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The plight of continental veal calves is enough to turn anyone’s stomach, but not all veal is raised inhumanely. Buy British rose veal and you can enjoy this splendid meat with a clear conscience

Few things raise the hackles of thoughtful eaters quite like veal – unless it’s veal with a side order of foie gras. Bleak images of calves in cramped crates or being herded on to lorries linger in the memory. And they should – as a reminder of the worst excesses of indifference to animal welfare, they take some beating. But today I’m unashamedly putting on my rose-tinted spectacles and flying the flag for British rose veal. To be honest, if you drink milk or eat cheese, it’s crueller not to eat it.

Spare a thought for male dairy calves. Over a quarter of a million of them are killed each year. Unable to produce milk (obviously) and unsuitable for beef production, they are shot soon after birth as a “waste product” of the dairy industry. Either that or they’re exported to Europe, where the continental craving for pale meat means their welfare is profoundly compromised.

In the past few years, there’s been a growing interest in high-welfare rose veal in this country, and I for one am glad of it. Calves live in small groups, with deep straw bedding and access to a varied diet that leads to their distinctive pink meat; in free-range or organic production, they’re also given access to outdoor grazing. The animals are killed at around six months old, roughly the same age as most pigs or sheep slaughtered for pork and lamb.

Veal’s most well-known outing is probably in the form of the classic Italian dish osso buco. The tender, slow-cooked meat and marrow of the shin are often enlivened with gremolata, that perky combination of garlic, fresh herbs and lemon zest that brings out the flavour and cuts through the richness of the meat.

In fact, this combination is a great addition to many veal dishes, from today’s kebabs to veal burgers or meatballs (mixed in some minced pork to keep them succulent). Veal marries well with piquant flavours and rich, buttery, creamy sauces. It’s very good in slowly simmered stews, and I also like it quickly cooked in the form of escalopes lightly dusted in seasoned flour and speedily fried. If I’m feeling extravagant, I’ll lay some slices of prosciutto and sage leaves over the escalopes, attach them with cocktail sticks and fry, before deglazing the pan with marsala or white wine for a tasty saltimbocca.

So when you buy veal or order it in a restaurant, make sure it’s British rose veal. Ask for it at the butcher’s or farmers’ market, look for it in Marks & Spencer and Waitrose, who stock it in some larger stores, or try Bocaddon Farm, which produces welfare-friendly veal in Cornwall, or Drumachloy Farm on the Isle of Bute; both offer a mail-order service to most parts of the country.

Slow-cooked veal shoulder

Based on a Marcella Hazan recipe for the classic Italian way of cooking a rolled shoulder, this makes a great, easy Sunday lunch with potatoes and wilted greens. Serves six.

4 garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 sprig rosemary, leaves picked and finely chopped
Zest of 1 lemon
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1.2kg boned shoulder of rose veal
1 knob butter
2 tbsp olive oil
240ml white wine
12 small shallots, unpeeled
50ml double cream
1 handful parsley leaves, chopped

In a bowl, mix the garlic, rosemary and lemon zest, and season. Unroll the shoulder (if rolled) and spread the inside with the herby mixture. Roll it back up, tie with kitchen string in three places and season.

In a heavy-bottomed casserole, melt the butter and olive oil over a medium-high heat and brown the meat on all sides. Remove the veal and deglaze the pan with the wine, scraping up any brown bits, then add about 150ml water. Return the meat to the pan, placing the shallots around it. Turn down the heat so the wine is barely simmering and cook very gently, partially covered, for an hour and a half to two hours, turning from time to time, until the meat feels very tender when prodded with a fork. Keep an eye on it and add a splash of water if it begins to look dry.

Lift out the meat and shallots. Squeeze the shallots out of their skins, chop roughly and return to the pot. Bring to a simmer and reduce to thicken. Add the cream, season and simmer for a minute or two. Remove from the heat and stir in the parsley. Serve the veal cut into thick slices with sauce spooned over the top.

Veal chops with lemon and capers

This makes an easy, tasty lunch served with a crisp, green salad and some crusty bread to mop up the juices. Serves four.

4 tbsp olive oil
Juice and finely grated zest of 1 lemon
2 tbsp finely chopped thyme leaves
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
4 rose veal chops
6 unpeeled garlic cloves, bashed
2 bay leaves
150ml white wine
1½ tbsp capers, rinsed
3 tbsp double cream or crème fraîche

In an ovenproof dish large enough to hold all the chops in a single layer, whisk together three tablespoons of olive oil, the lemon zest, half the lemon juice, the thyme and a few grinds of black pepper. Add the chops, garlic and bay, and turn over in the marinade. Cover and leave to marinate for a couple of hours.

Heat the oven to 220C/425F/gas mark 7. Lift the chops from the dish (reserve the marinade), pat dry on kitchen paper and warm the remaining oil in a frying pan over a medium-high heat. Season the chops and fry on both sides for a minute or two, until browned, then place them back in the marinade dish. Deglaze the pan with the wine, scraping up any browned bits, and pour the wine from the pan and the remaining lemon juice into the oven dish. Give everything a stir and cook, uncovered, in the oven for 20 minutes, basting halfway through.

Place the chops on a warm plate. Put the oven dish on the hob (if it’s not suitable for the stove top, tip the juices into a small pan) over medium-low heat, stir in the capers and cream, adjust the seasoning and simmer gently for a minute or two. Spoon sauce over the chops and serve.

Veal kebabs

Veal is great on the barbecue, especially when tenderised for a few hours beforehand in a yoghurt marinade. Serves six to eight.

For the kebabs
1kg rose veal topside, trimmed of sinew and chopped into roughly 4cm cubes
50ml olive oil (plus a little more for brushing the potatoes)
50ml rapeseed oil
6 tbsp whole-milk yoghurt
4 tbsp finely chopped mint
2 tbsp finely chopped oregano
2 tbsp finely chopped parsley
2 fat garlic cloves, minced
Finely grated zest of 1 small orange
Finely grated zest of 1 lemon
Juice of ½ lemon
½ tsp freshly ground black pepper
About 400g new potatoes
Salt
A handful of bay leaves (optional)

For the dressing
1 handful oregano leaves, finely chopped
1 small bunch chives, finely chopped
About 1 tbsp finely chopped thyme leaves
Juice and finely grated zest of 1 lemon
Olive or rapeseed oil
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

To make the marinade, whisk together the oils and yoghurt, then stir in the herbs, garlic, orange and lemon zest, lemon juice and pepper. Add the meat and marinate for four to six hours.

While the meat marinates, soak six to eight wooden skewers in cold water (this stops them burning on the barbecue). Boil the potatoes in plenty of salted water until just tender, drain and set aside. Next, make the dressing. Combine the herbs and lemon zest in a bowl. Measure the lemon juice, then add it, too. Add three times as much oil as you have lemon juice, and season well with salt and pepper.

Thread the marinated meat on to the skewers, alternating a piece of meat with a new potato and a bay leaf, if you are using them. Brush the potatoes with oil, then lay the skewers on a hot barbecue (or very hot ridged griddle pan) and cook, turning regularly and seasoning from time to time with a pinch of salt, for six to eight minutes, or until cooked through. Trickle a little of the herb dressing over the kebabs. Sprinkle with sumac, if you like, and serve with flatbreads or pittas, a green salad, lemon wedges and the remaining dressing in a small jug.

• Learn new skills on River Cottage’s four-day cookery courses; go to rivercottage.net for full details.

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Yes, it’s a great pick-me-up when you’re feeling run-down, but it’s a fabulous cooking ingredient, too

These days it’s rare to walk more than a few metres along a city street without seeing at least a few bleary-eyed souls clinging to artfully logo’d paper cups as though their lives, or at least the transition from bed to office, depended upon it. Coffee – historically that favourite of priests and poets, painters and revolutionaries, mystics, students and, well, anyone who wants to squeeze a little more juice out of the day – has come a long way from being chewed raw to perk up tired goatherds on African highlands. Today, I sweeten it with syrups and tart it up with whipped cream like some kind of fuel-injected sundae – it seems a rather tame and undignified fate for the drink Talleyrand described as, “Black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel, sweet as love.”

The earliest recorded mention of coffee is in the work of Rhazes, a 10th-century Arab physician, though it may have been cultivated even earlier than that. Legend has it that Kaldi, an Ethiopian goatherd, noticed his charges were particularly lively after chewing on the cherry-red berries. He tried them himself and took them to a local monastery, where the monks found the fruit allowed them to continue their devotional duties through the night. Whether or not that legend is true, by the end of the 15th century coffee was intensively cultivated in Yemen, using plants from Ethiopia. Its name comes from the Arabic qahhwat al-bun, meaning wine of the bean – and its popularity in the Arab world is, perhaps, due to its enlivening properties among those forbidden alcohol by the Qur’an. By the 16th century, it had spread from Turkey to Italy, brought by Venetian traders. Its arrival wasn’t universally appreciated, as some fervent Catholics considered it a “bitter invention of Satan”, their animosity salved only when the pope gave it his approval.

By the mid-17th century, the first coffee shops opened in England, and within 20 years they were joined by 3,000 more. These “penny universities” or “seminaries of sedition”, depending on your point of view, were centres of rational thought, discourse and subversion. We’ve used the dark stuff ever since to sharpen our wits, brighten our hangovers and plough through deadlines.

My personal reverence for coffee and, frankly, fear of its effects mean I drink it only very occasionally, my favourite being at the end of a gluttonous and alcoholic lunch, when I’ll have a double espresso with half a sugar lump. Then I absolutely love it. But I also revere coffee as an ingredient, and love to cook with it.

Like salt with meat, coffee makes chocolate taste more of itself (see today’s biscotti) and gives sweet treats such as coffee and walnut cake or tiramisu a more complex, adult and alluring flavour. It also makes the best ice-cream in the world. Yes, better even than chocolate.

For today’s cake recipe, I suggest freshly brewed espresso, but you can improvise. If you don’t have a machine (I don’t), buy a takeaway cup from your favourite cafe, or just make up a very strong brew in a cafetiere. Failing that, use instant. But whether you brew, buy or just add water, and whether you choose Guatemalan, Ugandan, Costa Rican, Colombian or Ethiopian for your morning cup or baking, do choose Fairtrade coffee whenever you can – fairtrade.org.uk lists many different brands and stockists.

Coffee ice-cream

This is lovely just as it is, or with a trickle of chocolate sauce. If you’re a coffee fiend, make an affogato with an extra kick by pouring an espresso over a couple of scoops. Serves six.

50g coffee beans (or coarsely ground coffee)
500ml whole milk
6 egg yolks
60g caster sugar
60g light muscovado sugar
300ml double cream
1 tsp vanilla extract

Grind the coffee beans quite coarsely in a coffee grinder or spice mill – if they’re too finely ground, you can get sediment in the ice-cream, which spoils its texture. Warm the milk with the coffee grounds in a small saucepan until bubbles appear around the edge of the pan, remove from the heat and leave to infuse for 30 minutes. Strain through a sieve lined with a double layer of muslin into a clean pan and keep warm.

In a heatproof bowl (one large enough to fit over one of your pans), whisk together the egg yolks and sugars until thick and creamy. Stir in the warm, coffee-infused milk. Place the bowl over a pan of barely simmering water, making sure that the base or sides of the bowl don’t touch the water. Stir until the coffee custard thickens enough to coat the back of a spoon. Strain through a sieve into a clean bowl, stir in the cream and vanilla, and leave to cool completely. Churn in an ice-cream maker, scrape into a plastic tub and freeze for at least three hours before serving.

Coffee poppy seed cake

If it’s hard to get espresso, dissolve a tablespoon and a half of instant coffee in a tablespoon of hot water, or brew some very strong coffee in a cafetiere. Makes one 22cm cake.

100g poppy seeds
80g sour cream
150g butter, softened, plus a little more for greasing the tin
150g plain flour
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
½ tsp ground cinnamon
Pinch of salt
250g caster sugar
3 eggs
1 tsp vanilla essence
40ml espresso

For the icing
50ml espresso
125g icing sugar, sifted

Soak the poppy seeds in the sour cream for two hours or overnight.

Heat the oven to 170C/325F/gas mark 3. Lightly butter a loose-bottomed 22cm cake tin, line the base with baking parchment and butter the paper. Sift together the flour, baking powder, bicarbonate of soda, cinnamon and salt.

In another bowl, cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition (add a spoonful of flour if it looks as if it might separate). Mix in the vanilla and coffee. Fold in the flour, alternating with the sour cream and poppy seeds, mixing until just combined. Do not overbeat.

Spoon into the tin, smooth the top with a spatula and bake for 35-40 minutes, until a toothpick comes out clean. Leave to cool in the tin for a few minutes, then turn out on to a rack to cool completely.

To make the glaze, beat together the espresso and icing sugar until smooth, and pour over the cake.

Coffee, hazelnut and chocolate biscotti

Great with coffee at the end of a meal – or anytime, really. They keep very well in an airtight tin for a week or so. Makes about 34 biscuits.

80g hazelnuts
300g plain flour, plus a little more for dusting
200g dark chocolate, chopped
3 tbsp ground coffee
3 tbsp cocoa
1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
½ tsp salt
2 eggs
2 egg whites, separated
180g caster sugar, or vanilla sugar
2 tbsp demerara sugar

Heat the oven to 180C/350F/gas mark 4. Put the hazelnuts on a tray and bake until just turning golden, about eight minutes – if the nuts are unblanched, give them a bit longer until the skins are slightly blackened. Remove, and leave the oven on. Wrap the nuts in a clean tea towel, leave for a minute or two, then rub vigorously to remove the skins.

In a food processor, blitz the flour, half the chocolate, coffee, cocoa, bicarb and salt until very fine and well combined. Tip into a bowl and add the remaining chocolate and nuts.

In another bowl, whisk the whole eggs, one egg white and the caster sugar until very light and creamy. Fold the egg and sugar mix into the dry ingredients and stir to combine. Turn out on to a lightly floured surface and knead gently for a minute or so, until you have a soft dough. Divide the dough into quarters and roll each piece into 20cm sausages. Line two baking trays with parchment and place the sausages on the trays – leave space between them because they’ll spread when cooking. Press them gently to flatten them a bit. Lightly beat the remaining egg white and brush over the sausages. Sprinkle with the demerara sugar, and bake for 25-30 minutes. Remove from the oven and place on a rack until just cool enough to handle. Cut into 1.5cm-thick slices with a serrated knife, put them back on the trays and bake for eight to 10 minutes more, until dried out. Put them on a wire rack to cool completely.

• Learn new skills on River Cottage’s four-day cookery courses; go to rivercottage.net for details.

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They may not be the prettiest cuts to look at, but cooked properly, their flavour and texture is unrivalled. What’s more, they’re cheap, too

It has given me great pleasure over the past decade to see the rehabilitation of offal, not only on smart restaurant menus but, even more thrillingly, in the repertoire of home cooks. Many have thrown off squeamish timidity and embraced true nose-to-tail eating with gusto. Or even with guts.

For some, it may have started as a bit of kitchen posturing (“Admire my adventurous palate!”), but most see the sense and value of an exercise in flavourful thrift (most offal cuts are relatively inexpensive). However you arrive at offal appreciation, the variety of flavours and unique textures achieved when the body parts in question are properly cooked usually turn what may have started as an experiment into a regular treat.

Today, I’ll spare you the internal organs and instead focus on a trio that benefit from long, slow cooking. Oxtail is perhaps the least challenging, or most familiar, of the three – it’s just an unusual cut of meat on the bone – but the arrangement of linked segments, fibrous meat and gelatinous tendon transforms into a very special texture and deep flavour unmatched by any other cut.

Cheeks, too, when cooked with care, have a very special grain and yielding succulence. Pig’s cheeks are traditionally turned into Bath chaps – brined, slow-cooked until tender and served as a cold cut – but today’s recipe uses fresh cheeks, which are becoming a more regular feature at good butchers’ and farmers’ markets.

And so to tongue (and I’d suggest ox tongue rather than calf’s, because the latter is likely to come from a veal animal raised on the continent). Brined and slowly simmered, it’s another example of a special texture – rich and almost pâté-like – that can’t be faked or imitated. I admit, a whole ox tongue looks formidable – it’s so like a giant version of the human equivalent, it forces us to confront the fact that we are, undeniably, consuming what was once a living, chewing beast. But if we can’t deal with that, should we really be eating meat at all? Put another way, if we’re going to raise animals for food, let’s treat them well and waste nothing. Especially not heads and tails.

Ox tongue with lentils and green sauce

Don’t be put off by the long list of ingredients – it’s very simple and you will have plenty of tongue left over for sandwiches and salads. Serves six.

For the brine
500g demerara or light muscovado sugar
1.5kg coarse sea salt
1 tsp black peppercorns
1 tsp juniper berries
5 cloves
4 bay leaves
1 sprig thyme

For the tongue
1 whole ox tongue
1 bouquet garni (1 bay leaf, 4 parsley stalks, 2 sprigs thyme)
1 carrot, chopped
1 onion, chopped
1 celery stick, chopped
1 leek, chopped
1 clove garlic

For the green sauce
1 large bunch flat-leaf parsley
1 large bunch mint, marjoram or basil (or a combination thereof)
1 tbsp capers, rinsed and chopped
8 anchovy fillets, finely chopped
1 small clove garlic, finely chopped
1 tbsp Dijon mustard
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tbsp white-wine vinegar
Extra-virgin olive oil

To finish
300g Puy lentils
1 bouquet garni (1 bay leaf, 4 parsley stalks, 2 thyme sprigs)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Put the brine ingredients in a large pan, add five litres of water and, over low heat, stir until the sugar and salt dissolve. Bring to a boil, bubble for a few minutes, remove from the heat to cool, then refrigerate until cold.

Put the tongue in a non-metallic container. Cover with the brine, weighting it down, if necessary, to keep it submerged, and leave in a cool place or fridge for four to five days.

Remove the tongue from the brine and soak in fresh, cold water for 24 hours, changing the water at least once more. Put the tongue in a pan with the bouquet garni, vegetables and garlic, cover with fresh water and bring to a gentle simmer. Poach very gently for two and a half to three hours, until tender and yielding. Lift out the tongue, cool and peel off the coarse outer skin.

To make the sauce, finely chop the herbs and put in a bowl with the capers, anchovies and garlic. Add the mustard, seasoning and vinegar, toss, then add enough oil to loosen the mix to a spoonable consistency.

Cook the lentils as per the packet instructions (though adding a bouquet garni to the cooking water), then dress with oil and season. When the tongue is completely cold, cut into 1 cm slices and serve with the lentils and green sauce.

Pigs’ cheeks in cider and mustard sauce

You don’t need the whole cheek for this, just the trimmed, meaty cushion part. Serves six.

2 tbsp olive or rapeseed oil
30g butter
2 onions, finely diced
1 tsp thyme leaves, coarsely chopped
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 celery stick, diced
1 garlic clove, minced
6 free range pig’s cheeks, trimmed
2 tbsp flour, seasoned
400ml cider
500ml chicken stock
1 bouquet garni (2 bay leaves, 2 parsley stalks, 2 thyme sprigs)
2 tbsp Dijon mustard
3 tbsp double cream
3-4 tbsp finely chopped parsley

In a large casserole over medium-low heat, warm a tablespoon of oil and the butter. Sauté the onion, thyme and a pinch of salt until the onion is soft and translucent, about 10 minutes. Add the celery, sauté for five minutes, add the garlic and cook for a further minute. Scrape into a bowl and set aside.

With the heat on medium-high, warm the rest of the oil in the same pan. Dust the cheeks in seasoned flour, then brown in batches and transfer to the veg bowl. Deglaze the pan with cider, scraping up any bits, then add the stock, vegetables and meat. Season, add the bouquet garni and bring to a simmer. Partially cover and cook for three hours, until the meat is very tender. Lift out the meat and keep warm. Reduce the sauce to thicken slightly, remove from the heat and stir in the mustard and cream. Return the meat to the sauce, warm gently, season to taste and add parsley. Serve with mash and wilted greens.

Oxtail and chorizo stew

This is even tastier if made a day ahead. Serve with crusty bread and a crisp, green salad. Serves six.

2kg oxtail, cut into 4-5cm slices
5-6 tbsp plain flour, well seasoned
3 tbsp olive oil
400g cooking chorizo, skinned and broken into 4cm chunks
2 onions, finely diced
4 medium carrots, peeled and quartered
1 celery stick, diced
4 garlic cloves, minced
2 tbsp tomato purée
250ml dry sherry (or white wine)
1.2 litres beef or chicken stock
3 tbsp finely chopped oregano
1 bouquet garni (3 parsley stalks, 2 thyme sprigs, 1 bay leaf and a strip of orange zest)
1 cinnamon stick
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 handful parsley leaves, chopped

Dust the oxtail pieces in seasoned flour and shake off any excess. Over a medium-high heat, warm the oil in a large, heavy-bottomed casserole. Brown the oxtail on all sides in batches – don’t overcrowd the pan; as each batch is done, transfer to a bowl. Pour off all but two tablespoons of oil, brown the chorizo pieces and, when done, add to the oxtail bowl.

Turn the heat to low. Sweat the onions until soft and translucent, about 10 minutes. Add the carrots and celery, fry gently for five minutes, stir in the garlic and tomato purée, and cook for a minute. Tip in the sherry, let it bubble away to reduce by a third, then return the meat to the pot.

Add the stock, oregano, bouquet garni and cinnamon, and season. If the liquid does not just cover the meat, top up with water. Bring to a boil, lower the heat and simmer very gently, part-covered, for three hours, stirring from time to time and topping up with a splash of water if it looks dry. To serve, skim off some of the fat, stir in the parsley and season to taste.

• Learn new skills on River Cottage’s four-day cookery courses; rivercottage.net for details.

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One family holiday was enough to leave our resident chef well and truly hooked on his very own spice odyssey

Few temptations could winkle me out of my own corner of England during a warm spring or hot summer. For one thing, the exquisite tyranny of the fruit and veg plot demands so much of my time (I give it willingly, of course). And for another, I happen to think there are few more beautiful places on earth.

Try me in January or February, though, and I’m not waving my union flag quite so enthusiastically. In fact, I’m easily lured away by the romantic notion of tropical heat. And tropical fruits (in the widest sense of the word). This winter, we spent some time in Sri Lanka doing a bit of diving, plenty of fishing and some very memorable eating.

This fertile island off the tip of India is home to some very fine foods – abundant fish, fragrant rice, spicy curries, a host of pickles, chutneys and sambals. And those fruits: mangoes, papayas, custard apples, jackfruit and the most luscious pineapples. And a dozen types of banana, including short, fat, lemony ones that I couldn’t get enough of.

Centuries of trade and colonisation have left their mark on the island’s dining tables. An important stopping-off point on the east-west trade routes, its spices such as cinnamon, cloves and pepper were highly prized bounty. In return, it’s believed the Arabs brought with them saffron, coffee and rosewater. The Portuguese – who colonised what was then Ceylon in the 16th century – introduced chillies, an ingredient for which anyone who has experienced the fierce, searing yet fragrant heat of many Sri Lankan dishes is inordinately grateful, even a little tearful.

During my time on the island, I was seduced by the variety, colour and intensely aromatic punch of the meals we enjoyed every day. My perennial, go-to flavour favourites of garlic, ginger and chilli were joined by lemon grass, turmeric, cardamom, curry leaves and fenugreek. Eye-watering heat was tempered with sweet and cooling coconut milk and freshened with lime juice.

And on the coconut milk front, I make no apology for the fact that all today’s recipes contain coconut in some form, no more than I would if I gave you three European recipes that featured chicken stock. A dash of coconut milk is used to finish so many Sri Lankan dishes, it would seem contrived to try to omit it.

So I returned home determined to reignite my passion for the spice drawer, tossing out anything that had hung around for too long and stocking up on spanking new flavours. Many of the ingredients I’m using today are widely available, but if you have a problem tracking them down, try steenbergs.co.uk for mail-order. And you can always have a go at growing your own lemon grass, coriander and chillies – they’re all easy to cultivate in containers, even if you don’t have a large garden.

So this spring I’m getting exotic with the local and the home-grown, spicing up my greens from the garden with Sri Lankan flavours, tossing them with homemade curry powder, finishing them with a dash of coconut milk and dishing them up with improvised sambals. It’s not an exercise in authenticity by any means, but by goodness it’s delicious.

Spring onions and greens with coconut milk

A quick, simple side dish that you can vary according to the seasons – it’s good now with spring onions and spring greens; later in the year, try it with leeks and kale or cabbage. Serves six.

2 tbsp groundnut oil
3 garlic cloves, peeled and sliced
2-3 bundles spring onions, trimmed and cut on a diagonal into 4cm slices
250g spring greens, shredded
1 tsp curry powder or curry paste
200ml coconut milk
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Warm the oil in a large frying pan over a medium-low heat, then sweat the garlic for a couple of minutes, being careful not to let it burn. Add the onions and sauté for a couple of minutes, then add the greens and sweat down for three minutes or so, until wilted but still slightly crunchy. Stir in the curry powder or paste, then add the coconut milk and simmer for five minutes. Season to taste and serve immediately.

Bream curry

It may seem a bit of a fiddle to make your own curry powder, but it’s easy and very satisfying. The quantities here will make more than you’ll need, but it keeps well, sealed in a jar in a cool, dark place, for a month or so. Use it in curries, certainly, but it’s also good sprinkled over vegetables such as cubed aubergines or squash before roasting. Serves six.

For the curry powder
3 tbsp desiccated coconut
1 tbsp black peppercorns
½ tbsp fenugreek seeds
2 tbsp cumin seeds
2 tbsp fennel seeds
2 tbsp coriander seeds
10 curry leaves

For the fish
400ml coconut milk
2-3 fresh green chillies, roughly chopped
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
½ small cinnamon stick
½ tsp fenugreek, soaked in water for 15-30 minutes
10-12 fresh curry leaves
1 lemon grass stalk, white part only, thinly sliced
1 small onion, peeled and grated or very finely chopped
1 tbsp Sri Lankan curry powder (or any good curry powder)
½ tsp ground turmeric
Good pinch soft light brown sugar
700g bream or gurnard fillets

To finish
Juice of a lime, a handful of coriander leaves, steamed rice

First make the curry powder. In a small frying pan, dry fry the coconut until lightly browned, then set aside. Gently dry-fry the rest of the ingredients for four minutes, until fragrant. Tip the lot into a spice grinder or clean coffee mill (clean it by grinding a few cubes of stale bread, then tipping out the crumbs), then grind into a fine powder.

Pour the coconut milk and 250ml water into a large, wide saucepan along with everything but the bream. Bring to a simmer, and cook, stirring frequently, for five minutes or so. Add the fish, gently spoon over the liquid and simmer for another five minutes, until just cooked – don’t stir or you will break up the fish; just rattle the pan gently from time to time. Remove from the heat and serve immediately with rice, lime wedges and coriander scattered over the top.

Coconut roti

These simple, tasty breads are delicious hot from the pan with curries and/or chutneys. Makes six.

300g plain flour
100g freshly grated coconut
3-4 green chillies, finely chopped
1 small onion, finely chopped
3 tbsp melted butter
1 ½ tsp salt
Butter, ghee or groundnut oil, for frying

In a large bowl, mix together the flour, coconut, chillies, onion, butter and salt until everything is well combined. Add enough water to create a slightly stiff dough – 150-180ml should be enough, then on a floured surface knead lightly and divide into six equally sized balls. Roll or pat these out into fairly thin round or oval shapes. Warm a frying pan over a medium-high heat and add a knob of butter, ghee or a splash of groundnut oil. When the fat is fairly hot, fry the roti in batches for three to four minutes a side, until golden. Serve at once.

• Learn new skills on River Cottage’s four-day cookery courses; rivercottage.net for details.

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It’s amazing how many dishes are improved by the addition of even just a little bit of salty, porky brilliance

The bacon sarnie, eh? Who doesn’t love it? A few rashers sandwiched between pillowy-soft white bread with a splash of brown sauce or ketchup is the egalitarian, always-appropriate breakfast, lunch or anytime snack of choice for everyone from builders to bishops, students to secretaries of state. Even some of my vegetarian friends sigh nostalgically at the very thought.

It’s such a shame, then, that this totemic treat, this purveyor of the porkily Proustian madeleine moment, is so often ruined by rubbish bacon. Introduce limp, insipid, Elastoplast-pink rashers to heat, and after a few minutes your frying pan resembles nothing so much as a stagnant pond of fat, salty liquid and sinister, white goo. Not very appetising, is it? I expect more of my bacon, and I suspect you do, too. And, for that, you’ve got to start with the pig.

Intensively reared pork is a profoundly miserable business. Pigs – inherently intelligent, curious and social creatures – languish in concrete misery, crammed together so tightly that their natural desire for company becomes instead a form of torture. Fighting and other abnormal behaviour is common. On top of this, the sorry creatures are pumped full of high-protein feeds, so they grow as rapidly as possible, thus reducing the time it takes to get them to slaughter.

The result is flabby, flavourless meat that is coaxed into “bacon” with a cocktail of preservatives and flavouring chemicals. When you buy cheap, imported bacon, you’re more than likely tucking into meat that wouldn’t meet the welfare standards of pork reared in this country, so at the very least I urge you to look for British pork carrying the RSPCA’s Freedom Foods logo. And if you choose free-range or organic pork, you will be supporting an even higher level of animal welfare.

And beware of misleading words on packaging. “Outdoor bred” may lead you to think of pigs happily rooting away under oak trees, but it usually means meat from pigs that, though born outside, where they are kept until weaning, are then transferred to an indoor regime of varying nastiness. And as for terms such as “country” or “traditional”, give me a break – they are meaningless. For me, it’s free-range, organic or no thanks, I’ll have the hummus.

Perhaps you’re curious about rearing your own pigs. I’ve had pigs for more than 10 years, and if you have the time and space, it’s an enormously rewarding activity. A good place to start is the Soil Association’s booklet, Pig Ignorant? A Soil Association Guide To Small Scale Pig Keeping. And if that’s too large an undertaking, why not club together with friends to buy a whole butchered, bagged and labelled pig? Numberonepig.co.uk rears rare breeds such as British saddlebacks, lops, Gloucester old spots, large blacks, and Oxford sandy and blacks. Alternatively, go to britishpigs.org to find pedigree pork from small-scale, free-range producers in your area.

And once you’ve brought home the bacon (see today’s first recipe for how to cure your own), savour every mouthful in soups, salads, pies and stews. When I’m working on a recipe and it’s not quite “there” yet, it’s astonishing how often the answer is a bit of bacon.

If you ever fancied having a go at home curing, this recipe is a great place to start. The cure intensifies the flavour of the meat and preserves it enough to keep in the fridge for up to a week. Once you’ve given this a go, you might want to try your hand at bacon belly – take about 1kg of off-the-bone pork belly, cut it into 4cm strips, and cure it in the same way, but for 48 hours rather than overnight. Rinse off the cure and use it cut into chunks or diced, to add to sauces, stews or salads. Serves four.

4 large pork chops
2 tbsp sunflower oil or groundnut oil

For the cure
50g fine sea salt
25g caster sugar or soft brown sugar
3 bay leaves, finely shredded
12-16 juniper berries, crushed
1 tsp freshly ground black pepper

Combine all the ingredients for the cure and put them in a plastic container or nonreactive dish. Add the chops and rub lightly all over with the cure. Cover and leave it in the fridge for 12 hours (or up to 24 hours for extra-large or thick-cut pork chops, but no longer). Turn the chops once or twice during this time, if you can.

Rinse the chops and pat dry. You can cook them immediately, or keep them in the fridge for five to six days – the flavour will continue to improve over time. They also freeze well.

To cook the chops, heat the oil in a large frying pan over a medium heat and fry them fairly gently for six minutes a side, until cooked through. (Alternatively, brush them lightly with the oil and grill.) Season with pepper (they’ll be salty enough from the cure) and serve with mashed potato and wilted greens.

Bacon and cabbage soup

This simple soup illustrates perfectly how even a few rashers of bacon can elevate a few simple ingredients into a highly satisfying meal. Serves four to six.

For the croutons
4 tbsps olive oil
2-3 slices slightly stale white bread, crusts cut off and cut into 2cm cubes
For the soup
1 tbsp olive oil
6-8 rashers unsmoked streaky bacon (about 250g), cut into 1cm strips
1 onion, peeled and finely diced
1 tsp thyme leaves, roughly chopped
1 bay leaf
500g floury potatoes, peeled and cut into 1.5cm dice
1 carrot, cut into 1cm dice
1 celery stick, cut into 1cm dice
2 garlic cloves, minced
1.4 litres chicken or vegetable stock
Freshly ground black pepper
A few grinds of nutmeg
About 120g cabbage or spring greens, finely shredded
3 tbsp finely chopped parsley leaves
Salt

First make the croutons. Warm the oil in a frying pan over a medium-high heat and fry the cubes of bread until golden on all sides. Drain on kitchen paper and set aside.

Now turn your attention to the soup. Warm the oil in a saucepan over a medium-high heat and cook the bacon strips until just crisp. Remove from the pan and set aside on kitchen paper to drain. Turn the heat down to medium-low, add the onion, thyme and bay leaf, and sauté gently, stirring from time to time, until the onions are very soft, about 10 minutes. Tip in the potatoes, carrot and celery, and fry gently for another five minutes. Add the garlic and fry for a further minute.

Return the bacon to the pan, pour in the stock, season with black pepper and nutmeg, bring to a simmer and cook for 10 minutes. Add the cabbage or greens, and simmer for a further five minutes, until the cabbage is tender. Stir in the parsley, taste and add salt only if necessary (the bacon may well be salty enough to season the soup). Serve with the croutons scattered on top.

Bacon and cheddar strata

A strata is a sort of savoury bread-and-butter pudding. Here, layers of cheese and bacon turn this into an easy and satisfying supper when served with a crisp, green salad. Serves six.

6 large eggs
500ml whole milk
250ml double cream
3 tbsp Dijon mustard
¼ tsp freshly grated nutmeg
2 tbsp finely chopped parsley
1 tsp salt
½ tsp black pepper
About 500g slightly stale sourdough bread, cut into 2.5cm cubes
40g butter
250g slab bacon, cut into 1cm cubes, or 250g back bacon rashers, cut into 2cm strips
3-4 leeks, white and pale green part only (about 300g), finely sliced
1 tsp fresh thyme leaves
250g baby spinach
250g cheddar, grated
In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, milk, cream, mustard, nutmeg, parsley, salt and pepper. Add the bread, stir gently and leave to soak while you get on with the rest.

Warm half the butter in a large frying pan over medium heat and sauté the bacon until it begins to crisp up. Transfer to a plate. Add the remaining butter to the pan, reduce the heat to medium-low and sauté the leeks with the thyme until the leeks are soft and translucent. Add the spinach and stir until wilted. Return the bacon to the pan and stir.

Butter a large gratin or casserole dish. Layer a third of the bread cubes in the base, top with a third of the bacon and spinach mixture, and sprinkle over a third of the cheese. Repeat this layering twice more, ending with a top layer of cheese. Pour over any custard mixture that’s left in the bowl, cover with clingfilm and leave in the fridge to soak for at least four hours and up to 24.

Half an hour before you want to start cooking, remove the strata from the fridge to bring it up to room temperature. Heat the oven to 180C/350F/gas mark 4. Bake the strata, uncovered, around 40-50 minutes, until puffed up, golden brown and cooked through. Let it stand for five minutes before serving.

Learn new skills on a four-day River Cottage cookery courses; go to rivercottage.net for details.

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Just because it’s a cake, doesn’t mean it has to be sweet – cheese, roasted veg, ham, olives and leftover meat can all be used to create a very tasty wedge indeed

You know how much I like a good cake. And if you don’t know, well, you can imagine. I mean, who doesn’t?

Trouble is, my esteemed River Cottage colleague Pam “the Cake” (formerly “the Jam”) Corbin has pretty much cornered the current market, with her lovely new book, Cakes (Bloomsbury, £14.99). It’s so jam-Pam-packed with delights that, with a hankering to share something cakey with you from my own repertoire yet running scared of the competition, I’m going to have to move into radical baking territory.

So how about savoury cakes? With not a shred of sugar? Cheese instead of chocolate, olives instead of oranges, maybe even some meat in the mix, too… And, no, this is not just me losing my cake marbles in a fit of professional jealousy. The French have been at it for a while – in posh Parisian bakeries, savoury cakes, or cakes salés are très dans le vent. Must be worth a try, I thought.

And I’m glad I did. I’ve found savoury cakes quick and easy, highly adaptable and, most important, very delicious. They are perfect for elevenses or, served with a little salad or even just a couple of raw carrots on the side, a very agreeable light lunch.

They’re also a great way of using up small amounts of leftover roast chicken, smoked fish, bacon or odd ends of cheese. You can add finely diced roasted vegetables such as beetroot, courgette or peppers, too – just stick to the proportions of flour, eggs, fat and liquid I’ve used in today’s recipes, and play with the main flavours and seasonings, depending on your mood and what you have in the cupboard. Use all-wheat flour, if you like, or, for a more substantial texture, combine flour half and half with fine cornmeal or polenta.

These cakes also work well in different sizes. Small ones, made in muffin tins or mini individual loaf tins, are great for packed lunches or picnics. And bring a larger one, made in a square or round cake tin, or in a larger loaf tin, to a table of hungry friends or family, and it’ll go as fast as any jam sponge or chocolate sandwich. It’s time to salé forth!

Ham and olive cake

Cut into thinnish slices, this makes a good nibble before dinner served with a chilled glass of sherry, cider or dry white wine. Makes one 20cm round or square cake, a loaf or about 10 mini cakes.

150ml olive oil, plus a little extra for greasing the tin
250g plain flour
2 tsp baking powder
½ tsp paprika
1 tsp picked fresh thyme leaves, finely chopped
100g parmesan, coarsely grated
180g cooked ham, roughly chopped
130g green olives, stoned and roughly chopped
½ tsp salt
½ tsp freshly ground black pepper
150g milk
4 eggs, lightly beaten

Heat the oven to 200C/400F/gas mark 6. Grease a 1.5-litre loaf tin with olive oil, line it with baking parchment and brush the parchment with more oil. (Alternatively, you can make this in muffin tins, or mini loaf tins, which simply need brushing with oil and dusting lightly with flour.)

Sift the flour, baking powder and paprika into a bowl. Stir in the thyme, parmesan, ham, olives, salt and pepper. In a jug, whisk together the oil, milk and eggs. Stir the liquid into the dry ingredients until just combined and pour the lot into the prepared tin (or tins).

Bake for 45-50 minutes, until golden and a toothpick or skewer comes out clean. (Muffin tins or smaller loaves will take 12-15 minutes.) Leave to cool in the tin for five minutes, then turn out on to a wire rack to cool completely.

Goat’s cheese with raisins and hazelnuts

As with all these cakes, you can vary the ingredients for this depending on what you have to hand. For instance, this works well with walnuts in place of the hazelnuts and with other dried fruit in place of the raisins – finely chopped dried apricots are particularly good with the goat’s cheese. Makes one 20cm round or square cake, a loaf, or about 10 mini cakes.

4 tbsp olive oil, plus a little extra for greasing
200g plain flour
1 ½ tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
½ tsp freshly ground black pepper
100g grated hard goat’s cheese (or parmesan)
2 tbsp picked flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped
3 eggs
100g plain yoghurt
150g soft goat’s cheese, roughly broken into small chunks
60g hazelnuts, toasted and roughly chopped
60g raisins or sultanas

Heat the oven to 200C/400F/gas mark 6. Grease a 1.5-litre loaf tin with olive oil, line with baking parchment and brush the parchment with oil, too. (Alternatively, you can make this in muffin tins, or mini loaf tins, which simply need brushing with oil and dusting lightly with flour.)

Sift together the flour, baking powder, salt and pepper. Whisk in the grated cheese and parsley. In a jug, whisk the eggs, yoghurt and four tablespoons of olive oil. Gently fold this into the dry ingredients until just combined, being careful not to overmix, then fold in the soft goat’s cheese, nuts and raisins.

Spoon the cake mixture into the prepared tin (or tins) and bake for 45-50 minutes, until golden and a skewer inserted into the centre comes out clean. (Muffin tins or smaller loaves take about 12-15 minutes.) Leave to cool in the tins for five minutes, then turn out on to a wire rack to cool completely.

Carrot and feta cake

By combining fine cornmeal or polenta with ordinary flour, you get a more substantial texture to the loaf that works particularly well with savoury ingredients. Makes one 20cm round or square cake, a loaf, or about 10 mini cakes.

50g butter, plus a little extra for greasing the tin
1 small onion, peeled and finely chopped
1 tsp ground cumin
100g plain flour
100g cornmeal
1 ½ tsp baking powder
½ tsp salt
½ tsp freshly ground black pepper
2 carrots (about 200g), peeled and grated
180g feta, crumbled
2 tsp dill fronds, finely chopped
3 eggs, lightly beaten
150ml milk

Warm the butter in a small frying pan over a medium-low heat and sauté the onion until soft and translucent. Add the cumin, stir for a minute, then set aside to cool.

Heat the oven to 180C/350F/gas mark 4. Butter a 1.5-litre loaf tin, or a loose-bottomed Victoria sandwich tin, and line with baking parchment. Butter the parchment, too (you can also make smaller ones in muffin tins or mini loaf tins, in which case simply butter the smaller moulds and dust with flour).

Sift together the flour, cornmeal, baking powder, salt and pepper. Stir in the cooled cooked onion, grated carrot, feta and dill. In a small bowl, whisk together the eggs and milk, then mix into the flour mixture until just combined, and pour into the prepared tin (or tins).

Bake large cakes for 40 minutes, smaller ones for 12-15 minutes, until a toothpick or skewer comes out with no crumbs attached. Leave to cool in the tin for five minutes, then turn out on to a wire rack to cool completely.

• Learn new skills on one of River Cottage’s four-day cookery courses; go to rivercottage.net for details.

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The Spanish have a winningly robust way with simple ingredients, as this squid starter, porky main and almond cake pudding show all too well

To those of us who grew up in the 1970s, our formative experiences of Spanish food were often limited to lacklustre, bastardised versions of paella or slabs of tepid, greasy tortilla. About as appetising as a straw donkey, right? What a difference a few decades makes. These days, few countries’ cuisine perks up our appetites more than the Spanish.

Of course, there’s not one “Spanish” food. We’ve been seduced by the distinctive regional flavours – glistening plates of pata negra ham, beguiling Catalan combinations of rabbit and snails, cooling Andalucían gazpachos, and creamy, custardy puds.

Recently, we’ve spent several happy, tasty family holidays visiting a Majorcan friend. Two summers ago, we stayed on the island in late August and had to keep stopping the car to grab figs from roadside trees. Soon the children were even more obsessed than we were, and every journey was transformed into a hunt for these ripe, sticky treats, warm from the sun. From the market, we loaded up on fat, fragrant tomatoes and glossy aubergines. It’s hard not to have your head turned.

I’m passionate about our local West Country ingredients, but it’s no rare thing for me to bestow a dash of Spain on them: lemons, almonds, olive oil, chickpeas, saffron, paprika… It’s about more than just ingredients, though. One of the things I love most is the robust Spanish way with simple ingredients, using them thoughtfully to create big, punchy flavours and dishes of soul-feeding deliciousness. Here’s a trio of favourites, which happen to hang together well as a three-course menu – provided you’re good and hungry. Just promise not to say “Olé!”

Squid with almonds and smoked paprika

A pretty and delicious way to start a meal. Serves four.

For the squid
4-6 small to medium squid, about 10-20cm long
2 tbsp olive oil
1 large garlic clove, peeled and minced or grated
1 tsp smoked paprika
1 tsp finely chopped rosemary leaves
½ tsp finely chopped thyme leaves
½ tsp finely chopped oregano leaves
Zest of ½ lemon
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

For the dressing
2 tbsp olive oil
Juice of ½ lemon
1 tsp finely chopped rosemary leaves
½ tsp finely chopped thyme leaves
½ tsp finely chopped oregano leaves
½ clove of garlic, pounded to a paste with a pinch of salt
Freshly ground black pepper

To serve
Some peppy green salad leaves
40g flaked, toasted almonds
A pinch or two of smoked paprika
Flaky sea salt

Slit open the cone bodies of the squid, rinse and wipe well. Score the inside in a crisscross fashion with a serrated knife. (Cut larger bodies into two.) In a bowl, mix the olive oil, garlic, paprika, herbs, lemon zest, salt and pepper, add the squid and marinade for an hour. Whisk together the ingredients for the dressing.

Heat a griddle or frying pan until very hot. Drain the squid from the marinade and sauté quickly, a minute or so on each side. Arrange on plates with some salad leaves and trickle over some dressing. Scatter over the almonds, sprinkle on a little paprika and a pinch of flaky sea salt, and serve immediately.

Pork, black pudding and chickpea stew

Spanish morcilla, or blood sausage, is delicious simply fried and served with bread, or used to add flavour to soups and stews, as in this dish. Of course, you can use good British black pudding instead – the one from Trealy Farm has a lovely hint of spice.

200g chickpeas, soaked overnight in plenty of cold water and drained (or two 400g tins, drained and rinsed)
3 tbsp olive oil
2 onions, peeled and diced
1 tsp fresh thyme leaves, chopped
1 carrot, diced
1 celery stick, diced
2 garlic cloves, minced
1kg pork shoulder, cut into 3cm cubes
300g morcilla (or black pudding), cut into 1.5cm-thick slices
1 glass dry sherry
700ml chicken or vegetable stock
1 bay leaf
100g kale or greens, washed, trimmed of stalks and shredded
3-4 tbsp finely chopped parsley
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Put the soaked, drained chickpeas in a pan with enough water to cover by about 4cm (if using tinned, skip this bit). Bring to a boil, lower the heat to a simmer and cook for an hour, until the beans are tender. Drain.

In a large casserole, warm a tablespoon of oil over a medium-low heat. Sauté the onions with the thyme and a pinch of salt until the onions are softened and translucent, about 10 minutes. Add the carrot and celery, sauté for five minutes more, then add the garlic and cook for a further minute. Scrape the vegetable mixture into a bowl and set aside.

Pour the rest of the oil into the pan and warm over a medium-high heat. Season the pork and brown in batches – don’t crowd the pan. Transfer the browned meat to the veg bowl. In the same pan, lightly brown the morcilla and set aside.

Deglaze the pan with the sherry, scraping up any brown bits from the bottom, then put the pork and veg bits in the pan, along with the cooked chickpeas (if using tinned, hold off adding them for now), stock and bay leaf. Season, bring to a simmer and cook gently for about an hour, until the pork is very tender; add the tinned chickpeas, if using, after half an hour. After an hour, add the morcilla and kale, and simmer for five minutes, until the greens are tender. Adjust the seasoning, stir in the parsley – save a handful for sprinkling on top – and serve with crusty bread.

Almond cake

This simple Majorcan cake, gató d’ametlla, is very good warm with a scoop of ice-cream, or any time with a cup of tea. Or try it as here, with an orange salad. Serves six to eight.

8 egg yolks
250g vanilla sugar (or caster sugar plus ½ tsp vanilla extract)
1 unwaxed lemon, zest grated
1 tsp ground cinnamon
300g ground almonds (grind them yourself in a food processor if possible)
6 egg whites
Pinch of salt
2 tbsp icing sugar
A little softened butter, for greasing

To accompany
A salad of fresh orange segments and finely grated zest, macerated in a little sugar, and a dash of orange flower water, if you like

Heat the oven to 180C/350F/gas mark 4. Lightly butter a round, 25cm, loose-bottomed cake tin and line it with baking parchment. Butter the parchment.

In a large bowl, ideally with a hand mixer, whisk together the egg yolks and sugar until light and creamy. Beat in the lemon zest, cinnamon, and vanilla if using. Fold in the ground almonds a bit at a time, mixing well after each addition until they’re fully combined.

In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites with a pinch of salt until they form soft peaks. Add about a third of the beaten egg whites to the egg yolk mixture and, using a rubber spatula, fold them in to lighten the batter. Add the remaining whites in two batches, folding them in gently but thoroughly – try to keep the mixture as airy as possible.

Scrape the batter into the prepared tin and bake the cake for 35-40 minutes, or until a toothpick or skewer inserted into the middle comes out clean. Leave to cool in the tin for 10 minutes, then turn out of the tin and leave to cool on a wire rack. Dust with icing sugar. Serve warm or cold, with the orange salad.

• Learn new skills on River Cottage’s four-day cookery courses; rivercottage.net for details.

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It’s the world’s most expensive spice, so thankfully you don’t need to use a lot of it to make a big difference

This week, I’ve been dipping my spoon in a tiny pot of gold at the end of the culinary rainbow, scattering fiery filaments of glorious, warming, pungent saffron not quite with abandon – it’s too precious for that – but with delicious pleasure. I’ve stirred it into rice, sprinkled it into custards, kneaded it into bread, transforming humble ingredients into edible sunshine.

Saffron’s name comes from the Arabic za’faran, which means yellow, and it’s made from the fiery red stigma of the purple crocus, Crocus sativus. It’s the most expensive of all spices – often more costly per gram than gold – and when you know how labour-intensive it is to produce, you’ll see why. It can be picked only by hand, early in the morning before the sun gets too hot. Three precious, delicate stamens are removed from each flower before they’re carefully dried and packed. It takes around 80,000 flowers to make 450g of this ancient spice.

Saffron first grew in western Asia. The Moguls took it from Persia to India, and it has been cultivated in Kashmir since the third century AD. By the 10th century, Arabs were growing it in Spain, where some of the world’s finest saffron is still produced. In the 13th century, crusaders returned from Asia Minor with crocus corms and began growing it in Italy, France and Germany. The story goes that a pilgrim smuggled a corm back to England in the 14th century hidden in a hollow staff. Within a couple of centuries, saffron meadows spread in a precious, purple carpet across Norfolk, Suffolk and Essex, where Market Walden even changed its name to Saffron Walden to mark the influence of King Crocus.

But in some ways East Anglian “crokers”, as the crocus growers were known, are parvenus. Here in the West Country, we’ve been going for gold a lot longer. We exchanged tin for saffron with Phoenician traders and crocus meadows existed around Bude until the 19th century; West Country cooks turned the magical stamens into sunny loaves and cakes. Historically, we could literally count saffron as a local ingredient; traditionally, we still do.

So does half the world, though. These fabulous filaments have stained their way across some of the world’s most memorable dishes – bouillabaisse from the south of France, Catalan zarzuela, Spanish paella, risotto Milanese, Persian pilaffs and Indian biryanis, pilaus and milky puddings are all tinged with the crocus’s gold. Its woody, musky, slightly honeyed flavour goes beautifully with fish, shellfish, chicken, egg and potato. Try it in aïoli, to go with asparagus or to trickle over fish stew. Sprinkle some into the cooking liquid next time you poach pears in sweet wine. But be careful: just as the right amount can be sublime, too much can taste bitter, medicinal.

Thanks to its high value, saffron has always been prone to fakery – in 15th-century Germany, saffron adulterers were burned at the stake or buried alive. These days, we may not be quite so dramatic about it, but you should still be wary. Look for fine, richly coloured, orangey-red strands and beware of fakes. Ground saffron, in particular, can be dodgy, adulterated with everything from turmeric to safflower petals – remember, if it’s going cheap, it’s probably fake. You can buy organic saffron online at steenbergs.co.uk. Store it in its wrapper in an airtight container in a cool, dark place and it should keep for a couple of years.

Saffron chicken with rice

Golden saffron rice and juicy chicken is a great combo. Serves four to six.

½ tsp saffron threads, crumbled
1 free-range chicken, jointed, or about 1.5kg chicken pieces
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tbsp olive oil
2 onions, peeled and diced
1 celery stick, diced
4 garlic cloves, peeled and minced
1 tsp finely chopped thyme leaves
1 bay leaf
½ tsp ground cumin
400g long-grain rice
100g green olives, stoned
¼ tsp smoked paprika (optional)
350ml chicken stock
150ml white wine, pale beer or water
A handful of coriander leaves

Soak the saffron in a couple of tablespoons of hot water for 20 minutes. Season the chicken. Pour the oil into a large casserole and, over a medium-high heat, brown the chicken in batches (don’t overcrowd the pan).

Transfer the chicken to a plate and pour off all but two tablespoons of the fat in the pan. Sauté the onions over a medium-low heat until they just begin to turn golden, add the celery, garlic, thyme, bay leaf and cumin, and sauté for a couple of minutes more. Stir in the rice, olives, saffron (and its soaking liquor), paprika (if using), stock and wine (or beer or water). Season, place the chicken on top of the rice, cover and simmer for 30 minutes, until the rice is tender and the chicken cooked through. Check after 20 minutes – if it’s a bit dry, add a splash of hot water from the kettle. Stir in some torn coriander, adjust the seasoning and serve with more coriander on top.

Saffron honey ice-cream

A beautiful, delicate and sunny ice-cream. Serve with shortbread biscuits or scattered with toasted pistachios or almonds. Makes 800ml, or enough for four to six servings.

300ml whole milk
1 generous pinch saffron threads
4 large egg yolks
80g caster sugar
2 tbsp runny honey
300ml double cream

Put the milk and saffron in a saucepan and heat, stirring a few times, until bubbles appear at the edge. Set aside to infuse for 20 minutes.

In a heatproof bowl, whisk the egg yolks and sugar until light and creamy. Beat the milk into the egg mix, then place the bowl over a pan of barely simmering water (the bowl shouldn’t touch the water) and stir until the custard coats the back of a spoon. Remove from the heat, stir in the honey and cream, cover the surface with clingfilm or greaseproof paper to prevent a skin forming, and leave to cool. Strain through a fine sieve and churn in an ice-cream maker according to the instructions. Scrape into a plastic container and cover the surface with greaseproof paper. Freeze for at least a couple of hours. Remove from the freezer about 15 minutes before serving.

Cornish saffron tea bread

Adapted from an Elizabeth David recipe, this makes a delicious afternoon treat spread with butter or a dollop of clotted cream, or, as David suggests, eaten with a glass of sauternes. It tastes best the day it’s made, though it is very good toasted the next day, too. Makes one loaf.

220ml milk
½ tsp saffron threads
500g plain flour
1 tsp salt
¼ tsp freshly grated nutmeg
¼ tsp ground cinnamon
¼ tsp mixed spice
120g butter (or 50:50 butter and lard), plus a little extra for greasing
5g quick active yeast (the kind you mix straight into the flour)
60g caster sugar
60g sultanas
60g currants
For the glaze
2 tbsp milk
2 tbsp caster sugar

The night before, warm the milk until bubbles appear around the edges of the pan, add the saffron and leave to infuse overnight.

Next day, sift the flour, salt and spices into a mixing bowl. Rub in the butter with your fingertips, then stir in the yeast and sugar. Warm the saffron milk to blood temperature. Make a well in the flour, pour in the milk and work in with your hands. When it comes together into a soft dough, tip out on to a lightly floured surface and knead until silky and smooth, about 10 minutes. Scatter over the sultanas and currants, and knead in until evenly distributed. Place the dough in a warm, lightly oiled bowl, cover with a plastic bag and leave in a warm place to rise until doubled in size – this can take a couple of hours.

Lightly butter a 1.5 litre loaf tin. Turn out the dough on to a lightly floured surface, knock it back, shape into a loaf and place in the tin. Cover and leave in a warm place until the dough almost reaches the top of the tin – about an hour. Heat the oven to 190C/375F/gas mark 5.

Bake for 25-30 minutes. Warm the milk and sugar for the glaze, stirring to make sure the sugar dissolves. As soon as you take the tea bread out of the oven, brush with the glaze. Leave to stand in the tin for 15 minutes, then turn out and leave to cool completely before cutting.

Learn new skills on River Cottage’s four-day cookery courses; rivercottage.net for details.

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Pucker up, people, and add a thrilling dash of sourness to your cooking

Sour is a word with some contradictory baggage. Almost all its metaphorical outings are negative – sour-faced, sour puss, etc. But in the kitchen sour can be good and bad. Sour cream – yes, please (pass the blinis); sour milk – no, thanks (pass the sick bag). When sour is good, it’s usually because it’s intentional – and then it can be very good indeed.

The right kind of sour makes things taste brighter, cleaner and sharper – think of that squeeze of lemon over a piece of fish, or a splash of lime in a salsa; it zings the thing right up. But today I want to go way beyond the familiar tang of citrus. I want to talk about some sour things you may not have cooked with before.

In fact, at the risk of provoking one of those not uncommon letters that complain about obscure ingredients in these pages (give Yotam a break – his recipes are sensational), I’m wheeling out no fewer than three of them at once. (The point, of course, is that we believe these ingredients should be less obscure!) So please welcome into your kitchen: sumac, tamarind and pomegranate molasses. They may be unfamiliar here, but they are beloved of Middle Eastern and Indian cooks because of the way they deliver sourness with intriguing depth and character. They work their special magic to enliven rich dishes, calm hot ones and wake up mild ones. And they bring a welcome extra dimension to any home-grown produce you bestow them on.

Sumac is the product of Rhus coriaria, a bush that grows in Mediterranean and Middle Eastern climes. Its berries, usually sold in the form of glistening, deep red flakes, have an astringency tempered with fruity sweetness. It’s most commonly used in za’atar, the beguiling Lebanese condiment, along with thyme, sesame seeds and salt, but it earns its place in any kitchen. Rub it on oily fish or pork chops before grilling, stir into steamed greens or carrots with a little butter or olive oil, sprinkle over tomato salads or grilled onions. For an intriguing one-fruit salad, scatter it over sliced oranges; mix with garlic, ginger, chillies and yoghurt for a very good marinade for lamb or chicken kebabs.

Majestic, evergreen tamarind trees are native to East Africa, and today they grow extensively through India and south-east Asia, too. Their knobbly brown seed pods contain a sticky pulp that surrounds the seeds. The pulp’s high tartaric acid content gives it its distinctively sour flavour, which is both deeply fruity and refreshing, making it a key ingredient in curries, hot and sour soups, sweetmeats – it even lends its distinctive tang to our very own Worcestershire sauce. You can buy tamarind as a sticky block that needs soaking and straining to remove the seeds to create the liquid, or as a concentrate, which simply requires diluting.

Tangy pomegranate molasses are made by boiling down juice from tart varieties of pomegranates to a thick trickle of fruity flavour. They are a key ingredient in Middle Eastern and some Mediterranean cooking. Like tamarind, they are both tart and sweet at the same time, and are great in marinades and dressings. Try replacing honey with pomegranate molasses in recipes and see how you like it. It makes a great dressing simply whisked together with some sumac, olive oil, salt and pepper – add grated ginger, ground coriander and cumin, and you have a delicious marinade for duck, lamb or pork. You can even trickle some over thick yoghurt or ice-cream, or try a little pomegranate molasses in a glass of sparkling wine as a winning aperitif.

Though these tart treasures are far more widely available than they were, if you can’t track them down locally, try thespiceshop.co.uk or arabicafoodandspice.com. Pucker up and embrace the thrilling, seductive, addictive potential of sour.

Hot and sour tamarind chicken soup

Bracing, tangy and enormously restorative – perfect for a cold, blustery day. If you like, add finely sliced mushrooms and/or spring onions with the chicken. Serves six.

1 tbsp groundnut oil
3 shallots, halved and thinly sliced
4 cloves garlic, finely sliced
4 kaffir lime leaves, shredded
2 stalks lemongrass, finely minced
2 small red chillies, halved, seeds and membrane removed, finely sliced
1 thumb-sized piece ginger, peeled, halved and finely sliced
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 litre chicken stock
400ml tinned coconut milk
100ml tamarind water (made from 2 tsp concentrate diluted in hot water)
4 tbsp fish sauce (nam pla)
1-2 pinches soft brown sugar
2 chicken breasts or boned thighs, skinned and cut into strips (or 400g leftover roast chicken, shredded)
1 small handful coriander, including roots, if possible, roughly chopped
Juice of a lime
To serve, a handful of coriander leaves, some basil leaves (Thai basil, if you can get it) and lime wedges

Warm the oil in a large saucepan over a medium-high heat. Add the shallots, garlic, lime leaves, lemongrass, chilli, ginger and a pinch of salt (and some coriander root, if you have some), and sauté gently, stirring, for four minutes, until the shallots are soft. Add the stock, coconut milk, tamarind water and nam pla, and simmer gently for 10 minutes. Taste, adjust seasoning and add a pinch or two of brown sugar to get the right sweet/sour/salty balance. Add the shredded chicken, simmer until cooked through, remove from the heat and stir in the coriander and lime juice. Serve with coriander and basil scattered on top, and lime wedges on the side.

Sumac eggs

Picture overleaf – a great weekend breakfast or a quick, delicious lunch. Serves two to four.

3 tbsp olive oil
2 onions, halved and finely sliced
2 tsp fresh thyme leaves
2 garlic cloves, minced
¼ tsp chilli flakes
400g tinned chopped tomatoes
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
4 eggs
1 tsp sumac
150g feta or mild cheddar, crumbled
Small handful of coriander leaves
A small knob of butter
Flatbreads or crusty bread, to serve

In a medium frying pan, warm the oil over medium-low heat and gently sauté the onion and thyme, stirring from time to time, until the onions are softened and starting to turn golden. Add the garlic and chilli, stir for a minute, then add the tomatoes, season and simmer until thickened slightly, about eight minutes. Break an egg into a saucer and slide it into the sauce. Repeat with the other eggs. Sprinkle on half the sumac and some pepper, and cook the eggs gently until poached. Remove from the heat, crumble over the cheese and sprinkle on the coriander. Warm the butter in a small saucepan, add the rest of the sumac, stir, then trickle over the eggs. Serve with warm flatbreads or crusty bread.

Lamb meatball salad

This hearty salad is great warm and leftovers are just as good cold in a lunchbox the next day. Serves four.

For the meatballs
3 tbsp sesame seeds
1 tbsp olive oil
1 onion, finely minced
2 garlic cloves, minced
½ tsp ground cumin
½ tsp ground coriander
1 tsp dried mint
A pinch of cinnamon
A few grinds of nutmeg
500g minced lamb
40g fine white breadcrumbs
1 egg
1 tsp pomegranate molasses
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

For the salad
150g bulgur wheat
2 handfuls rocket or baby spinach
3 spring onions, finely chopped
80g walnut halves, toasted and roughly chopped
1 small handful parsley and mint leaves, shredded

For the dressing
1 tbsp pomegranate molasses, plus a little more for trickling over the salad
Juice of half a small lemon
2 garlic cloves, minced
¼ tsp sumac
4 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Heat the oven to 230C/450F/gas mark 8 and line a baking tray with baking parchment. In a small frying pan over a medium heat, toast the sesame seeds until they just begin to pop and become fragrant. Tip into a large bowl and set aside.

Warm the oil in the frying pan over a medium-low heat and sweat the onion until soft and translucent, about 10 minutes. Add the garlic, cumin and coriander, and sauté for a couple of minutes more. Tip into the sesame seed bowl and stir in the dried mint, cinnamon and nutmeg. Add the lamb and breadcrumbs. Whisk the egg yolk with the pomegranate molasses and pour over the lamb. Season generously and mix with your hands until well combined.

Pat the mixture into balls about the size of walnuts – you should have about 18 balls. Place on the baking sheet as you go, making sure they’re not crowded together, then bake for about 10 minutes, until golden and just cooked through.

While the meatballs are cooking, make the rest of the salad. Cook the bulgur according to the instructions. Whisk together the ingredients for the dressing. While the bulgur is still warm, trickle over three tablespoons of dressing (the rest will keep well in a jar in the fridge for a couple of days) and fork it through.

When the meatballs are ready, toss with the bulgur, rocket or spinach, spring onions, walnuts and herbs. Trickle over a little more pomegranate molasses, sprinkle on a little more mint and parsley, and serve.

• Learn new skills on River Cottage’s four-day cookery courses; rivercottage.net for details.

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