A love story

For you

Last week I wrote The Cookbook I sort of once wrote. The support that you gave me was incredible. Thank you for all of your kind words.

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And if indeed it is a love story as you have said, then it should be told.

A love of nature. A love of ingredients and the land they come from. A deep love of my craft. A love of smoke. A love of lemons. A love of simple food. A love of good olive oil. A love of the seasons and what they bring.

Crunchy croquettes of salt-cod brandade dipped in pungent aioli, or the brittle tan-coloured bark on a saddle of lamb that you can peel away with your fingers, prizing it away from the hard white fat, so you can wrap the canon inside, helping it crisp up beautifully in the pan. Lamb crackling.

Trout fillets, pressed for two days with ruby beetroot pulled from the garden, brown sugar and salt, crushed to a paste, then piled high with chopped dill, before wiping away to reveal garnet-coloured trout fillets ready to be dressed with honey, mustard and vinegar.

Whole celeriac, rescued from the raised beds before the deep winter frosts took them from me, buried in the smouldering embers of a wood fire for an afternoon so its skin turned black, hours later peeling away the fire-damaged crust, revealing a soft white earthy centre, magnificent with horseradish, salt, sour cream and blackcurrant wood oil.

The snap of a crisp sugar wafer.

The deep orange of the yolk of a freshly laid hen’s egg.

The smell of lemon blossom picked straight from the tree mixed with tiny black flecks of vanilla seeds as they sit together in a pan of warm cream.

Rubbing the zests from honey pomelo onto rough-cut sugar cubes, the oils from the skin of the citrus stain the hard crystals of sugar a yellowish pink, the sharp scent of grapefruit rubbed into your fingertips. It won’t come out all day.

Young garlic heads, blushed purple and grey, papery thin, baked with oil and salt till they’re the colour of caramel, soft and oily so when you squeeze the hot bulbs in your hands the pulp is forced through your knuckles. I love that.

The feel of a ball of proved sourdough as you spin it around with a baker’s tool, creating surface tension as you pull it. Dipping the edge of the blade in a jug of cold water then sliding it under the bôule as you spin it towards you, before placing it in a basket to rest. Sliding the razor blade into its lock to swiftly cut one neat line from twelve to six, misting the dough before baking, hearing the crust crackle as it cools on a rack.

Satisfying

Pommes Anna, the deep amber crispy concentric circles of salty potato cooked only with butter. Rotated slowly for an hour or so over a medium flame so a thick crust forms, yet under that outer layer is a soft yielding slice of potato, salt crystals sprinkled on top and leaves of freshly picked thyme.

Rich, silky potato purée, beaten with a Maryse so it slaps satisfyingly against the pan, emulsifying itself with the unholy amount of cold diced butter beaten into the hot purée, rolling a tiny quenelle off the tip of the spatula to pick up in my fingers. I know that it’s right just by touch. It will feel plump, but won’t stick to my fingers. Just right.

Fillets taken from a large wild sea bass. Gills still Barbie pink. Silver and grey skin, neatly scaled with a knife, run upward against them so they slide off in rows. The pearly whiteish, grey flesh precisely trimmed into a perfectly straight line, and rows and rows of precise small cuts run parallel along the lateral line, just enough to cut through the skin, barely touching the fish underneath.

I love these things.

So indeed it is a love story and it is one that I shall tell you here over the coming months. Perhaps a chapter a month.

I shall also tell you that after over two decades of solid work, I nearly threw it all away. Letting myself get to a point where I almost walked away from a profession I have dedicated my working life to. Completely disillusioned and burned out, pushed into a dark corner by those who should have known better.

That I rediscovered my love for my work. The love that never really left I think.

And so yes it is a love story.

A relationship with food that has always been with me in a world that I understand. I can find my creativity with ingredients. Simple ones, fancy ones, it doesn’t matter really. If I’m asked my favourite things to cook my brain almost freezes. I can’t really answer that question. I can’t really choose one ingredient over another if I’m honest. That would be unfair.

I look forward to this. I hope you do too.

Until Thursday

William