Things I have cooked this week

Clams, artichokes, elderflowers and definitely not Bernard Clayton Jr's recipe for a braided loaf

In the last twelve months or so since I came to this place, I have been quite humbled by the support that you’ve given me here. Thousands of you read these words every week.

Thanks to all of you who value my work, and to those who’ve subscribed, I now have a Bestseller tick in my profile.

Wow.

As a token of my appreciation, for the rest of this month, I’ve enabled an offer of a 50% discount on new subscriptions for the whole of May if you’d like to upgrade. And thanks to you all I am now able to call myself a paid writer.

Imagine that…

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Today there’s a recipe for an interesting loaf of bread, filled with poppy seeds, onions and paprika. There’s elderflower and cucumber vinegar, clams and squid.

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Somewhere in Berkshire

I have a burn on the back of my hand.

A long pink line of a bloody nuisance that just won’t heal, where I touched my skin against an oven tray of baking bread as I moved it in the oven. You would think that after two decades of burning myself, I might be immune, but they still hurt. This one scrapes against the clustered heads of the muted green and violet artichokes as I push my way in between the leaves to expose the small heads of deep purple that sit between the unfurled centres of the rosettes. Scraping away the thin layer of skin that had managed to heal against the rough edges of these thistle-like monsters. I take out the knife from the tan leather sheath that sits in my pocket. Tanner Bates is the man who crafted this leatherwork, cut and sewed it into a protective sleeve for what is one of my sharpest tools. It is a short outdoor knife that is dear to me. A gift. Made by hand by a man in a forge in Wiltshire. A handle carved from English yew, the thin stout blade hammered out from carbon steel, sharp enough for any task.

It is effortless as the tip cuts through the young stems of the flower heads of these Italian artichokes. I take just enough to make lunch, and a couple more with their architectural leaves to place in an old porcelain vase as they look so pretty.

I’m often asked what are my favourite things to eat or cook. I struggle for an answer, always as I love almost everything. The world of flavours is too large for me to place things in such meaningless categories.

I do love an artichoke though, it must be said.

I still have nightmares of running along Knightsbridge to the food hall at Harvey Nicholls in my less-than-white chef whites at eleven in the morning when the Chef had decided that he would give my two full containers of turned and braised globe artichokes to the staff. Ones that had been meticulously prepared, cooked au Barigoule with saffron and coriander seeds, little slivers of carrot and slices of grey shallots in their soupy white wine juices, rich with the slick of olive oil that would sit under a chunk of wild turbot on the lunch menu.