot honey.

• Serve immediately with a salad on the side.

METHOD

(without photos)

• Toss the grapes with the olive oil and a pinch of flaky sea salt.

• Roast for 12–15 minutes at 200°C fan

• Add the sherry vinegar and thyme sprig, then return to the oven for a further 5 minutes, until a few grapes have burst, most still hold their shape and there’s a small amount of sticky syrup in the dish.

• Remove the thyme sprig.

• Toast the hazelnuts in a dry frying pan for 2–3 minutes, until lightly golden and fragrant.

• Warm the honey in a frying pan on a low heat with a pinch of Aleppo pepper and set aside.

• Toast or grill the sourdough until deeply golden with lightly charred edges.

• Mix the goat’s curd with roughly one-third of the Perrigon and a few twists of black pepper.

• Spread generously over the warm toast.

• Spoon over the roasted grapes, followed by all of the sticky grape and juices.

• Scatter over the remaining Perrigon and the toasted hazelnuts.

• Finish with the fresh thyme leaves, crushed pink peppercorns, a pinch of flaky sea salt and a final grind of black pepper.

• Drizzle over the Aleppo hot honey.

• Serve immediately with a salad on the side.

I’ve realised I have a filthy little habit.

I’ll eat something wonderful in a café or restaurant and, instead of simply enjoying it like a normal person, I’ll come home and spend the next few weeks trying to work out how it was made.

Not because I want to copy it.

In fact, I don’t think that’s possible.

Restaurants have different kitchens, different equipment and chefs who have cooked the same dish hundreds, sometimes thousands, of times.

What interests me isn’t replication.

It’s translation.

I’ve realised that’s become my philosophy in the kitchen.

I don’t consume food passively.

I deconstruct.

Then I rebuild.

I’ve often wondered why I’m like this.

I think it comes down to curiosity.

I’m rarely satisfied knowing that something works.

I want to understand why.

Most people leave a great meal talking about the service, the wine or the atmosphere.

I leave wondering why the yoghurt was there.

Why the lime felt essential rather than decorative.

Why one dish stays with me while another disappears from memory before I’ve even paid the bill.

The Sri Lankan dhal I ate at Brown & Green in Crystal Palace Park became my latest victim.

I’d ordered it expecting a comforting bowl of lentils.

What arrived was something altogether more interesting.

It was colourful, vibrant and unexpectedly light.

Most surprisingly of all, it changed the way I thought about dhal.

I’d always filed dhal under winter food. The sort of thing eaten on dark evenings from deep bowls.

This version belonged to a different season entirely.

It felt like summer.

I came home with no recipe.

Just a few photographs, a notebook full of questions and a healthy dose of curiosity.

Over the following weeks I cooked, tasted and adjusted.

More water softened the spice.

Less paprika let everything else shine.

Frying curry leaves with mustard seeds transformed the flavour.

The naan took a fair few frustrating attempts.

There was sticky dough. Additional flour. Several negotiations with the Aga. At one point I became convinced I was making wallpaper paste rather than bread.

Eventually, however, peace was restored and naan was produced.

By the end, what fascinated me most wasn’t the recipe itself.

It was the process.

The tasting.

The tweaking.

The adapting.

The gradual shift from trying to recreate a dish to trying to understand why it stayed with me.

And perhaps that’s why I enjoy this so much.

Not because I’m trying to reproduce restaurant food at home.

But because every dish teaches me something.

Sometimes the recipes here will begin with a memorable meal I’ve eaten somewhere else.

Sometimes they’ll start entirely from scratch.

But they’ll all be built in the same way: with curiosity, a willingness to experiment and a determination to understand why something works, not just how to make it.

The dhal that follows is what happened when I pulled apart a meal I loved and put it back together again.

Different.

Familiar.

Entirely my own.

And in this case, I’m very glad the dhal turned out to be worth the obsession.

SRI LANKAN DAHL WITH HERB SALAD, PAPRIKA OIL, GARLIC & CORIANDER NAAN

A recipe that proves Dahl isn’t just for winter. Earthy red lentils topped with cooling yoghurt, fresh herby salad, zingy lime, fragrant curry leaves, mustard seeds and a paprika oil for some gentle heat, creating a bowl that’s both comforting and surprisingly fresh. Served with warm garlic naan (which nearly beat me), plenty of extra lime and a generous handful of herbs.

Serves 2

Approx. 450 kcals (750 kcals with naan)

NOTE: If you want to make the naan to go with this - it needs 2-4 hours to prove so make it ahead of time (recipe at the

Weekday Recipe (Weekend if making naan)

Prep: 15 minutes

Cook: 35–40 minutes

INGREDIENTS

Dahl

• 120g red lentils rinsed

• 2 large tomatoes, chopped

• ½ small onion, finely diced

• 800ml water

• 80–100ml light coconut milk

• 2 tsp olive oil

• 2 garlic cloves, minced

• 2 tsp grated ginger

• 2 tsp Sri Lankan curry powder

• 1 tsp turmeric

• Salt

• Juice of 1 lime

Temper

• 1 tsp olive oil

• 1–2 tsp mustard seeds

• 1 small pack fresh curry leaves (15–20 leaves)

Paprika Oil

• 1½ tsp olive oil

• ½ tsp paprika

• Tiny pinch smoked paprika

Herb Salad

• Small handful of coriander, mint, dill chives

• 1/2 lime juice, salt

To Serve

• 2 tbsp natural yoghurt (1 tbsp per person)

• Lime wedges

• Sliced red and green chillis

METHOD

• Heat 2 tsp olive oil in a saucepan. Add onion and cook until soft and translucent (not browned).

• Add garlic and ginger and cook for 30 seconds.

• Add lentils, tomatoes, turmeric, curry powder, water and a pinch of salt and simmer gently for 15–20 minutes until the lentils are soft and beginning to break down.

• Stir in coconut milk and simmer gently for 3–5 minutes.

Note: Your looking for thick and spoonable (not liquidy).

(At this point Cool and refrigerate overnight if making ahead of serving and just reheat the next day with a splash of water)

Make the temper

• Heat 1 tsp olive oil in a small frying pan.

• Add mustard seeds.

• Once they start popping, add the curry leaves.

• Cook for 20–30 seconds until fragrant.

• Stir everything into the dhal.

Make the herb salad

• Remove herbs from stems - roughly chop into sizeable pieces and toss with a squeeze of lime and pinch of salt.

Make the paprika oil

• Warm the oil gently in a pan and stir in the paprika.

Serve

• Add lime juice to the dhal and adjust seasoning if needed.

• Spoon Dahl into bowls.

• Add a dollop of natural yoghurt.

• Drizzle lightly with paprika oil.

• Finish with the herb pile.

GARLIC AND CORIANDER NAAN

Serves 2

Ingredients

Dough

• 150g strong white bread flour

• ¾ tsp instant yeast

• ½ tsp sugar

• ½ tsp fine sea salt

• 30g natural yoghurt

• 1 tsp olive oil

• 80–85ml warm water

Garlic & Coriander Finish

• 10g unsalted butter, melted

• 2 garlic cloves, finely grated

• Pinch of sea salt

• Large handful fresh coriander, finely chopped

Method

Make the dough

• Mix together the flour, yeast, sugar and salt.

• Add the yoghurt, olive oil and 70ml of the warm water, mixing until a soft dough forms. Only add the remaining splash of water if needed.

• Knead for 6–8 minutes until smooth and elastic.

• Transfer to a lightly oiled bowl, cover with a damp tea towel and leave somewhere warm (next to an Aga works well) for 2 - 4 hours.

Shape

• Divide into two equal pieces.

• Using your fingertips, gently flatten each piece into a round roughly 15–18cm across, keeping the centre around 1cm thick

  (Avoid using a rolling pin if possible—you want to preserve as much air in the dough as you can)

• Leave to rest for 10–15 minutes.

Make topping

• Mix together the garlic, melted butter, coriander and salt and add a tablespoon of warm water

Cook

• Heat a heavy frying pan or cast-iron skillet until very hot.

• Cook the first naan for around 2 minutes, until the underside is blistered and bubbles begin to appear across the surface.

• Flip, cover the pan for 20–30 seconds to trap the steam and encourage puffing, then uncover and continue cooking until golden with charred spots.

• Repeat with the second naan.

Finish

• Brush garlic and coriander mix generously over the hot naan as soon as they come out of the pan.

As I started writing this, I assumed there wasn’t much to say beyond where the recipe comes from. But as I sat with it, I realised this wasn’t really about cookies at all. It’s about a place, the people behind it, and the way certain recipes carry far more than just flavour.

This recipe comes from Browns of Brockley, a local café we used to visit almost every day when we lived in London.

They had the best coffee, and over the years we got to know the manager. We’d often bump into him at Monmouth Coffee on a Saturday morning which was our weekly family meet up, and we always found it funny that he was buying coffee from somewhere else rather than drinking his own.

But that was exactly the point.

He went to the best because he wanted his café to be the best. He was constantly learning, observing, testing and improving. Browns started with exceptional coffee and sold Little Bread Pedlar croissants before eventually making their own—and, in my opinion, their croissants became some of the best in London.

He championed local businesses, hosted incredible pop-ups with guest chefs, opened a brilliant craft beer bar and even campaigned to pedestrianise the area in front of the café so that families could enjoy it without the constant flow of traffic.

And every time we went in with the kids, he’d quietly hand them a cookie. It became part of the ritual. They’d barely made it through the door before they were checking whether or not he was there with the goods.

But what always stood out for me wasn’t just the food or the coffee. It was the way he treated people.

I’ve become increasingly convinced that this is one of the secrets of a truly great business. The same thing always struck me about Monmouth Coffee and Neal’s Yard. They prioritise the people who work for them. Happy staff create happy customers. Very few businesses genuinely understand that, but the ones that do seem to create something that goes beyond success. They create places people genuinely want to spend time in.

Browns never had an enormous food menu. For a while they produced incredible quiches, soups and salads, but it was a huge undertaking for a small team and, despite how good they were, they eventually stopped. What remained were the staples: beautiful pastries, their famous toasted banana bread with butter, and these cookies.

Then lockdown arrived.

Like everyone else, we suddenly lost all of those little rituals that punctuated daily life. We couldn’t pop out for coffee. We couldn’t meet friends. We couldn’t sit in our favourite café. And yet people kept messaging Browns asking the same question: when are you opening again? When can we get the banana bread? When can we get the cookies?

Eventually, in an act of generosity that perfectly captured the spirit of the place, the owner shared the recipes so people could make them at home.

While the rest of the country was discovering banana bread, we were busy making the best version of it.

And cookies.

Hundreds of cookies.

What I remember most isn’t the recipe itself.

It’s the feeling.

The smell of them baking. My kids waiting impatiently for them to cool. Eating them still warm from the oven. For a moment, it felt like a tiny piece of normality had returned. Like we were sitting in Browns again, even though we were stuck at home.

I remember when my husband and I were living in Bermondsey and had saved up for what I think was our first Michelin-starred restaurant experience. We were so excited. We’d heard incredible things and had been looking forward to it for months.

And yet the only thing either of us remembers is the chef screaming at his staff.

He spent what felt like twenty minutes berating everyone in the kitchen. The atmosphere changed instantly. It completely ruined the evening.

I’m sure the food was technically excellent, but that’s not what stayed with us.

We never went back.

The older I get, the more I realise that the food itself is only part of the story.

The recipes I’ve carried with me through life aren’t just the ones that tasted the best. They’re the ones attached to places that felt good to be in. Places run by people I admired. Places where care extended beyond the plate.

I think we don’t just consume food; we consume culture. The values of a place become part of the experience, and over time they become part of our memories.

That’s why a simple cookie recipe can end up carrying a whole story about community, integrity, ambition and kindness. It’s why some dishes stay with us long after we’ve forgotten exactly what they tasted like.

I don’t know what the moral of the story is…

…but I do know it’s a good one.

CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES

Inspired by Browns of Brockley

Makes 13 large cookies

There are certain foods that seem to belong to childhood and, for me, cookies are right at the top of the list.

The smell of them baking, the warm chocolate, the slightly undercooked middle that you’re not supposed to eat but always do anyway. Even as an adult, there’s something about a good cookie that feels instantly nostalgic.

They somehow manage to encapsulate childhood in a way very few things do.

The original recipe comes from Browns of Brockley, but I’ve made it so many times that it now exists mostly in my memory. I’ve tweaked it here and there over the years, but every time I eat one, it takes me straight back to sitting outside the café, watching my children as toddlers playing in the street with cookie-covered faces.

The dark chocolate does most of the heavy lifting, while the salt keeps everything in balance.

And perhaps that’s the highest compliment I can give a recipe: years later, it still tastes exactly like the memory.

Ingredients

• 400g of mixed sugars (dark brown, light brown and white - I do 200 dark, 100 light, 100 white)

• 250g unsalted butter

• 2 Eggs

• 150g Dark Chocolate

• 500g Plain Flour

• ½ tspn baking powder

• ½ tspn Bicarbonate of Soda

• Small pinch of flaky sea salt

Method

• Mix butter and sugar together until combined.

• Add eggs and mix.

• Chop 100g dark chocolate into chunks and mix in.

• Sift the flour, baking powder, bicarbonate of soda and salt into the mix and combine to form a smooth dough.

• Chill in the fridge for half an hour and then roll into 13 balls (100g each ball).

• Freeze the balls of dough for around 20 mins until they are nice and cold.

• Place the dough on a baking tray lined with baking paper - make sure to space them out as they spread a lot - I do mine on 2 trays.

• Bake in the oven on 200°c for 7 minutes - then take them out of the oven and gently press down the centres a little (which would have domed).

• Add the remaining chunks of chocolate on top and put back in the oven for 3-5 minutes until the chocolate has just melted depending on how you like your cookies (3 mins for more doughy and 5 for more crunchy).

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This is such a comforting dish but, best of all, it’s restorative. You can almost feel your body being nourished as you eat it. The flavours are inspired by traditional Tuscan cooking, where cavolo nero has long been a staple ingredient in humble dishes such as ribollita, a hearty peasant soup made from whatever was growing in the garden.

It’s simple, quick and inexpensive to make, which is why it’s become a weekday staple in our house. We call it Popeye Pasta at home, which somehow always persuades the boys to eat their greens.

This is one of the dishes I return to whenever I need a reset. After a holiday, when I’m ill, during my period, or when I’m running on empty (which, with three feral boys, is often), it’s usually the first thing I crave.

There are more exciting recipes in my repertoire, but few I make as often as this one. For the past five years, this green pasta has fuelled countless afternoons of root touch-ups, hair trims and kitchen catch-ups with my best friend Rachel, who’s a hairdresser and a vegan.

It ticks all the boxes: plant-based (just omit the cheese), quick (it takes ten minutes) and restorative (we’re both anaemic).

Over the years we’ve experimented with different additions — peas, basil, different cheeses — but this version seems to be the one we keep coming back to.

Cavolo nero can be quite earthy and mineral in flavour (my dad can’t stand it), but it’s packed with nutrients. To balance those stronger notes, I add spinach, which softens the balance and adds an extra dose of greens. Lemon zest and juice lift the whole dish, bringing freshness and zing whilst cutting through the richness of the sauce and making the greens sing.

It combines so many of the things our bodies crave when we’re depleted and it manages to be comforting and restorative in equal measure.

GREEN PASTA for Rachel

Serves 2

Approx. 535 kcals

Ingredients

• 180g Spaghetti

• 4 cloves garlic peeled

• 80g spinach

• 200g cavolo nero (leaves trimmed and stalks discarded)

• 30g finely grated Parmasan (omit for Rachel)

• Zest and Juice of ½ lemon

• Ricotta to serve

Method

• Bring pan of salted water to boil

• Add spaghetti (time 5 mins)

• When timer goes off add garlic cloves and cavolo to pan (time another 5 mins)

• Meanwhile add spinach, parmasan, lemon zest and juice, good pinch of salt & pepper to a blender.

• When timer goes off - using tongs pull cavalo and garlic out of pan and add to blender (adding some reserved pasta water to loosen) and blitz.

• Drain pasta and return to pan, along with green sauce (adding more pasta water if necessary) - you’re looking for sauce to be silky, smooth and cling to spaghetti.

• Serve with a few dollops of ricotta and an extra flurry of parmasan.

Enjoy :)

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The word “chutney” comes from the Hindi word “chatni”, which means “to lick”—a reference to something so delicious you’d want to lick it from your fingers.

My mum is Hindu and at family lunches an abundance of pickles would always be served at the start of the meal with samosas and chaats - lime, mango, coconut, tamarind. But my favourite by far was always the green chutney - which is a combination of coriander, mint, green chillis and lime and a little sugar.

Then a few years ago we discovered the ultimate green chutney at our favourite brunch place in Rye - The Fig, which they serve on their dishes to wake them up.

So I’ve created a version which is not quite as spicy and sweet as the Indian chutney, but super tangy and refreshing like the one we have at The Fig - basically like a garden which has been bottled and pickled.

Rye has to be one of my favourite places in the UK — not only because it has a stunning sandy beach and is only an hour from London, but because it’s also a complete foodie haven.

Whenever you drive down, there’s something about the tree-lined roads and tall sandy dunes that creates a kind of dappled light that feels unique to Rye. I think it’s why so many artists end up there — everything feels softly filtered, almost ethereal.

We first visited many moons ago after my parents read about an old 1960s roadside motel just steps from the beach that had been transformed into a beautiful boutique hotel with incredible food: The Gallivant. We booked an impromptu stay, completely fell for the place, and have returned every year since.

The refurbishment was done so thoughtfully and, after chatting to the owner, we discovered the architects had designed several other remarkable spaces in the area — which, as someone mildly obsessed with great food mixed with great architecture, immediately sent me down a rabbit hole.

Tillinham Winery has to be one of the coolest patchwork buildings l've ever come across: a mash-up of timber, glass, and raw concrete - a building that somehow looks as though it's been turned inside out.

Tillingham knock out charred and blistered pizzas topped with beautiful flavour combinations, served alongside salad from the garden, addictive aioli, and glasses of slightly wincy young pét-nat — all cooked in their stunning outdoor Dutch barn amongst the vines. It’s the kind of place that makes you want to wander through the vineyard in a floaty dress, picking grapes straight from the vines, singing harvest songs with a basket under your arm.

Then there’s the famous Pink House on Camber Sands, winner of the RIBA House of the Year award — a building so surreal against the dunes that, for a second, you could almost believe you were in Miami rather than on the English coast.

I loved these buildings so much that I eventually tracked down the architects and asked them to design me a house… which they did. Paying to actually build it, however, is another matter.

Every year we find ourselves pulled back to the same places: Tillingham, The Gallivant, and long walks past the Pink House at dusk. But not before stopping at a hidden gem tucked on the corner of Rye High Street: The Fig.

It’s tiny and understated, serving breakfast and brunch with a sort of impossible-to-pin-down international influence — Mediterranean, Middle Eastern, vaguely Asian, slightly European — somehow all at once.

They serve up incredible shakshuka, tacos, and endless variations on eggs, but so many of the dishes arrive covered in this gorgeous green chutney: vibrant, fresh, punchy, and completely addictive.

Every time we visit, we try to work out what’s in it. I’ve tested countless versions over the years, and this is the closest I’ve managed to get.

GREEN CHUTNEY (Inspired by The Fig, Rye)

Makes approx. 8 servings

Green chutney is one of the oldest lessons in seasonal cooking: take what is fresh, abundant and fleeting, mix it together, and enjoy it before the season turns.

Tangy, sharp, herbaceous, garlicky, and slightly tangy, it works with almost everything — eggs, fish, meat, grilled vegetables — basically any simple dish that needs waking up.

I use it so often now that I make huge batches and freeze it in small portions so I can defrost a spoonful whenever I need it.

Super quick. Super simple. Whizzed up in minutes.

Ingredients

50g chives

50g basil

50g mint (leaves only)

50g parsley

6-8 tablespoons olive oil

3-4 tablespoons white wine vinegar

1-2 cloves garlic minced

Pinch of flaky sea salt

Method

Simply blitz everything together in a food processor.

You want this to have a chutney like consistency - so not super runny, thick enough to dollop.

Enjoy :)

In folklore the first thing brown bears eat when they come out of hibernation is wild garlic - if ever there is more of a sign that spring has sprung - it’s the whiff of this beautiful allium.

The best thing about wild garlic season is that you can smell it before you can see it (my kids hold their noses every time we’re walking through the forests carpeted with it) and if like me you’re lucky enough to have it on your doorstep happy days - but if not you can buy in supermarkets until the season ends in June.

My father in law grows wild garlic all along the side of his garden so whenever I’m over I’ll sneak a bunch.

It’s so versatile and when it’s in season I have it with or on pretty much everything - lamb, chicken, fish, made into a butter or on scrambled eggs - but my favourite by far is with pasta.

Both of these recipes are so quick and easy and equally as delicious.

Be sure to use the flowers as well as the leaves.

NO 1: WILD GARLIC PESTO

(serves 4)

Approx. 550 kcals per person

I make pesto all the time - it’s so simple and much better fresh than shop bought.

One thing I never do is add cheese when blending - I find it takes away from the flavour and this recipe… as it rightly should…tastes overwhelmingly of wild garlic and is seriously good.

Ingredients

• 350–400g wild garlic leaves

• 20g blanched almonds

• 10g raw pine nuts

• 35g parmesan, finely grated

• 40ml extra virgin olive oil

• Zest of 2 lemons (juice of 1–1½ lemons)

• 1½ tsp flaky sea salt and pepper

Topping

• 40g roasted pistachios, roughly chopped

• Parmesan

Serve with

• 360g dried spaghetti

Method

• Toast the nuts in a dry frying pan until lightly golden

• Blanch wild garlic in boiling water for 5 And then transfer immediately to iced water (this keeps the colour vivid and takes the edge off the raw garlic flavour slightly) and squeeze until very dry

• Blend the wild garlic, nuts, lemon zest, juice, salt and pepped together in a food processor

• Cook spaghetti ensuring you keep some pasta water reserved.

• Add your pesto and a little pasta water until you get a silky, glossy sauce which clings to the spaghetti.

• Top with Parmasan and pistachios

NO 2: WILD GARLIC SPAGHETTI WITH ANCHOVY AND TOASTED LEMONY BREADCRUMBS (Serves 4)

Approx. 550 kcals per person

“But it really doesn’t taste fishy” …. to all those anchovy haters …. and it really doesn’t! They just add a deeper flavour and the addition of the toasted lemony breadcrumbs at the end peps up the dish and adds the much needed crunch in place of nuts.

It’s still a homage to wild garlic but a bit more subtle - it’s a really lovely dish for a light supper with a cold glass of white.

Ingredients

• 360g dried spaghetti

• 200g wild garlic (leaves roughly chopped + stalks finely chopped)

• 4 tsp olive oil

• 40g butter

• 4 - 6 anchovies

• 60g finely grated parmesan

• 2 ½ small lemons zest (plus juice of 2)

• ½ - 1 tsp white wine vinegar

• 20g bread

• Salt and Pepper

Method

• Blitz torn up bread in a food processor into breadcrumbs and toast in a dry frying pan until crisp and golden

• Mix in a bowl with a ½ a lemon zest and a pinch of flaky salt

• Get spaghetti on the boil

• Heat olive oil and butter on a low/medium
  and heat until golden and nutty

• Add anchovies until melted

• Add wild garlic stalks for a minute

• Add wild garlic leaves for 30 secs until just wilted

• Add a pasta with a splash of pasta water and toss until coated until silky and glossy.

• Remove from heat and add Parmasan, lemon zest and juice and vinegar and toss again.

• Top with breadcrumbs