One year down the line, a thank you
An anniversary of sorts and a recipe for a celeriac baked in salt pastry
An anniversary
What began one year ago here for me has turned into something, that now I look back I would never have truly imagined. So very many of you have joined me here in the last twelve months, now slowly approaching two thousand of you, and today I find that just short of one hundred of you pay to read my words. It’s not about numbers, but they do manage to put things into perspective. That’s quite incredible, to be honest in the space of one year.
I scrolled through my long list of subscribers yesterday, those of you who’ve stopped by to read, to subscribe to what I put down here in the tap, tap, tap of keystrokes written in the small dark hours of the night at my desk as my house sleeps; as I read through the list of all of your names as I drop down, line by line, I wondered about you all. Individuals, all with their own lives and stories anonymously hidden away behind an email address in a database but connected through words. Though I know only perhaps a handful of you in person, the remainder I see dotted worldwide on a chart, shaded in muted tones of Substack orange in my dashboard. Far away destinations on a world map that tells me stories of places that I’ve never been. The places where you live.
Hello to you all.
Thank you for finding me.
At the end of January last year, I knew I needed a new creative project. Instagram now only wants money to promote my account it seems, controlling my reach unless I feed them ducats. I’ve reined in my output there. I do find that a shame if I’m honest. Posts that would normally garner traffic of hundreds and thousands now barely scrape three figures. I see this reported a lot by friends. In addition, advertising reach is now more expensive. Within the last twelve months, the Ad cost vs Reach ratio has tripled for my account. IG is a cruel mistress.
With a head full of words but without anywhere to write them, I found myself looking for an outlet. I had come across this platform before. I was interviewed by Brandon Moore, a chef from the United States for his newsletter, and by way of the odd essay I’d randomly found online that had found its way into my inbox via Substack.
I began by setting myself the task of publishing twice weekly, which initially was Monday and Thursday at eight am sharp. I think this worked, though I found that I lacked the writer’s discipline to find the schedule that allowed me to stick to that. I moved my publication days ad hoc, providing me with less rigidity, and enjoying the change to my writing itinerary, I wrote as the days found me, allowing me to write as I felt compelled rather than as a set task, bearing in mind that I tuck these quiet hours in alongside my work, real life and all that that entails, including the care of what I firmly believe to be the neediest Dachshund on God’s earth.
Slotting in my writing between my working life, I often leave things till the night before I publish or like today, write with the end goal of hitting send as I complete my final edit, hopefully reaching those of you who are still awake. Some of you have said that you’re surprised to see my emails arrive at three o’clock in the morning, answering awkwardly that I do this intentionally because I think it suits the large readership I have in the United States, who might be enjoying a quiet evening and have the time to read. Those of you in Europe (except the night owls), are tucked up in your beds, oblivious to the contents of your inbox except perhaps those of you like me, who often like to stay awake late into the small hours. I like the quietness of the night, I always have. I’m productive whilst the world slumbers. My sleep patterns probably won’t thank me for my erratic schedule, but here we are.
I have always worked to deadlines. A world of work that is governed by minutes, the omnipresent awareness of the clock that rules any professional kitchen, in charge of all who work there. ‘Two minutes chef’, ‘one minute chef’, ‘thirty seconds chef’, ‘coming now chef’. Every day, every evening, the relentless race to the end of the service, efficiency and perfection are the benchmarks that guide us. Deadlines set by others, now set by myself and my internal editor, deadlines that come and go, and ones that I do mainly adhere to.
The process of thought and writing all of it down emboldens me as a writer. Focusing on the minutiae of life and what I’ve learned through the years of my work, what I see, the ingredients that I work with, the people I meet, that I treasure and learn from. I am so fortunate to have a profession that inspires me to learn more and work that gives me a voice to share with you what I have learned through the years. I wish I could write more, but I know that time is a luxury I am unable to give myself.
Perhaps one day.
Celeriac
Jamie pulled a celeriac from one of the raised beds. Its gnarly, curled roots wound tightly, noodle-like around the base of the creamy, scarred, odd bulbous-shaped root, the winding fine system of radicles that cling to the soil, making them quite hard work to clean, especially if you wish to bake them whole. The elimination of as much soil as possible is of great importance, warm water, a toothbrush and a knitting needle ( the second job I can think of for a knitting needle, alongside piercing vegetables for pickling, are on the list of necessary items of kitchen equipment to keep handy ) are efficient tools for cleaning celeriac roots. Bugs and bacteria live quite happily in soil, so you really should wash your vegetables, despite what others may tell you.
Something as prosaic as celeriac seems to cause much confusion with many, as it seems to be something no one ever cooks at home. I don’t cook them at home either funnily enough. Only for other people. Something that lends itself to all manner of preparations, be it raw, pickled, braised, baked, pickled, smoked, puréed or fermented Tsukemono style.
Asking me if I might bake it in salt pastry for him, I gladly obliged.
Now here is something else that strikes fear into the heart of those of you who don’t cook. The salt baking of anything seems to raise an eyebrow here and there. A quite simple way of cooking root vegetables whilst keeping in their true flavours and effectively seasoning them at the same time. This is not the same as encasing something in a mound of salt. This is done by making a pastry, one that is not to be eaten, wrapping the cleaned and washed roots of your choice in a layer of said dough, then with wet fingers, sealing any cracks, then placing in the oven or the embers of a fire for an hour or two.
The vegetable concerned effectively steams itself inside a salty tough jacket, absorbing the flavours and seasoning from the dough as it hardens. When all is done you crack the pastry open, exposing the soft vegetable inside. This is brilliant. I urge you to try. It is not something for a midweek supper, but involves a little thought and planning, but will reward you well when undertaken correctly.
I was playing with flavours last week. Jamie is our head gardener and a forager with a seemingly limitless supply of knowledge on all that grows wild. If there was a professional forager then that is he, also he only eats a plant-based diet and has asked me to make his freshly picked celeriac interesting. I have always enjoyed the creativity that surrounds plant-based eating. As someone who cooks for a living, it is easy to hide behind a chunk of protein within a plate. Vegetables make you look at things differently. I very much enjoy the flavours of hedgerow foods and plant-based living, it is not a lifestyle I would easily embrace myself, as I think I would struggle with the absence of cheese and dairy in my diet, but I can certainly adapt to working that way.
After a morning of wrapping roots in a pastry flavoured with pine, rosemary and thyme with a prodigious amount of salt to enhance the flavour of the vegetables within, baking in embers, then with some ferments, citrus, and hedgerow bits and pieces from the larder. Things that are true to the land here. With a little green monk’s beard, the wonderful green vegetable that for me heralds the beginning of the end of the winter, we have a simple plate of plants.
Salt baked roots
This pastry should not be eaten as the salt content is high. It is to be discarded when the vegetables within are baked soft and tender. There is an element of wastefulness, but you’d probably make this only a handful of times in a year, so you could excuse yourself.
You will need for the pastry
300 g sea salt
450 g plain flour
1 tablespoon dried rosemary
2 tablespoons dried pine leaf
1 tablespoon dried thyme
50 ml oil
225 ml warm water
1 large celeriac, washed and cleaned thoroughly
A few Jerusalem artichokes, beetroots, carrots or whatever other roots you might like
How to
Take a celeriac, a few Jerusalem artichokes and a small beetroot or two. Clean and scrub everything well, dig out all of the stubborn bits of dirt in the roots of the celeriac, soaking away the filth in warm water. The other roots will benefit from just a good scrub and a rinse.
Take all of the ingredients for the pastry and mix well in a bowl to combine into a ball of dough. Knead for a minute to make a soft ball of pastry, then let it rest for an hour.
Roll it out on a floured table until you have a thin sheet of dough.
Cut out sections and encase the root vegetables neatly to ensure there are no cracks, wet hands will seal up any troublesome contenders.
Set an oven to about 160 Celsius and place the wrapped roots, side by side on a sheet of parchment on an oven tray and bake. The smaller pieces will be ready after around an hour. A celeriac the size of a pair of clenched fists will likely take two hours.
When the roots are done, remove them from the oven, the pastry shell will be quite hard, but inside the vegetables will be yieldingly soft. Crack them open with something heavy like a rolling pin and peel away the outer pastry. Let them sit and steam for a minute or two. Now you can slice things up, season and dress with a nice vinaigrette and some pickles, salt, olive oil, a little lemon juice and a grating of fresh horseradish. If you were minded then a few thin slices of good raw or smoked beef, salted anchovies or venison fillet dressed with a little sea salt, good oil and a handful of bitter leaves, as is right for the season would be a fine addition.
As I write this, in my head I have an idea for salt-baked carrots, baked whole, then sliced and smoked that might accompany a beef carpaccio.
I shall try this next week.
Finally
Next week for my paid subscribers I shall begin what I have promised you here in the previous weeks.
A month-by-month serialisation of what I hope will become over one year, a small book.
‘A Story of a Year’
It is not necessarily a cookery book filled with pages of recipes as you might expect. It is not The Cookbook I sort of once wrote, which I’ll keep for now, but it will be a quiet book that will walk through the evolving rhythms of the months of the calendar as they change through the year, offering you an insight into what I observe, what I cook and why. There will be recipes and techniques, some simple, some old-fashioned and some different. I will explore what inspires me, nature, where I might find ingredients and what I create over one year of work, month by month.
All being well, we shall begin next Sunday.
Until then
William
Congratulations Will, I’m so glad I found your writings. They add magic, inspiration and beauty to each week. Thank you
I have a celeriac in the fridge!