Things that are green

An apology, an anecdote and a recipe (sort of)

After a week of being completely lost for words, here we are again.

To the many new people who have recently joined here, on what in the last week seemed to me to be a newsletter hanging in the balance, with me unable to write anything at all it seemed, despite sitting for hours staring blankly at my screen, losing all concentration and then giving up in the middle of the night on a number of occasions, before I ended up having no sleep at all, I welcome you.

To those of you who have been waiting for me to publish, I can only apologise to you. I was completely stuck after too much roast lamb and chocolate at Easter last weekend, and then lost in the insecurities of imposter syndrome and unable to focus on anything other than videos of cats.

Back to business, at least I hope so.

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Everything’s becoming more green it seems

I have been worrying about all sorts of things recently. One troublesome subject that has been keeping me awake at night is the lack of buds or any sign of life on the large apple tree in my garden after I attacked it with a saw. A tree that last autumn bore us a glut of fruit, mainly covered in apple scab, mould and nasty-looking black spots, with the rest of the fruit already rotten as it dropped from the branches making a terrible mess of my lawn. Upon taking advice from John, a sagacious man who has spent his lifetime pruning and caring for the arboreal giants around us here in the parkland and who it is said, has only ever killed one tree in his life (and that was by accident, remarking to Jamie that it was most likely dying already). And on his counsel, I took it upon myself in midwinter to climb up about four metres on a damp afternoon, wedging myself firmly within the boughs of the tree, my feet pushed in at awkward angles, armed only with gumption and a bow saw, narrowly missing out on a crushed wrist as one huge vertical water shoot of about three metres, wrenched itself as it fell, twisting my arm between the trunk and the wall next to it.

I then proceeded to pollard the thing into the shape of a teacup (as recommended by the RHS), be it a very roughly hewn teacup, leaving only ugly stumps sticking out at awkward angles, sharp angles of sawn boughs silhouetted against the grey winter skies of Oxfordshire for me and all of my immediate neighbours to admire for the last few months.

I have fretted about what I had done since December.

With the cherry trees everywhere here in full bloom, old thick hedgerows alive with blossom, canopies of the blushed and fuschia pink petals of spring, the whites and creams of the plum blossom full of bees working frantically to extract pollen and nectar in the fug of perfume that is everywhere I walk, tight buds pushing open their as yet unfurled leaf shoots into the warm sunshine in the orchard well underway here in this little corner of England.

And then there is my apple tree standing stoically in my garden, stubbornly refusing to even offer me a glimmer of hope.

Broad beans sott’olio, burrata and artichoke

In spring or at least toward the end of our winter, the early arrival of Agretti is followed by early Italian sprue asparagus and long pods of broad beans. Rough-skinned pods, pale muted green, pulled apart along the seam to show their white fuzzy interiors and neat grey lines of oval-shaped young feves to be eaten straight from the pod, quickly blanched, sott’olio, or grilled whole and unopened over woodfire to blacken the tough pods, allowing the little beans to steam away inside. I always get a little ahead of myself here as in the kitchen garden, as the season for broad beans is summertime here. It would be too long to wait for summer if I’m honest, so my vegetable man selects a great tangle of Italian legumes for me to pod my way through.

Early Italian asparagus

Crudo

With exquisitely fresh Gilthead bream from the coast, its pearly white flesh sliced thinly in lateral slices from the fillets, the sharp redness of the bloodline telling me that this was caught last night, served very cold and raw, dressed with thin shards cut from the rind of salted bergamot oranges, and spoonfuls of peppery, grassy-green olive oil and the zingy sourness of citrus, with a handful of picked young leaves from the greenhouse, I can confidently assure myself that it is spring.

Gilthead bream crudo with bergamot

I stand in the grass outside my back door, early in the morning in my garden in this little old town with its arched medieval stone bridge under which the slow-flowing Thames passes lazily by, without shoes as I convince myself its not freezing, with the bluebells around my feet, the bright canary yellow of dandelions with their raggedy leaves that are so lovely picked into a salad with the soft contrasting leaves of the primroses that seem to carpet this part of the world. Looking up I’m focused on the silhouettes of the stubs of the ends of the branches against the pastel shades of the dawn sky above my head. Looking for evidence that I’ve not killed the apple tree that has stood here for decades.

If I look at the bark, at the points where there are junctions and knots, I see what might be a pinprick of red, like a teenage pimple, though I tell myself that it’s likely my eyesight playing tricks and the tree is either mightily pissed off with me or has completely given up.

Pickled magnolia

Foraged

The primroses that I find are added to a basket as I walk, to join ground elder, common sorrel, bramble shoots and nettle tips. They will make a small salad to plate alongside a piece of muntjac haunch roasted over a woodfire and rolled in a pan of smoked butter to seal the flavour whilst the juices rest. A spoonful of pickled magnolia petals in persimmon vinegar lends a tang of ginger to the assembly, with a crunch of the autumn’s blackberry salt for another flavour to add conversation between the ingredients. The young flavours foraged from the hedgerows and fields show the links between wild ingredients, of butter made from local cream, churned salted and smoked here by my hand, a cut of meat from a local farm, cooked over the wood that we cut last year, vinegars aged in the cellar to preserve what might grow on the trees and in fields.

I love that I have the skills to do this.

Muntjac, magnolia, foraged bits, smoked butter and blackberry salt

Asparagus

The early English asparagus has arrived. A true sign that the season has changed, but still my apple tree is quiet.

I must have killed it.

A vegetable that needs little more than a trim and a peel, then a quick dunk into boiling water. A minute tops. What indeed was all of the nonsense that we must tie asparagus spears into great bunches with string and boil them for ten minutes?

I have never understood the need to obliterate vegetables through cookery. It’s something that we British are famed for apparently, though it is said that the reason that France has such a huge repertoire of slow-cooked, softly braised dishes, mousses and purees, is that as a nation, their teeth were so rotten that no one could chew anything, so the texture of baby food for most dishes was de-rigeur. Not that our dental hygiene through the ages can have been any better, but I think it’s unfair to solely criticise the English on this.

English large calibre

I once remember a customer when I was first a Head Chef in a swish Mayfair restaurant, who had decided to send back a small portion of spinach one lunchtime that she believed to be undercooked. It was quickly stirred through a hot pan once again with a splash of water and a small chunk of butter, sent back out to the table, only to return again with instructions to ‘tell the Chef’ that the correct method for cooking spinach was for it to be placed in a pot of boiling water for at least five minutes before straining. Now it is often said that the customer is always right, and not wanting to disappoint the annoying old hag, and with her table now waiting for her foibles to be addressed so as to continue their lunch, we placed a handful of spinach into a pot of boiling water, looked at the clock and myself and my long-suffering sous chef Paul ( who stood next to me through thick and thin for about a decade, and indeed we once calculated that we had spent more time together than we had in fact with our partners over these years ), we watched, slightly aghast as the clock ticked by at what was in front of us. After five or so minutes there was what resembled a slick of algae on a summer pond on the surface of the pot, my cooks looked on nervously, and so with a sieve, we scooped what was left of the once green leaves into a small tray, attempted to blot it, (unsuccessfully ) spooned it into a dish and once again sent it out to ‘madame’.

She sent it back.

It was overcooked.

Jesus Christ.

The fat spears of the asparagus I’ve used so far this season are grown here in the English Wye Valley. Though like the broad beans, I also buy early Italian as I normally cannot wait for the poor weather here to sort itself out, and am rarely disappointed with what Italy has to offer. We have asparagus beds planted here at the farm, but they take a few years to get going, and must not be picked at all for the first few seasons, to ensure they establish themselves properly. The season starts with thin wiry sprue, then as they fatten the spears become intensely sweet and grassy. I like to trim the fat ones in that poncy way that most chefs like, it’s one nod to my pedantic ways that I can’t seem to shake. Once cooked, (boiling salted water for about one minute), I find it best not to get too clever with your dish. I have seen many dreadful things being done to asparagus in that place where photos and videos are shared. Anchovy fillets warmed in melted butter are a fine thing to spoon over the spears, with milled black pepper, a little picked marjoram and a grating of crumbly old parmesan. Or perhaps a spoonful of bright rich Hollandaise over the soft tips is always something that will bring a smile to your face, although spears grilled over coals so they blacken and char, with a sharp mustard vinaigrette with perhaps a little tarragon as they come from the fire and plenty of crunchy sea salt is also a very fine way to eat them. A poached duck’s egg with half a dozen spears, again with some fat Spanish anchovies and a few capers is something very lovely, but only if you like a soft yolk.

Anchovy and Hollandaise

Artichoke hearts and a sort of recipe

Cooked in a deep pan of water, wine, lemon juice and vinegar, trimmed into tight, neat shapes flavoured with thyme, garlic and peppercorns with a good glug of olive oil, the discarded lemons added to keep the artichokes company (I admit I like to chop the soft lemons when they have cooled as the skin is delicious as an addition to a vinaigrette), Artichoke hearts, cooked till tender, lifted on to a tray when cooled with a little of their juices before removing the choke with the twist of a spoon, cutting the heart into wedges before laying each piece on a hot grill pan to blister and char, the zest of a lemon grated over before tossing in sea salt and pepper. A whole burrata, torn in half to ooze cream on a plate with a few of the broad beans, some verdant green, freshly podded from their little skins, some from a jar that I prepared sott’olio with leaves of broad leaf roquette and a spoon of the oil from the jar of the beans.

And so it is spring, and everything is beginning to be much greener.

And my apple tree, if I crane my neck and look through narrowed eyes at the stumps high above, has a shoot.

A green unfurling shoot with a leaf at its tip.

Until Sunday, though I owe you a letter so keep an eye out this week.

And below I will share what can only be described as a delicious preparation for small peas and broad beans.

William

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Broad beans sott’ olio

It’s a way of preparation, so it's not really a recipe.

Broad beans, from Italy

If you took a kilo of broad beans in their pods, alongside one kilo of fresh peas, and popped everybody out into a bowl whilst in the meantime bringing a pot of water to the boil, all would start well.

Whilst waiting for the water to boil, take a small bunch of mint and pick the leaves from the stalks. Dont use spearmint. It will be horrid.

When the water is boiling add a good spoonful of salt, tip in the peas and beans and stir, then after about two minutes add the mint. Count to thirty and drain in a colander, tipping the little vegetables into a large bowl, then pouring over about a coffee cup of the best olive oil that you have.

Put your hand into your salt pig and crunch over plenty of salt and freshly milled black pepper. Leave it to sit for half an hour, then eat with whatever you like, whether that’s burrata, grilled fish, lettuce leaves, grilled meats or bruschetta. It is a combination that will confirm to you that winter has indeed passed.

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