I will make this brief. We are all preoccupied right now. The world has changed in the blink of an eye and we begin to understand the true meaning of survival. Adjusting to this new order has been stressful. New behaviours that contradict our human instincts and impulses to be together must be curbed. The fear of illness can stop us from functioning properly so we must ensure, now more than ever, that we are feeding our bodies with nutritious and simple food.
As I surveyed the kitchen garden early this week I made a mental note of how many meals there still remain in the beds. The last three celeriac roots and a handful of parsnips, the purple sprouting has come on stream, and our autumn sown salad of winter purslane, lamb’s lettuce and radicchio will provide for some time to come, but the remaining beds appeared to offer slim pickings. A clutch of wormy carrots, beetroot the size of swedes, cavolo nero running to flower with moth-eaten leaves and chard sown last summer which, although valiantly sending out some new growth, is looking past its best.
In the course of our previous life I might have consigned the shabbiest veg to the compost heap, preferring to eat the best and freshest looking. That has all changed. Now, with the need to make things last and avoiding going out more than necessary, anything that is still green is potentially valuable and edible.
Although the kitchen garden is on the very brink of the hungry gap, there is plenty shooting in the landscape around us, and there is a surfeit of nettles and wild garlic. The former is one of the most nutrient-rich herbs available containing calcium, chromium, iron, magnesium, potassium, selenium, trace minerals and vitamins A, B and C. When picked at their peak, right now, they have a protein content of 25%. Pick only the tops, as the stalks, once used to make a linen-like fibre and cloth, are tough and inedible. Wild garlic is well known for it’s antibacterial and antibiotic properties, and also contains vitamins A and C, calcium, copper, iron, phosphorus and sodium.
In these times when we must be more mindful of resources, more frugal in what we use and what we discard, and more determined to only eat food that really feeds our bodies and its natural defence systems, this is a soup that will be seeing us through until the veg garden is up and running. This weekend I plan to harvest as much nettle and wild garlic as I can and either blanch and freeze (nettles) or preserve them under oil (wild garlic), so that we are able to keep eating nourishing greens until our own veg starts to produce more.
Older vegetables, particularly the brassica flower shoots, celeriac tops and chard stalks can be fibrous and stringy by this point in the season, but in the spirit of ‘waste not, want not’ I used everything in this soup and then put it through the finest screen of a Mouli-legumes. You could also liquidise it and then pass it through a sieve.
This is not so much a strict recipe, rather a guide to use whatever you might have to hand whether it be a carrot from the salad drawer that has seen better days, a few of the last winter-stored potatoes just starting to shoot or a slightly mouldering cabbage. This is also a good way to use up any vegetable peelings which would otherwise be heading for the compost heap. Use any green herbs you can lay your hands on. Last year’s parsley and chervil are all in fresh leaf now, as are other hedgerow herbs such as Alexanders (go easy on these, they are strongly flavoured), Jack-in-the-Hedge, Fat Hen and dandelions.
Serves 8-10
12 large chard leaves
150g wild garlic leaves
180g brassica flower shoots
200g nettle tops
2 medium onions
180g celery or celeriac tops
2 litres water or vegetable stock
Olive oil
Sea salt and ground black pepper
Grated nutmeg
Coarsely chop the onion and celery or celeriac tops.
Heat 3 tablespoons of olive oil in a large pan.
Saute the onion and celery with the lid on until they become translucent.
Remove the green leaf from the chard stalks and chop the stalks coarsely. Add them to the onions and celery and continue to cook with the lid on until almost tender.
Add the water or stock to the pan and bring to a simmer.
Coarsely chop the brassica flower shoots and add to the pan. Grate in some nutmeg and season with salt and pepper. Simmer for about 15 minutes until the brassica shoots are cooked.
Take the soup off the heat and add the wild garlic. Stir well, put the lid back on the pan and allow to stand for a minute or two until the garlic has wilted.
Liquidise the soup and then, if necessary, pass it through a mouli-legumes or sieve. Check the seasoning.
If you have it a spoonful of cream, creme fraiche, or homemade yogurt can be added before serving.
Recipe & photographs: Huw Morgan
21 March 2020
This article is dedicated to Susan Sheehan, a longstanding American client of Dan’s, who writes the most wonderful emails that frequently have us doubled up in tears. One of these sent last year started (all Susan’s capitals), “I always read DIG DELVE…naturally, it is my absolute fantasy life blog. I imagine myself calm and RELAXED looking at the row of trees you have on the horizon, at your enchanting house and garden, and whipping up a batch of ELDERFLOWER AND ROSE cordial and a RHUBARB GALETTE…all sounds so romantic, and utterly doable. Then I just have to slap myself in the face and out of the TRANCE your blog, Instagram posts and new website induce…it is all just lovely. I want to be just like you when I grow up.”
So Susan, here is a picture of my RELAXED life this week. Dan has been away for 10 days. I am working on the picture edit of the book he has written about the Tokachi Millennium Forest. There have been, and I kid you not, around 40,000 images to go through, which has required an insane amount of focus, concentration and organisation. At around 4pm each day I Facetime Julie, our American friend who is designing the book. She lives in Portland, Oregon. It is usually around 8pm before we finish looking at layouts, discussing the design and swapping images around. Then a walk for the long-suffering dog, dinner (or more likely cheese and biscuits) and then bed. Then repeat. Yesterday, I had the florist Flora Starkey here, squeezing in a winter photoshoot en route to Bristol airport, while an old university friend also arrived to stay for the weekend. Fortunately Sophie is an excellent cook since, on Saturday, I have also invited good friends and godchildren for lunch.
Trying to shoehorn cooking, writing and photographing a recipe for Dig Delve into that schedule is, unfortunately Susan, the very opposite of RELAXING and, although not every week is this extreme, it is closer to the usual state of affairs than the idyll you describe. It doesn’t always feel very doable or very grown up. Sometimes we have to cut corners and speed things up to fit everything in, so this extremely easy recipe was directly inspired by a starter we were served at our Waterloo local, The Anchor & Hope, just last week.
I used to love the crispy ‘seaweed’ that my dad would order from our local Chinese restaurant when I was a kid. I thought I was eating something very exotic, of course, when the mundane truth was that it was just shredded, deep-fried cabbage. When this plate was brought to our table last week it took me straight back to those foil takeaway containers, with the same crisp texture and delicious savoury taste. The bright and smoky harissa was the perfect foil to the dark leaves, while the cool contrast of crème fraiche, made the whole plate sing. I immediately knew that I wanted to reproduce it at home.
We have 5 beds of brassicas that keep us going through the winter, and are now close to having only two still producing. Many of the red cabbages, which were our most successful germinator last year, are still standing, as are the second sowing of curly kale. The Cavolo nero are producing less leaf, but have started to send out flower spikes in step with the Early Purple Sprouting broccoli. A new winter crop for us, which I will definitely be sowing a lot more of next September, is the turnip green Rapa Senza Testa from Real Seeds, which has stood fresh and green all winter. From one row we have only had a handful of servings of the delicious buttery greens, but they are still producing and now also going to flower.
Two weekends ago in the woods I was a little perturbed to see the tiny emergent leaves of the wild garlic, which seemed far too early and too young and few to harvest. However, already they are here in number, and so yesterday I picked a handful to flavour the harissa. I made the harissa with a variety of smoky, medium and hot dried chilies from the pantry together with some fresh red chilies from the greengrocer. Unless you like it very hot avoid the bird’s eye and scotch bonnet types. The recipe below makes more than you require. It keeps well in the fridge covered with olive oil.
To make this into more of meal it is delicious topped with a poached or fried egg.
Serves 2
200g mixed brassica flower sprouts, tender stems only
2 litres rapeseed oil
HARISSA
25g mixed dried chilies
25g fresh red chilies
1 tablespoon cumin seeds
1 tablespoon coriander seed
1 tablespoon fennel seed
A small handful of young wild garlic leaves
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
1 tablespoon tomato puree
1 teaspoon sea salt
2 tablespoons lemon juice
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
100ml olive oil
Crème fraiche, to serve
First make the harissa.
Put the dried chilies in a heatproof bowl and pour over enough freshly boiled water to cover. Leave to soak for 30 minutes.
Toast the seeds in a small dry frying pan over a high heat until they become fragrant. Tip into a mortar and grind to a fine powder.
Remove the seeds and stalks from the fresh chilies and do the same with the soaked dried chilies. Put them all into a small blender with the other ingredients. Blend until a fairly rough paste is achieved.
Transfer to a small Kilner type jar.
Heat the oil in a large deep pan until smoking. Fry the flower sprouts in batches for a minute or two at the most. Be very careful as you put them into the oil as they will splutter. Keep a close eye on them, as they can take differing lengths of time to cook. When done, lift them from the oil with a slotted spoon and put into an ovenproof dish lined with kitchen paper. Put the dish in a low oven while you cook the remaining flower sprouts, transferring them each time to the oven to keep warm.
When the sprouts are all done transfer them to a hot serving plate. Toss over a couple of pinches of sea salt. Spoon over some of the harissa. Put some crème fraiche on the side of the plate. Eat immediately.
Recipe & photographs: Huw Morgan
22 February 2020
When I returned to London in 1988 after four years at Manchester University, my first job was as a Wardrobe Assistant for the English National Opera at The Coliseum. I was responsible for half of the male chorus, laundering, pressing, mending and preparing their costumes for every performance, during which I and the team of other Wardrobe Assistants were on standby for intervals, quick changes and emergencies. Hours were irregular with late nights and early starts when there were matinees and, with a 4 day on, 3 day off shift, weekends were not always at the weekend. This meant that I was frequently in the West End at meal times and in the company of others, so very quickly I was introduced to, or discovered for myself, a number of eateries that were dependable, affordable and had an edge of West End dirty glamour to seduce this city returnee.
Many of these were institutions, but although some of them are still there, many are now sadly gone due to development. Gaby’s Deli on Charing Cross Road, famed for falafel and kofta, the New World Dim Sum restaurant on Gerrard Place (only recently closed), where it was easy to get seriously stuffed on the trolleys that kept passing with delicious new dishes. Pollo Bar, with its greasy vinyl booths upstairs and smoky beatnik vibe in the basement, where huge bowls of pasta and endless carafes of red wine were cheap as chips, and Jimmy’s Greek restaurant on Frith Street, where the clattery basement and copious retsina was conducive to increasingly raucous evenings. If you wanted something more traditional there was New Piccadilly, the classic greasy spoon or The Stockpot, where tomato soup, Shepherd’s Pie and apple crumble and custard were the order of the day.
Another much-loved restaurant, although far from Soho, was Daquise, the Polish in South Kensington, which was my habitual destination after a visit to the V & A. The smell of the restaurant was very particular, a combination of boiled cabbage and meat overlaid with home-baked cakes that instantly transported you to eastern Europe. Favourites were the cheese and onion dumplings, boiled beef or schnitzel followed by their superlative cheesecake. However, no matter what else I ordered I would always order borscht.
This borscht was the first I had ever eaten and it became the benchmark by which I have measured all others. Clear, rich, jewel-bright stock, with enough vegetables to fill you up, but leaving just enough room for a plate of cheese pancakes with apple. Since then I have made any number of ‘borschts’, many of which I am sure would infuriate purists, but nothing comforts on a chill winter’s day like beetroot soup. I came up with the version below as I had a hunch that the comparable earthy flavours of beetroot and wild mushrooms would work well together. When researching this piece, however, it came as no surprise, although some little disappointment, to find that the Polish had had this bright idea a long, long time ago. In particular an age-old borscht traditionally served on Christmas Eve is a clear beetroot broth with wild mushroom pierogi floating in it. Now on my list to try.
Here at Hillside we grow up to four crops of beetroot in a season, starting with an early sowing as soon as the weather warms in April and resowing every month or so. The last sowing is made in early August and these are the ones we leave in the ground to overwinter. One day, when we have a frost-free root store, we will lift them before the frosts in November and cover them in just damp sand. Until then, the roots take their chances with the weather and the slugs, but most make it to the table.
This year we have grown our standard favoured varieties. The flattened, dark ‘Egitto Migliorata’ which we tend to harvest young, the saffron ‘Burpees Golden’ and the long-rooted ‘Cylindra’, which is favoured in eastern Europe for pickling, as the long roots create many identical slices rather than the fewer central slices from a spherical root. Their upright shape means you get more plants to a row and, although they can reach up to 500g in weight, they remain sweet and not woody. It stands very well for us in the ground over winter.
Serves 6
2 medium onions, coarsely chopped
2 sticks celery, coarsely chopped
1 large carrot, diced
500g beetroot, peeled and coarsely grated
30g dried porcini or other wild mushrooms
1 large bay leaf
3 allspice berries
8 juniper berries
1.7 litres water or vegetable stock
2 tablespoons sunflower or rapeseed oil
Apple cider vinegar
Salt
Finely ground black pepper
Soured cream or sauerkraut
Bring 750ml of the water or stock to the boil in a pan. Remove from the heat, add the dried mushrooms and cover. Leave to stand while you prepare the vegetables.
Heat the oil in a large thick-bottomed pan. Add the onion, celery and carrot and fry, stirring frequently, until the vegetables start to brown and caramelise.
Finely crush the juniper and allspice in a mortar and add to the vegetables. Continue to cook over a low heat for a minute or two until fragrant.
Drain the soaked mushrooms and retain the soaking water. You should have around 700ml. Make up the total amount of liquid required with water or stock. Coarsely chop the mushrooms, add to the pan of vegetables and cook for another minute or two. Add the grated beetroot.
Pour the mushroom stock into the pan through a sieve. Bring to the boil and then reduce the heat and simmer with the lid on for 45 minutes until all the vegetables are soft and the flavours have combined.
Season with salt, pepper and brighten the flavour with vinegar to taste. I like my borscht to be well seasoned.
Ladle the soup into warm bowls. Spoon on some soured cream or sauerkraut. The golden turmeric sauerkraut from Bath Culture House I have used makes a nice contrast to the rich, ruby soup.
Recipe & Photographs | Huw Morgan
Published 25 January 2020
Yesterday we had our first snow. Just the briefest flurry, and it was too wet and warm for it to settle, but snow all the same. The colder weather demands something warm and hearty in the stomach and has finally given me the opportunity to make a long-planned silky soup from the coco beans that have been in the freezer since I harvested them over a month ago.
To date we have only ever grown climbing beans to eat fresh, but this year we grew a range of new beans, some of which I selected specifically for storing. At the end of the summer the bean which had cropped most heavily was ‘Coco Sophie’, a late 18th century variety which became commercially unavailable in 2006, and has only recently been re-introduced by The Real Seed Company. Due to the variety and quality of their seed, it has fast become our go-to seed supplier.
Coco beans are an old French large haricot type, producing shiny, round, creamy white beans with a texture comparable to normal haricot or cannellini beans. However, they are smoother and richer than either. The Coco de Paimpol, which is grown only in Brittany, has its own appelation d’origine contrôlée due to its incomparable texture and flavour. Although I had eaten coco beans in restaurants before and been struck by their silky texture, I had not, until this year, been able to find seed to grow them myself.
I picked the beans when semi-dry – which cuts down their cooking time significantly – and froze them immediately. However, they can be fully dried and then soaked before cooking. If using dried beans for this recipe 400g of dried beans will give a soaked weight of approximately 800g and, although you do not need to sieve the soup, it produces a superior result that is worth the little additional effort.
In my mind I had a velvety smooth, garlic-laden puree flavoured with woody herbs and a whiff of truffle. I had a recollection of having eaten something similar many years ago in Milan, as I associate it with distinct memories of risotto alla milanese, osso buco and whole pan-fried porcini.
A whole bulb of garlic may seem too much initially, but since it is simmered in the stock its strength is tempered and sweetened. The seasonal combination of sage and bay is warm and aromatic. Although we have several types of sage growing here, the most robust and best-flavoured variety is known simply as ‘Italian’, with large silver-grey leaves that are winter hardy and perfect for frying.
Serves 6
3 large leeks, white and pale green parts only, about 250g
3 tbsp olive oil
800g fresh or cooked white beans
1 bulb garlic
2 large sprigs of sage
1 large bay leaf
1.5 litres water or vegetable stock
Freshly grated nutmeg
Salt
Ground white pepper
12 large sage leaves
3 tbsp olive oil
Truffle oil
Heat the olive oil in a large pan over a low heat. Wash, peel and trim the leeks and slice them finely. Put them into the pan, put the lid on and sweat over a low heat for 10 to 15 minutes until translucent. Stir occasionally.
Peel and trim the garlic cloves and leave whole. When the leeks are cooked add the garlic, beans, sage, bay leaf and grated nutmeg to the pan with the water or stock. Bring to the boil and then reduce to a simmer. Cook with the lid on until the beans are soft; about 20 minutes if fresh, or 40 if dried and soaked.
When the beans are done remove the sage and bay leaves, then liquidise the beans and their cooking liquid with a stick blender until smooth. Then, if you want the silkiest smooth soup, push the puree through a fine sieve with the back of a metal spoon. Season with salt and pepper to taste.
In a small frying pan heat the second lot of olive oil. When smoking, fry the sage leaves in batches for about 10 seconds until crisp and just beginning to brown. Remove from the oil onto a piece of kitchen paper.
Ladle the soup into warm bowls. Drizzle over a little truffle oil and garnish each bowl with two fried sage leaves.
Recipe & Photographs | Huw Morgan
Published 16 November 2019
We have just returned from the Climate Strike march in Bath City centre.
Like many of us this year I have been inspired by the school children’s and young students’ worldwide strikes in the name of Fridays for Future, initiated by the example of Greta Thunberg.
Like many of us I have also felt guilt and shame at the fact that we, the older generation, have left it to the young to draw international attention to something that we have been aware of since before these young people were born.
Well, now there is no turning away. There can be no more heads buried in the sand.
During 7 minutes of seated silence this morning I looked around me at all of the people. I thought about how all these like minds and their kind around the globe will have all been trying to make small differences to counteract what we know are the causes of climate change, global pollution and environmental pillage.
I thought about the corporations, businesses and individuals that have benefitted from the destruction of our environment fully aware of the cost to the planet, and reflected on the kind of person who knowingly robs future generations of their future for short term financial profit.
I berated myself; for not engaging, for not doing enough, for consuming too much, for judging others for their apparent profligacy.
I considered how we can have an effect. What can we all do that will make the biggest change ?
The word that entered my head was simplicity. No more than you need.
I intend to make changes. I plan to be stricter with myself. I am sure I will lapse. I know there will be challenges.
It is also essential to enjoy what life offers. To know that it is not only our responsibility to effect change. We must force those that are able to create the biggest and most meaningful changes – governments, manufacturers, agriculture, industry – to face up to their responsibilities to ensure there is a future world that humans can inhabit.
The main ingredients in this dish are from the garden, prepared simply and just enough for one
100g fine green beans
1 pear, about 100g
10 cobnuts, about 20g
A small handful of young salad leaves – lettuce, mizuna, mustard greens, rocket, spinach
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 tablespoon hazelnut oil
Salt
Put a saucepan of water on to boil.
Remove the tops from the beans and boil for 3 minutes. Drain and refresh in cold water.
Shell the cobnuts and slice coarsely.
Wash and dry the salad leaves.
Put the lemon juice into a large bowl.
Quarter the pear and core. Cut each quarter lengthways into 3 pieces. Put them immediately into the bowl with the lemon juice and toss to coat.
Add the beans, salad leaves and cobnuts.
Drizzle over hazelnut oil.
Season with salt and toss everything together.
Serve.
Recipe & photographs | Huw Morgan
Published 21 September 2019
It has been too hot to cook. Too hot to do much at all. And yet the Kitchen Garden has been demanding attention. If we take our eye off the ball right now we will find that currants and berries will rot on the bush, in late summer there will be no more salad and, come autumn, there will no turnips, swedes or winter lettuce. Harvesting has become a twice daily occurrence and beds must be cleared to make room for the last of the summer sown crops.
A couple of weekends ago, just as we were preparing to head off to Hokkaido, we spent two mornings picking gooseberries and blackcurrants for the freezer. If you have a hat and water bottle and keep in the shade of the bushes, this can be a very pleasant way to pass a hot, sunny morning with friends; picking, chatting, eating and laughing. The resulting Tupperwares full of berries are their own reward. Whenever I am squatting on my milking stool picking blackcurrants I remember – always too late – Sarah Raven’s method, which is to cut out the oldest canes when laden with fruit and then take these to a comfortable, shady spot to pick the berries off at leisure. Needless to say this is never the way it happens.
We returned from Japan to find that both sowings of peas – one late winter, another mid spring – had caught up with each other and we had a pea glut comparable with the currant glut. Here it was a much more straightforward decision to simply take out the plants – leaving their nitrogen-fixing roots in the soil – and pick off the pods in the shade of the open barn by the house. Nothing can compare to the satisfaction of podding peas into a bowl and I have a particular fondness for shelling them into a red enamel metal bowl, which reverberates like a gong as the peas hit the sides, its colour vibrating against the green of the peas.
The peas are no longer in their prime, but freshly picked and quickly cooked, they are still quite delicious. We most often eat peas cold in summer. Thrown into a pan of boiling water for a few minutes, drained and then refreshed in cold water I will throw a couple of handfuls into salads, or puree them with mint, stock and cream to make both a green hummus-like dip or a thinner, refreshing chilled soup. Peas and white cheeses of all sorts go together beautifully, both the salty – feta, halloumi, pecorino – and creamy – Vignotte, goat curd, ricotta – providing different types of contrast to peas’ natural sweetness.
Here burrata – a type of mozzarella filled with cheese ‘rags’ and cream – provides a decadent richness which, mixing with the basil oil dressing, creates a delicious sauce. It is customary to serve burrata at room temperature but, when it’s as hot as it has been, I prefer the cheese to be lightly chilled, and so take it out of the fridge around 20 minutes before it is needed. If you can’t get hold of burrata then substitute with a good quality, fresh buffalo mozzarella or a piece of ripe Vignotte.
Per person
100g shelled peas
A small handful of young leaves; lettuce, pea shoots, watercress, rocket
1 burrata or burratina, 100g weight
4 large Genovese basil leaves
3 tablespoons olive oil
½ small clove garlic
Zest and juice of ¼ lemon
¼ teaspoon salt
Small-leaved basil or torn Genovese basil to serve
Wash and dry the salad leaves.
Put a pan of water on to boil.
Put the salt, garlic and basil leaves into a mortar and crush into a coarse green paste. Add the olive oil, lemon zest and juice. Stir to combine.
Cook the peas in the boiling water for 2 to 3 minutes. Drain and quickly refresh under a cold running tap. Drain off excess water.
Arrange the salad leaves on a plate. Spoon the peas over the leaves. Place the burrata in the centre. Spoon the basil dressing over everything. Strew over some basil and serve immediately with some oiled and grilled sourdough bread.
Recipe & photographs: Huw Morgan
Published 27 July 2019
I don’t exactly remember when I first tasted elderflower cordial. Romantic though it would be to imagine, it didn’t feature in my childhood, when summer drinks ran the gamut from orange squash to lemon barley water to Coca Cola and back again. However, I have an inkling that it may have been at the country house of Stephen Keynes (a great-grandson of Darwin and nephew of John Maynard Keynes) who was my London landlord for a while when I was in my early ‘20’s. Stephen was a polymath; a banker, an intellectual, an historian, an appreciator of the arts, a raconteur, a patron, a naturalist, a naturist. Yet the thing I remember him best for was his love of good food and the ability to make it without fuss or fanfare.
Stephen cooked in a way which has become quite fashionable in recent years. Very basic, simple food – some might call it nursery food – redolent of a time of housekeepers, nannies and cooks, waste not, want not, rationing and grow your own. For breakfast he might serve an egg coddled with the top of the milk and a slice of good white, heavily buttered toast, lunch could be a poached kipper with floury boiled potatoes or a bacon and egg pie with his own greenhouse tomatoes, for dinner a pork chop with creamed spinach from the garden. Pudding would usually be a seasonal fruit tart or pie, with his own pastry and served with cream or custard. At Christmas he made the best mince pies I have ever eaten. He was also an expert preserver in the old tradition and so the pantry was always full of his home made jams, jellies, chutneys, pickles and syrups made from garden and hedgerow.
At his house near Newmarket (which at weekends was filled with the chatter and laughter of bright, young things) Stephen had a proper vegetable garden and greenhouse, as well as fruit cages and fruit trees, including the first medlar I had set eyes on. Every year he religiously made pounds of medlar jelly, and it is this memory of him standing (naked) at the Aga over a hot preserving pan which makes me think that it was probably he who was taking the time to make elderflower cordial for those long summer days we spent lounging around on the lawn by his oh-so-decadent swimming pool.
Despite the conspicuous lack of a pool here, I still enjoy a lounge on the grass on a hot summer’s day, and no summer is now complete without the ritual of making elderflower cordial. This isn’t always possible though, since elder flowers from the end of May until the end of June, a notoriously unsettled time weatherwise, so for several years I have been stymied in my desire to go elder picking by cold, heavy June drizzle. The past few weeks have been no different and so I seized the opportunity last weekend when the sun finally shone on Sunday morning.
Elder flowers should be picked early on a dry morning. Select the newest umbels that have not yet fully opened and pick the whole flowerhead, but not the coarse stalk. Gently shake them to dislodge any small insects and lay carefully in a trug. I used to cram carrier bags with the flowers, but since it is largely the pollen that flavours the cordial you lose too much of it collecting them this way. It is better to go gently, which makes the whole process more enjoyable.
As Dan wrote last week I was inspired to make this cordial after seeing a dog rose growing through one of our largest elders a couple of weeks ago. However, our wild roses aren’t highly scented enough to bring much flavour, so I used the blooms of the most highly scented of our David Austin roses in the cutting garden, ‘Gertrude Jekyll’ and the dark, velvety ‘Munstead Wood’. Any highly scented rose will do, but the darker the rose the pinker the cordial will be. Of course, they must be absolutely free of pesticides, fungicides or other sprays. Pick flowers that are just opening, again early on a dry morning.
Over the years I have tried a number of different elderflower cordial recipes, many of which use whole lemons, pith and all, but I find these too bitter, so now only use the zest and juice. In others the proportion of sugar produces a syrup that is too sweet and deadens the floral flavour. The citric acid allows the cordial to be kept for 3-4 months in the refrigerator. If you leave it out it will keep for 3-4 weeks.
25 large heads of elderflower
5 large heavily scented roses
Grated zest and juice of 4 unwaxed lemons
1.5 litres water
1 kg sugar
1 heaped teaspoon citric acid
Remove all of the petals from the roses and put into a large ceramic or glass container with the elderflowers, lemon zest and juice.
Bring the water to the boil and add the sugar. Take off the heat and stir until dissolved. Leave to cool a little then, while still hot, pour the syrup over the flowers. Cover the container well so that no insects can get in and leave in a cool dark place – an outhouse is ideal – for 2-3 days.
Strain the syrup through a fine muslin. Transfer to a large saucepan and bring to a gentle simmer. Simmer for 3 minutes, then add the citric acid to dissolve.
Pour the hot cordial into sterilised bottles, seal immediately and allow to cool before storing.
Dilute to taste – a proportion of 1 part cordial to 5 parts water gives a good flavour without excessive sweetness. Sparkling water makes the rose flavour more pronounced.
Makes approximately 2 litres.
Recipe & Photographs: Huw Morgan
Published 23 June 2019
There is so much to learn and remember about vegetable gardening – sowing times and distances, transplant times, successional sowing, water requirements, crop rotation, pests and diseases, optimum harvesting times, storage, seed saving, the list goes on. Each year with experience under the belt, I do feel more confident, but there are always new obstacles that throw themselves down as a challenge.
This spring the kitchen garden got off to a wobbly start. When we lifted the horticultural fleece we had put over the autumn sown broad beans we found they had been decimated by ground slugs, which had thrived in the shelter. An autumn sowing is usually perfectly hardy, but we had left it late last year and thought the fleece might encourage growth. However, it showed us that the blackbirds must help in keeping the slugs at bay, so we won’t be doing it again. The defeat continued with a second sowing made in early March falling prey to the vandalism of pheasants and collared doves. The third sowing has now been in flower for a week, but there are several more weeks before we harvest our first crop. It has been a similar story with the peas.
Sowings of landcress and mustard greens have been severely set back by flea beetle, as have our brassica seedlings. Fortunately we thought to protect the latter with enviromesh just in time and so, as long as we net from pigeons, we should be back on track. Happily, with a couple of weeks of warm weather, we are now self-sufficient in several different types of lettuce and salad leaf, but without a polytunnel or greenhouse to give us a head start, the ‘hungry gap’ is lasting longer than usual.
The gap between winter vegetables and the season’s first beetroot, chard, carrots and new potatoes is handsomely bridged by asparagus and the perennial artichokes. Before growing artichokes at Hillside my mental image and usual experience of them was plainly boiled with vinaigrette. Since having a dependable annual crop now that the garden is established, I have been surprised and happy to discover their unsuspected versatility. You can braise or stew them, roast or chargrill them, boil or deep fry them and their subtly resinous, nutty-grassy flavour works with everything from the simplest lemon and garlic to the richest onion, tomato, fennel and chilli slow braise.
Used raw here their greener flavour goes well with the sharp freshness of citrus and herbs, while the capers and parmesan accentuate their nuttiness. This salad can be varied in any number of ways depending on what’s available. Use mint in place of parsley, add wafer thin slices of chestnut mushroom, or small pieces of anchovy and green olive, or a handful of the tiniest raw, new garden peas and slivers of Parma ham. To take things up a level you can add shavings of white truffle and crushed, toasted hazelnuts. Quite plain it is delicious alongside some whipped ricotta, goat’s curd or burrata.
This salad must be made immediately before it is to be eaten, since the artichokes will discolour if left for too long. In fact they start to discolour as soon as the cut surface meets the air, so organise all of the other ingredients in advance of preparing the artichokes. These should be done as quickly as possible, before assembling and dressing the salad and taking it straight to the table.
12-16 very small artichokes, or 8 larger ones, no wider than 6cm
2 lemons, juiced
½ a preserved lemon
1 tablespoon small capers, rinsed and drained
4 tablespoons olive oil
A small handful of flat leaf parsley, the stalks removed
A small handful of small rocket leaves, about 30 leaves
20g Parmesan cheese, shaved
Salt
Serves 4 as a starter
Wash and dry the rocket. Remove the leaves from the parsley. Squeeze the lemons. Rinse and drain the capers. Remove the pulp from the preserved lemon. Cut the lemon half into quarters vertically, then slice finely. Shave the parmesan.
Put the juice of one lemon in a medium mixing bowl with a litre of cold water.
Prepare the artichokes using a very sharp, small knife. Trim the stalk leaving about a centimetre. Hold the artichoke on the chopping board with the stalk end pointing away from you. Visualise the interior structure of the artichoke and where the heart is. Holding the knife at an angle remove the tougher outer, dark green leaves and reveal the pale leaves and creamy heart beneath. To start with you may need to use trial and error to remove as little as possible of the paler leaves. If you are concerned that you may be leaving some tough leaves, chew one of the trimmings
Slice the artichokes lengthways as finely as possible and immediately put into the bowl of acidulated water. If your artichokes are larger you will firstly need to cut them in half lengthways to check if the choke is too developed to eat. If so remove it with a sharp spoon.
As soon as all of the artichokes have been prepared quickly drain them. Pat the artichoke slices dry on a clean tea towel. Put them into a mixing bowl and pour over the remaining lemon juice. Quickly toss the artichoke in the lemon juice so that all is coated. Add the olive oil and salt and toss again. Then add the capers, preserved lemon peel, parsley and rocket and mix together quickly with your hands. Arrange the salad on a serving plate. Scatter over the shaved Parmesan. Serve immediately.
Recipe and photographs: Huw Morgan
Published 1 June 2019
Raymond Lewis, the farmer who lived here before us, was born in this house shortly after his parents moved here in the early 1930’s. Although he raised cattle, his parents had been market gardeners and it is our nearest neighbour, Glad, who has been the fount of all knowledge regarding how the land here was used before we arrived. She too was born here, in the house just above ours on the other side of the lane, and went to school with Raymond. She has a prime view over our slopes.
It was she who told us that we were planting our new orchard on the site of the Lewis’ old orchard, that the hollies by the Milking Barn were harvested each year for wreaths destined for the Christmas Market in Bath and that the extra-scented, large violets we found growing everywhere were wrapped in leaves and tied with cotton for spring posies. When we expressed amazement at finding ‘wild’ gooseberries and redcurrants in our farthest hedgerow, Glad said that it bordered the field where the soft fruit had been grown and so we realised that they had arrived through the actions of thieving birds.
Another piece of growing history she imparted was to do with the ramshackle shed half way down the field in front of the house. We had been charmed by this little structure from the first time we saw it, but couldn’t work out what it had been used for. Made from a motley collection of wood and reclaimed corrugated tin sheeting and open on two sides it is barely high enough to stand up in. It evidently hadn’t been used by Raymond’s cattle, and it was too far from the house to have had any obvious purpose such as a vegetable or wood store. The clue to its use was revealed the winter after we arrived, when clearing the mess of bramble from the hedge that runs up behind it.
There in the undergrowth were a dozen or so terracotta rhubarb forcers. Unfortunately all but a couple were broken beyond use, but it was suddenly clear what the little shed had been used for. We asked Glad at the first opportunity and she confirmed that it had been ‘the rhubarb forcing hut’, which is how we have referred to it ever since. We have often imagined Mr. and Mrs. Lewis in there in deepest winter, inspecting the covered crowns by candlelight (as they still do in the Yorkshire rhubarb triangle to prevent the stalks colouring) and then carefully harvesting armfuls of the pale pink stems to take to market. Now it provides shelter for the sheep that graze our pastures and has sometimes protected us from sudden summer downpours when the water runs off the roof in sheets.
We have three varieties of rhubarb in the Kitchen Garden here which take us through spring and early summer; Timperley Early, Champagne and Victoria. The first is, not surprisingly, said to be the earliest, and has always been so for us. We have found it possible to force it for stems in February. The other two are later and tend to come together if left uncovered, but by forcing one of them and leaving the other – on a yearly rotation – we can have rhubarb until June. Beyond that and it can become a little long in the tooth and green to eat fresh, but is still perfectly serviceable for jam. When forcing rhubarb it is important to only cover part of the crown and, when ready to harvest, to take the slenderest stems and leave the strongest to feed that part of the plant for the future. To allow it to rebuild its reserves you should then choose a different part of the crown to force the following year.
The flavour of forced rhubarb is so subtle that it needs the simplest of treatments to show it off to its best advantage. Most often I just roast it and serve with a creamy accompaniment of buttermilk pudding, pannacotta or, simplest, a mixture of whipped double cream and creme fraiche. I find orange, the customary partner of rhubarb, overwhelms this early season delicacy. However, judicious use of thyme or rosemary adds an unexpected counterpoint that suits this fruit that is actually a vegetable. It also has an affinity with the aniseed used here, but it’s not essential, so leave it out if you prefer.
The pastry is based on a recipe by Alice Waters of Chez Panisse, and is a fast and easy way to achieve a deliciously flaky result. Its success relies on using the best quality butter and flour and the very lightest of touches to ensure the pastry stays as cold as possible. If you are using open grown rather than forced rhubarb you will need to increase the quantity of sugar in the filling by at least 25g, depending on how tart you like your rhubarb.
200g plain flour, Tipo 00 preferably
150g unsalted butter
1 teaspoon icing sugar
A large pinch of fine sea salt
8 tablespoons iced water plus a couple more
500g forced rhubarb, trimmed weight
75g caster sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla essence
3 tablespoons ground almonds
1 teaspoon aniseed
2 teaspoons icing sugar
1 teaspoon water
2 tablespoons melted butter
Stalk trimmings from the rhubarb
5 tablespoons water
3 tablespoons caster sugar
Take the butter, still in its wrapping paper, and put it in the freezer for 20 minutes to harden.
Sift the flour into a bowl with the icing sugar. Add the salt. Remove the butter from the freezer. Unwrap about 2/3 of the block and, holding the end of the block in the paper, coarsely grate it onto the flour. To avoid grating your fingertips you may need to cut the very last of it into small pieces.
Using a sharp knife and rapid slicing and lifting movements cut the flour and butter together until the mixture resembles coarse gravel. The butter should be visible in a variety of different sizes, but few should be bigger than a pea.
Continuing to work as quickly as possible, sprinkle the iced water over the mixture 2 tablespoons at a time. Each time use the knife to mix the water into the flour and butter. When you have added all of the water the mixture should just start coming together, but there will still be dry flour visible. Use your fingertips to see it it feels like it will come together. If it seems too dry add another tablespoon or two of water – but no more – and mix through again. Then very quickly, using your fingers and not the palms of your hands, bring the dough together into a ball. Do not knead it or overhandle it. The dough should feel cold.
Lightly dust a piece of greaseproof paper about 40cm square with flour and place the dough onto it. Gently and quickly flatten the dough with the palm of your hand into a rough circle. Take a floured rolling pin and, using light, rapid movements, roll the dough out into a circle about 35cm in diameter, rotating the greaseproof paper in quarter turns after each pass. Reflour the rolling pin if it starts to stick. The pastry will be very short, so don’t worry about the edges cracking. Lift the greaseproof paper and dough onto a heavy baking sheet and put in the fridge for 20 minutes to chill.
Set the oven to 200°C (400°F, gas mark 6).
Cut the rhubarb into pieces about 8cm long. Put into a non-reactive (glass or ceramic) bowl. Sprinkle over the caster sugar and vanilla essence and toss together briefly. Leave to stand while the dough is chilling.
Remove the baking sheet from the fridge. Working quickly again, sprinkle the ground almond evenly over the pastry leaving a 5cm border. Arrange the rhubarb on top of the almond. You should have enough rhubarb for two layers. The first can be arranged somewhat haphazardly, and should use up any larger pieces. You may need to cut these in half lengthways to ensure they cook evenly. Retain the smaller stems for the top layer and arrange them more pleasingly.
Then, working around the circle, gently lift the edge of the pastry up over the rhubarb, folding, pleating and gathering as you go. Pinch it together quickly if any tears appear, since you want to keep the juices in as far as possible. Don’t worry too much about appearances though. You want to ensure that the pastry holds the rhubarb in place, but it is more important to get the chilled pastry into the oven quickly than for it to look primped and perfect.
In a small bowl put the aniseed or caraway seed, icing sugar and water. Stir until the sugar has dissolved. Add the melted butter and stir to combine. Brush this mixture generously over the pastry.
Put the tart straight into the oven and cook for about 40 minutes until the pastry is golden brown and the rhubarb bubbling.
While the tart is cooking put the rhubarb trimmings, water and sugar into a small pan. Bring to the boil, then simmer until the rhubarb has disintegrated and the liquid is syrupy. Strain the liquid off and, when the tart is cooked, gently brush this syrup over the rhubarb.
Serve warm with single cream.
Serves 8
Recipe and photographs: Huw Morgan
Published 23 March 2019
The snowdrops are just starting to hit their stride. Their new leaves and delicate white flowers pushing through bare soil have a freshness that is a welcome contrast to the prevailing mud and low light. It is also a time when, with straining post-festive season trousers, we tend to want to eat more freshly, craving simple greens and cleaner food as a balance to the richness common to many winter dishes.
The colours of the winter vegetable garden are as vital as the snowdrops, primarily green and white; leeks and Swiss chard, celeriac, turnips and parsnips. We have a bed of salsify which, after you have scrubbed and peeled the gnarly, whiskery roots, reveal flesh of an unexpected pristine, pearly whiteness. In the barn are the last of the stored potatoes. Then there are the brassicas; cabbages Savoy and Hispi, three types of British kale, one of Russian, Cavolo Nero and purple sprouting broccolis just beginning to form. However, the cabbages have suffered this year from the long, hot summer, with many not hearting up, and so we have been eking them out or using them raw in salads so that they go a bit further. This recipe uses just one large leaf per person.
Soups are the most regular feature of our winter eating – there is always one on the go – but they are most often made simply with one predominant vegetable. They are usually pretty fast affairs too, made on the hoof with quickly cooked onions, a limited number of flavourings and water straight from the tap. It can sometimes take half an hour or less to go from plot to soup bowl with a smooth, liquidised soup of carrot, pumpkin or parsnip.
This week, however, I felt like taking some time to make something with a little more care, which preserved the delicacy of the vegetables and featured a well-flavoured vegetable broth made with the trimmings. The addition of wholegrain hulled barley (rather than pasta or rice) and creamy cannellini beans makes for a particularly nutritious and filling soup. Barley has the added benefits of being rich in trace minerals and fibre, and has long been used medicinally to aid liver function and weight loss. Pearl barley can be used in its place, but is not a wholegrain, so lacking the benefits that they bring.
Although you could add any winter veg to this soup, the limited colour palette of green and white is refreshing and clean. Just looking at it makes you feel as though it is going to be good for you. If you have fennel, cauliflower, white beetroot or parsnip available, these could all be added to or replace any of the ingredients listed in the appropriate proportions. Although it is still a little early in the season, this soup is the perfect vehicle for a mix of foraged herbs and greens. So, if you are making this in a few weeks time, you could add wild chervil, wild sorrel, wild garlic, dandelion leaves, Alexanders or nettle tops to increase its somewhat virtuous, health-giving (and waistline-reducing) properties.
Savoy cabbage ‘Marner Grufewi’
INGREDIENTS
1 small celeriac, to yield 250g cleaned and peeled
1 medium turnip, to yield 250g cleaned and peeled
3 large leeks, to yield 250g cleaned and trimmed
1½ litres water
1 large bay leaf
A small branch of thyme
A sprig of rosemary
A piece of Parmesan rind (optional)
1 teaspoon green peppercorns
1 unwaxed lemon, juiced
3 large of cloves garlic
100g hulled barley
4 leaves of Savoy cabbage
200g cooked cannellini beans
A good bunch of flat leaf parsley
Sea salt
Olive oil
Serves 6
Celeriac ‘Prinz
Turnip ‘Navet De Nancy A Feuille Entiere’
METHOD
Start by making the stock. Scrub the turnip and celeriac well to remove all soil. Remove the leaves, then peel. Rub the celeriac all over with one half of the juiced lemon to prevent browning. Reserve the best, young turnip leaves and the tender young central leaves of the celeriac, if it still has them. Put the peelings and the older leaves into a pan with the water.
Remove any browning leaves from the leeks, then cut off the dark green tops and wash off any soil under a cold running tap before adding them to the stock pan. Wash the cabbage leaves thoroughly. Remove the thick midribs with a sharp knife and put them into the pan. Tear the cabbage leaves into pieces about 4cm square and reserve.
Remove the leaves from the parsley and reserve. Add the stalks to the stock pan. Add the bayleaf, thyme, rosemary, Parmesan rind (if used) and half a teaspoon of the whole green peppercorns, coarsely crushed. Use a sharp knife or vegetable peeler to pare a 6cm long piece of lemon zest, being careful not to include any pith, and add this to the pan.
Put the pan on a high heat with a lid on and bring to the boil. Reduce the heat to a gentle simmer and cook for about 30 minutes. Strain the stock through a sieve, discard the vegetables, herbs and Parmesan rind and return the stock to the pan with the barley. Bring back to a gentle simmer, removing any scum that forms with a slotted spoon. Cook on a low heat with the lid on for 40 to 50 minutes until the barley is soft, but still has some bite.
While the stock and barley are cooking prepare the vegetables. Put the juice of half the lemon into a bowl with 500ml cold water. Cut the celeriac into 1cm square dice and put immediately into the acidulated water, to prevent browning. Cut the turnip into similar sized dice. Cut the white parts of the leeks on the diagonal into slices about 1cm thick. Reserve the pale green leek tops. Peel and finely chop the garlic.
Warm 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a large pan over a low heat. Add the garlic and white parts of the leeks. Stir to coat in the oil, then put the lid on the pan and allow to sweat for about 10 minutes until soft and translucent. Stir from time to time. They should not take on any colour. Drain the celeriac and add to the leeks together with the turnip. Stir. Replace the lid and continue to sweat over a very low heat for about 20 minutes until almost cooked, stirring from time to time.
Add the barley and cooking stock to the pan of vegetables together with the cannellini beans and return to a low heat. Season the soup with plenty of salt and the remaining green peppercorns, finely ground.
Slice the pale green tops of the leeks very finely. Coarsely chop the reserved celeriac leaves and parsley. When the soup has returned to a simmer add the cabbage. Cook for 2 to 3 minutes with the pan covered. Remove from the heat while the cabbage leaves are still bright green. Throw in the finely sliced leek tops, turnip and celeriac leaves and parsley and stir well. Check the seasoning and add lemon juice to brighten the flavours.
Ladle into warmed bowls and finish with a good amount of your best olive oil.
Recipe & photographs: Huw Morgan
Published 26 January 2019
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