inheritance recipes

Inheritance recipe: wild garlic pesto

An occasional series in which I pass on recipes that have been important for our family. They’re mainly for my children, Miriam, Finn and Benjamin, but I like to think other people might stumble across them and enjoy them too.

garlicky stream

Wherever you go and whatever becomes of you three, I hope that you will always be within foraging distance of a patch of wild garlic. Then I will know that you must be near to trees, possibly in ancient woodland, and with luck some running water too.

bend

with anenomes

The wild garlic in ‘our’ woods has been up for about ten days now. It’s one of the heralds of spring round here, part of an overture to the growing season that begins with lesser celandine in March, continues with the garlic and wood anemones. and segues into inky splashes of bluebells all across the banks of the stream.

greens

You can track the progress of spring just by the garlicky smell. This morning I caught a faint tang just before I turned onto the path; soon the entire valley will reek of it. The trees are mostly bare still, but the valley floor is thick with the garlic, along with celandine and wood anemone. While I was picking the leaves I could hear wrens, robins and a nuthatch. A great spotted woodpecker was drumming in the distance.

bud1

I’ve always called the plant wild garlic, but ‘ramsons’ is at least as common a name. It’s also known as stinking nanny and Londoner’s lilies. According to Richard Mabey’s extraordinary book Flora Britannica (you need a copy of this), the Old English root of ‘ramsons’ is hrmsa, a word that crops up in a slew of place names: Ramsey Island, Ramsbottom, Ramsholt, Ramshorn and more.

In a few weeks the woods will be brimming with its starry white flowers. By then, though, it will be too late to forage as once the flowers are out, the leaves become tough and bitter. See if you can get out and find some now, and then try this wild garlic pesto recipe which your dad and I are having on wild (but not foraged) salmon tonight.

Walnut and wild garlic pesto
Traditionally, you make pesto with pine nuts but they are expensive so I decided to use walnuts instead. What follows is adapted from a Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall recipe here. I’ve probably already told you: if I could only have one cookbook it would be Hugh’s River Cottage Veg Every Day.

ingredients

You will need:

  • About three large handfuls of wild garlic – around 75g
  • 50g walnuts (without shells, obviously)
  • 35g hard, mature cheese. Parmesan is the obvious choice; I used a hard goat cheese; a salty, grainy Pecorino would also be good, or you could use a vegan substitute
  • Zest and juice of half a lemon
  • About 120ml extra virgin olive oil

Put the walnuts in a baking tin and roast at 180 degrees for about eight minutes. Use a timer: they will go from toasty brown to blackened cinder in seconds. Leave to cool.

Wash and dry the wild garlic thoroughly (chances are you’ve picked it somewhere muddy), chop it roughly and throw it in a food processor. A liquidiser would probably work too.  Add the cooled nuts, the finely grated cheese and the lemon zest. Blitz to a paste.

processor

Leave the processor running, add the lemon juice and then the oil in a steady stream. The pesto will be quite sloppy but it firms up a bit in the fridge.

finished pesto

The end result is DayGlo bright with a big, gutsy flavour that explodes in your mouth. It can be a bit throat-catching when you first taste it, but it calms down once it’s incorporated with other ingredients in a meal. You could always add a handful of (preferably flat-leaf) parsley to take the edge off.

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INHERITANCE RECIPES: FRUIT CRUMBLE

An occasional series in which I pass on recipes that have been important for our family. They’re mainly for my children, Miriam, Finn and Benjamin, but I like to think other people might stumble across them and enjoy them too.

smear

Ask me to remember your grandfather looking happy and I will tell you about crumble. If he knew it was on the menu, a little smile would play around his mouth all through the meal. The astonishing thing is that Ben does exactly the same thing: it’s funny how mannerisms can be inherited as well as looks.

Your grandmother is the doyenne of crumble making. Until very recently you would always find one in her kitchen, the buttery crust crumbling slowly and gently into a base of fruit she had often grown herself.

You can all argue about which one is best: it’s certainly what she and I were doing after Grandpa’s funeral (you will understand it was inevitable the conversation would turn to his favourite pudding). Your great uncle James said plum crumble is better than all the others; Grandma voted for apple, and I was torn between apple and blackberry, and rhubarb.

Since Ben continues to be disappointingly averse to rhubarb, I offer you the former but it’s only a guide: you can use whatever fruit you want. Possibly it’s the only pudding recipe you ever need.

Try and be precise about the quantities for the topping; for the fruit, just use what you’ve got and add however much sugar feels right. It’s hard to be more exact than that but I suppose if you want measurements, you could aim for about 450g of fruit and 30-50g of sugar, depending on how sharp the fruit is.

This is important: don’t muck around with the topping. Recipe books will try and make you add oats or ground almonds or goodness knows what else, but all you need is flour, butter and sugar. The only variation I’ve ever found helpful is sometimes swopping half the white flour for wholemeal: it gives a nice nutty flavour.

There’s just about time to pick some blackberries now, but be quick – they’ll be over in a matter of days.

Oh, and sorry about the imperial measurements. It wouldn’t feel like Grandma’s recipe if I converted it, but you can of course.

peel

APPLE AND BLACKBERRY CRUMBLE

Topping
10 ounces plain flour
5 ounces butter
4 ounces soft brown sugar

Filling
2-3 large Bramley apples
Several handfuls of blackberries
Demerara sugar

Method
Peel the apples, slice them thickly and put them in a sink full of water to stop them going brown.

Rub the butter into the flour, or whizz in a food processor

Stir in the sugar.

Now put the fruit into an ovenproof dish. Here’s a funny thing about your Grandma: she always made us dry the apples in a tea towel and then add two tablespoons of water once they were in the dish. You will probably see immediately that there is no need to dry the apples if you are going to add water to them. It took me years to spot this.

Now stir in some Demerara sugar and imagine your grandmother saying, as she did every time: ‘I like using Demerara because of the crunch.’

Pile the crumble over the fruit, smooth it out a bit with the back of a spoon, and cook at 180 degrees for 35-40 minutes. You want juices to be just bubbling over the top.

We always had it with single cream but a thick blanket of custard is pretty good too.

For my children: clementine cake

A long time ago I had an idea that when our children left home I would give them a recipe book with all their favourite meals in. Like many parenting resolutions, that one didn’t work out too well (I lost heart when the few I had written up fell victim to a computer that erased my hard drive.)

Still, better late than never but this time I’ll write them out here, away from bolshy hard drives and in a place where others might enjoy them too. It’ll be an occasional series of ‘inheritance recipes’, those meals that became a regular feature of our life together while we were all growing up and that perhaps they will want to pass on to their families in the future.

The first is the one that always says to me that Christmas has arrived in our home. The kitchen fills with warm, citrusy aromas that gradually waft up the stairs, heightening the sense of anticipation as the Big Day gets nearer.

It’s Nigella Lawson’s clementine cake and I’ve been making it every year for more than a decade. Like many of our family’s favourite recipes, it comes from her first cookbook How to Eat. Published before Lawson was regularly on television, the book is full of dishes that you want to make again and again, and that actually work in the context of your everyday life.

I regret the one-dimensional portrayal of Lawson that has developed since she became a TV star. I actually bought How to Eat all those years ago because I was intrigued to find out what kind of recipes a Booker prize judge would write (she was on the panel in 1998).

I wasn’t disappointed. I love the way this book is written. It’s intelligent but down to earth, competent but not threateningly so. The language is as enjoyable as the food. ‘Purple-sprouting broccoli is avoided by those who think that good food has to be fancy,’ she writes. ‘Clearly they don’t deserve it.’

Of a baked custard she says: ‘When you eat it, it should be just warm, soft and voluptuous, like an eighteenth-century courtesan’s inner thigh; you don’t want something bouncy and jellied.’ I do wonder whether this one sentence sowed the seeds for the way most people seem to think of her now, but in context it is a brilliant description that conveys exactly what the cook should be aiming for.

Like a lot of Lawson’s recipes, the clementine cake is expensive both in terms of the ingredients and the length of cooking time. Foodbanks and hunger have, rightly, been in the news almost daily for the past week and I hesitated before I cooked it this year.

But to my mind some occasional feasting is an important part of what it means to be human and in the end I decided that something that is so resonant for our family, not to mention delicious and easy, should continue to be part of the way we celebrate Christmas.

So here goes, kids: inheritance recipe #1

Nigella Lawson’s Clementine Cake
From How To Eat (Chatto and Windus, 1999)

4-5 clementines (about 375g weight in total)
6 eggs
225g sugar
250g ground almonds
1 heaped teaspoon baking powder

Boil the clementines in plenty of water for two hours. (Put the lid on the pan: the year that I didn’t, it boiled dry and I spent a couple of hours on Christmas Eve trying to remove caramelised clementine from the base of a very expensive pan your great-uncle Lyn gave us as a wedding present.)

Drain and, when cool, cut each clementine in half and remove the pips. Pulp the whole lot, including the skins and pith, in a food processor. (Apparently you can do this by hand but get a food processor if you can afford it: it’s the one kitchen gadget I wouldn’t be without.)

Preheat the oven to gas mark 5/190 degrees C. Butter and line a 21cm Springform tin.

Beat the eggs, then add sugar, almonds and baking powder. Mix well, adding the pulped oranges. Here’s a good Nigella sentence: ‘I don’t like using the processor for this, and frankly, you can’t baulk at a little light stirring.’ Hear, hear.

Pour the cake mixture into the prepared tin and bake for an hour. A skewer should come out clean. After about 40 minutes, rest a piece of foil or greaseproof paper on the top of the tin or the cake may burn. Cool in the tin.

clementine cake