Pearl barley, rainbow chard and ricotta risotto


It's a common scenario. I'm standing stirring a bubbling pot of something on the hob (which makes me sound a little bit like a witch from Macbeth, come to think of it) or putting the finishing touches to a dessert using a tea strainer and a spoonful of icing sugar, invariably covering myself in a thin film of sugar in the process. I'm tossing together a salad and its dressing, or carving a piece of meat. Someone peers over my shoulder and says, "Looks good! Whose recipe is this?"

"Mine," I say.

By far the most common reaction is surprise, usually swiftly followed by a comment along the lines of "wow. I could never make up my own recipes - I have to follow cookbooks to the letter". Suddenly my culinary intrepidity is viewed with an awe and respect that I don't feel I really deserve. I don't believe being able to make up your own recipes is an immediate sign that a few years down the line you'll be the proud owner of three Michelin stars, unless perhaps you were able to make up recipes before you really even learned how to cook. No, making up recipes is, rather boringly, just down to mere practice. Until recently I hardly ever cooked from my head. I always had a cookbook to hand, and if I lacked a certain ingredient specified I would get all flustered thinking about what to use instead. My shopping list was a rigid specification of ingredients and exact quantities, and I would sometimes take two or even three different shopping lists for different recipes to town just in case one of the ingredients for one of the recipes turned out to be unavailable.



I've had no magical gastronomic revelations since then, no cookery classes or soufflé-making epiphanies. There is no secret to the fact that I can invent things from scratch; it's simply the result of a lot of hours in the kitchen and possibly even more hours watching food television, reading food books and magazines, and eating in restaurants. On top of that is the importance of confidence; once you've invented something and gained a positive reaction, you have more faith in your own ability and more drive to continue. I think one of the first recipes I ever invented was a Moroccan-style pheasant cooked with quince, pine nuts and spices. Delighted by the fact that it wasn't horrible, I persevered. The recipe wasn't ground-breaking, but simply a result of my extensive cooking from Middle Eastern cookbooks; I knew that quince would go well with gamey meat, and that cinnamon, turmeric and ginger make an excellent spice mix for a tagine. I now experiment with pretty much anything; if I read a recipe I like, I'll still usually alter or add at least one ingredient to give it my own personal touch. Desserts are my favourite to invent, often because I like to try out interesting combinations of fruit and spice. I can even bake cakes without a recipe now, which is widely regarded as the ultimate challenge. Again, it's no real expertise on my part, just the consequence of enough time baking cakes to know how a batter should look and feel before it goes into the tin.



I realised quite how far I'd journeyed from a recipe-constrained mentality yesterday when shopping in the market. I had a definite plan for dinner: I was going to make a risotto using some beautiful red rice I bought in Vercelli in April, pairing it with roasted peppers and cherry tomatoes, then a liberal sprinkling of fresh basil and homemade ricotta. I went to buy tomatoes. My favourite stall had sold out of the lovely little baby plum tomatoes I'm so fond of, and all the other stalls were charging extortionate prices for vine-ripened cherry specimens. Rather than dissolve into a panic, I had a further look around. There were some lovely yellow courgettes, so I got a couple of those to replace the tomatoes and add some colour to the whole affair. About to wander home, my eye suddenly landed on a huge bunch of rainbow chard. I have only seen it once before at the market; the last time I bought some to try out in a French dessert, tourte de blette. Whilst I'm eager to try that one again, I started thinking about the savoury possibilities of chard. Still in the risotto mindset, it struck me that a pile of creamy rice would be the perfect blank canvas for an outrageous splattering of coloured chard stalks. I bought the entire bunch.


How beautiful is this vegetable? I'm often inspired to wax lyrical about the beauty of my ingredients: the orange blush of an apricot, the glossy red flesh of a pepper; the nubbly rose-coloured skin of a lychee all send me into raptures of kitchen delight. This chard was no exception. It was so outrageously bright, almost neon in its pink, yellow and green hues. No wonder it caught my eye in the market. You rarely find so many gorgeous colours in one vegetable. The bright pink stems reminded me of early season rhubarb, but then there were the sweetcorn-yellow ones and the lime-green ones, all tapering into delightful bushy, cabbage-like leaves. I couldn't wait to see how these amazing colours looked on top of a risotto.



Even if you don't think you can invent recipes, risotto is usually an exception. Once you've figured out the basics (sweat onion and garlic, add rice, coat in butter, add splash of wine, bubble until absorbed, add ladle by ladle of hot stock until each is absorbed, stirring all the time), you can flavour a risotto with almost anything (I saw a recipe for a strawberry and radicchio one the other day - which sounds utterly horrible, yet I'm quite intrigued by it). Meat, cheese, fish, shellfish, vegetables - just as most things taste good covered in batter and deep-fried, most things taste good folded into the savoury, rich creaminess of a starchy risotto. I decided to make risotto largely because I had a big ice-cream tub full of homemade chicken stock in my fridge which needed using. I really would recommend making your own stock next time you have a roast chicken - all you do is chuck the bones into a big pan of water, add some chopped veg (carrots, onions, leeks and celery are all good), a couple of bay leaves, any herbs you have lying around, some peppercorns and some salt, and let it boil very gently, covered, for an hour or two. Although risotto is still great made with stock cubes, there's something rather satisfying about using your own stock, and the flavour is undoubtedly better.


For this recipe I used pearl barley, because I like its nutty crunchiness and warm beige colouring. The downside is it takes about an hour to cook, but you can just leave it to get on and stir it every few minutes. The individual grains retain their shape and bite, giving a much more interesting risotto than your usual white rice. It's also a bit healthier. For the base of the risotto I just used onion and garlic, stirring in my homemade stock, and then finishing with lemon juice and a good grating of nutmeg. I folded the leaves of the chard into the barley as it finished cooking, so they could soften and tangle themselves around the grains. The stalks I boiled in the hot chicken stock to add extra flavour before it went in the risotto. They were scattered over the barley at the end. I was pleased that they retained most of their colour; they weren't quite as outrageously neon by the time I'd boiled them, but still one of the more startling additions to a risotto I've ever seen.


Finally, a good sprinkling of lemon thyme, a grating of parmesan, and some cloud-like spoonfuls of homemade ricotta. I was genuinely surprised at how utterly delicious this tasted. I think it was all down to my homemade stock, which had an amazing depth of salty, savoury flavour. The nutmeg gave the barley a lovely warm note, and the lemon juice and lemon thyme a fresh zestiness. All this deep flavour worked extremely well with the tender chard stalks, which have a very slight bitterness about them, like spinach. The contrast between the hot, salty, flavoursome barley grains and the cool, mellow tang of the fresh ricotta was incredible. I'm not sure how it would work with vegetable stock, but I'm sure it would still be excellent, in which case this would be a very very good vegetarian main course - it's far more delicious than most meat-based dishes I've eaten recently. I have a feeling I'm going to make this again and again, especially because I still have half the chard left in my fridge (along with those yellow courgettes, which were sadly relegated once I acquired my more aesthetically pleasing option).

Does the idea of creating recipes make you break out in a cold sweat? Or do you agree that it's just the culmination of a lot of practice?


Pearl barley, rainbow chard and ricotta risotto (serves 2 generously):

160g pearl barley
Olive oil
1 onion, very finely chopped
3 cloves garlic, very finely chopped
Butter
About 1-1.5 litre chicken stock (if you run out before the barley is cooked just use boiling water)
A bunch of rainbow chard (about 8 stalks and leaves)
1 tsp freshly grated nutmeg
Juice of half a lemon
A few sprigs lemon thyme
Salt and pepper
Parmesan, to serve
About 150g ricotta (homemade is obviously best!)

First, put the stock in a lidded saucepan and bring to a simmer. Keep hot on a low heat. Slice the chard stalks into 1-inch lengths and place in the hot stock. Simmer until the stalks are tender to the point of a knife, then set aside and keep warm.

Heat a little olive oil in a heavy-based non-stick pan and fry the onions and garlic until soft and translucent. Add a knob of butter and leave it to melt, then add the barley. Stir it around to coat it in the butter for a couple of minutes.

Add a few ladlefuls of stock - it should hiss and bubble when it hits the pan. Put the pan on a medium heat and stir the barley, waiting until it has absorbed all the stock before adding another ladleful. Repeat this process for about 40-60 minutes until the barley is mostly tender but still has a little bite.

Just before the barley is ready, when there's still some liquid in the pan, roughly shred the chard leaves and stir them into the barley to soften and wilt in the heat. Grate in the nutmeg, juice in the lemon and strip the leaves from the thyme and add them too. Season to taste.

Pour the barley into serving bowls and top with the cooked chard stalks. Grate over a little parmesan, and crumble over the ricotta.

ProCook: a review


I was recently sent a couple of things by ProCook to review. ProCook was set up in 1996 as a small family business, but has rapidly expanded to become the UK's leading specialist cookware company (they've also been recognised by Saturday Kitchen and Grand Design). They offer own-brand cookware, knives, utensils and bakeware that are built to last, as evidenced by extensive guarantees, and have 17 stores around the UK as well as a very easy-to-use website. They even have an own-brand ProCook kitchen clock; a quick glance at their website will show that they're pretty equipped for catering to all culinary needs, from aprons to pestles and mortars. I'd heard of the brand before but never tried any of their products, so I was interested to see how I got on with them.




The first item I was sent is a chopping board from the new ProCook beech utensil range (the collection also includes rolling pins, spatulas, and wooden spoons). These items are crafted in one piece from natural beech and treated with natural mineral oil for durability. There are three different varieties of chopping board: double-sided, smooth, and thick cut. The smooth boards have silicon feet to keep them in place (which I've never seen before on a chopping board, and is a good idea), and the thick cut board (3.2cm thick) has hand holes in the sides. I was sent the double-sided board, which on one side has a groove running around the edge. It's a very practical feature - I often get frustrated when chopping things like fruit on boards because the whole thing becomes a horrible waterlogged puddle. The same goes for when you're trying to carve a freshly roasted chicken, and those delicious juices are just running everywhere, off the board and onto the kitchen worktop. Not ideal. The grooved side of the chopping board dispenses with this annoyance, catching all that precious liquid. The other side is smooth, for kitchen tasks like dicing, where you want to just be able to scrape all your fruit or veg off the board into a pan or bowl.


I've used this board for a variety of tasks now, and am mostly pleased with it. The only fault I can spot is the texture of the wood. It feels quite rough, and even after its very first contact with a knife the board had quite a few scratches in. Because of this rough surface, fruit juice just soaks into the board rather than running into the grooves along the side, which seems to defeat the purpose of having them there in the first place to catch it. It also means the board is prone to stains; if you're chopping something like beetroot on there, I'm not entirely sure it would wash off completely (I had a hard time getting the pomegranate stains off the first time I used it). I'd suggest if you're going to use these wooden boards, getting a couple and keeping them separate: one for cooked food, one for things like raw meat and fish. Having chopped some garlic on this board I noticed a rather garlicky taste from the banana cake I then sliced on it (after washing it). I think because of the way the wood scratches, particles of food might linger in there, so for hygiene and taste reasons it would be best to use different boards for different things.


However, you can't fault the board on aesthetics; I only normally use white plastic chopping boards, and after using this I am a convert to the wooden variety. Food looks so much better presented on one of these; I would happily place it in the middle of the table underneath a large loaf of bread or some cheeses and invite guests to dig in with a knife. It also makes the rather tedious task of chopping and dicing marginally more pleasurable; at least it looks pretty and you feel rather like a rustic country housewife taking it out of the cupboard (or is that just me?) Maybe it's more of a presentation than a practical item, though ProCook do recommend rubbing the boards with olive oil occasionally to keep them at their best, so that might be the answer to the porous wood problem. These and the smooth boards come in three different sizes, with prices starting from £5, and I think I'm going to treat myself to one, purely for the purpose of being a better setting for the food I photograph than a hideous piece of plastic that, once white, has been so battered and beaten by my cookery antics that it is now a rather murky shade of brownish grey and does not make a good backdrop for anything. Except maybe the bin.


I was also able to try out the new range of Gourmet Steel Saucepans, which features four different sized saucepans, various frying pans, and a stockpot. They're well designed, and clearly have the needs of people who actually cook in mind. The glass lids and handles don't get hideously hot so you can still lift the lid off during cooking without reaching for gloves. The handle is also easier to use than some of my other pans, which just have a knob that is pretty tricky to lift when you're encumbered by oven gloves. 


The lids also have little holes in on each side to allow drainage - no need for a colander when boiling vegetables or pasta - and the holes come in two different sizes, suitable for draining pretty much anything. The saucepans also have a lip for pouring, which is quite handy and has already saved me causing a lot of mess. The handles are sturdy and easy to grip, and even when full of liquid the pan is pretty easy to manoeuvre. The finish on the saucepans isn't really non-stick, as you'd expect from a frying pan, but I've made a paella and a stir-fry in it and had no real problems with food sticking or burning. Maybe avoid using it to scramble eggs or cook pancakes, but other than that it's a great, sturdy pan ideal for most kitchen tasks.

For more details about the ProCook range (they don't just do chopping boards and pans), visit their website.


Fruit picking at Medley Manor Farm


I finished my second degree a week ago today. After a very pleasant afternoon spent in the pub and dinner out with friends, I awoke the next morning full of anticipation, determined to spend the day doing nothing at all in celebration of the end of eighteen years of full-time education. Three hours later, I was bored out of my mind. I just don't do doing nothing. I had grossly over- (or perhaps under-) estimated myself in planning my days of freedom. I decided I would go and buy myself a completely new wardrobe. I had forgotten that I hate clothes shopping and am ultimately a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl. I decided I would laze around in bed all day. I had forgotten that I am a morning person and the thought of sleeping in past nine thirty disgusts me. I decided I would take a day off exercise. I had forgotten that I am nursing a fairly intense endorphin addiction and find being kept away from the swimming pool for more than 24 hours cripplingly painful. Ultimately, I was at a loose end, desperate for something to distract me from crushing, post-dissertation boredom.



I can't remember why it occurred to me then, but I recalled that for over a year now I'd been meaning to visit Medley Manor Farm, a short bike ride out of central Oxford. In the summer months they do Pick Your Own; I think their most popular crop is strawberries, but they also have broad beans, spinach, gooseberries, currants, raspberries and asparagus in season. The farm is down Binsey Lane; it's a very pleasant walk or cycle down a little lane surrounded by fields and plants, the perfect antidote to the rather hectic life of an Oxford Masters student. I could practically feel the stress of the last year melting away as I cycled along, listening to the birds singing, full of anticipation for freshly-picked strawberries and an afternoon of mindless activity that didn't require a single medieval text to be read.





I hadn't been to a Pick Your Own farm for at least a decade, and probably more like a decade and a half. I have vague memories of picking strawberries as a child with my parents, but seeing as I was a hugely fussy eater until the age of sixteen I doubt I ever actually sampled the crop I picked and took home. It's the same as sweets: I used to be obsessed with them as a child, though I didn't actually eat them. I would buy them with my pocket money and hoard them in a little box, fascinated by how many different colours, flavours, textures and types comprised the genre of the humble sweetie. I hesitate about admitting this part, but it might amuse my readers, so here goes: I even designed an Excel spreadsheet, at the age of about seven, in which I would catalogue all the different types of sweets I possessed and how many of each. Lord knows how I've turned out to be a relatively socially competent individual; the Excel spreadsheet and obsessive hoarding of sugary goods were certainly not good omens.



Fortunately, I am now a greedy fruit-lover (and no longer hoard sweets, though I do still make spreadsheets), so the notion of Pick Your Own holds an irresistible allure. Mass-produced supermarket fruit is fine, but it definitely lacks the flavour of something grown on a smaller scale. Largely because of the production processes, but also because the most supermarket-suitable varieties of fruit are not always the most flavoursome. There are so many different types of strawberry, but you'll rarely find anything other than the Elsanta variety in the shops. Imagine my delight upon entering Medley Manor Farm and finding a field of strawberries, with little signs on posts marking off at least ten different varieties. I went from row to row, admiring the changes in shape and colour, and (slightly naughty, but still) nibbling one of each to sample their differences.



There's a certain excitement that goes hand in hand with strawberry picking: the flash of scarlet catching your eye from between a canopy of drooping leaves, indicating a berry ripe and ready for plucking, is almost addictive. I filled a big plastic punnet in what felt like no time at all, stumbling across ripe fruit after ripe fruit. I love the way you can find a plant that seems to have nothing but green, hard berries on it, and then suddenly you'll see a plump, crimson gem nestling under all the leaves just as you're about to move on. It's immensely satisfying to feel like you've chosen your berries, rather than having them packed into a punnet for you by the supermarket's supplier. You can get enormous fat, juicy specimens, but also delicious smaller, slightly tarter varieties all in one box. I tried to mix and match a few of the strawberry varieties, mainly out of curiosity, picking a few from each row, though the biggest and ripest were in fact the Elsanta - I guess that's why the supermarkets like them. They had the most pronounced strawberry flavour, but I found a few of the smaller, slightly sourer types more interesting.



Next, onto raspberries. I clearly have no recollection of raspberry picking as a child, because I was quite surprised to see how tall the raspberry plants grow. It was like plucking grapes off a vine. These are my favourite fruits to pick: I love their slightly soft, almost furry texture, and the way the ripe ones slide off their stems leaving a little white cone. You can tell when they're ready to pick more by the feel of them than the look: some bright pink berries may seem ready for picking, but unless they give slightly and come away from the stem with little resistance, they're best left on the plant. There were two different varieties: Tulameen and Glen Ample, both of which I recognise from supermarket labels. The Glen Ample were slightly smaller and squatter than the Tulameen, and also a little sharper in flavour. They were both huge compared to the stunted, often quite hard raspberries you get in the shops; almost the size of small strawberries, and each one perfectly formed. The ripe ones were a joy to eat, so soft you could crush them with your tongue, and bursting with sweet-sharp juice. I got quite stained fingernails from picking these.


Gooseberries came next; I didn't go too crazy with these because I wouldn't be able to eat them raw, and would have to come up with a use for them (they're now in the freezer until I think of the perfect way to show them off). I was also slightly put off by the thorny bushes; at one point I couldn't tell if it was blood staining my fingers or raspberry juice. Probably a bit of both. However, these gooseberries were beautiful: really round, plump and firm. They were hanging off their bushes in abundance; I think I might have to go back and get some more. I've definitely never seen any that big in the markets, and their larger size is a big plus from a practical point of view: for the same weight, fewer individual gooseberries to top and tail.



Last but certainly not least, currants. I love currants. I always forget this because you don't really see them in the shops, and they only appear in markets for a very brief period of time, but having sampled the ones I picked I'm a true currant convert. You think of summer berries and often forget about the currants, but combined with the sweeter, redder berries they add a real je ne sais quoi: I think it's both their firmer texture and also their almost grassy, fragrant, sour juice. There were lots of blackcurrant bushes, and a few redcurrants, though the farmer told me that the redcurrant crop hadn't been very good this year, perhaps because of weather conditions. I managed to snaffle the few remaining ones, hanging like jewels near the ground on their bushes. They were huge, much bigger than the diminutive berries I've been buying from markets, and so fresh and shiny. The blackcurrants were harder to pick, as you have to prise each individual berry off its branch (they don't grow on a little stalk like redcurrants). I got half a punnet of currants, and then decided it was probably time to pay for my spoils, before I bankrupted myself with berries.





I've been eating this enormous hoard of berries for about a week now, and I cannot stress enough how delicious they are. It might sound obvious, but they are so much better than anything I've ever bought in shops or even markets. I guess because, unlike shop berries, they are picked at the absolute pinnacle of ripeness, rather than a bit early so they're still firm and transport better. The raspberries had sort of welded together in a squashy, juicy mass by the time I had rattled them home in my bike basket, which I see as a very good sign: it shows they were perfectly ripe. They tasted no worse for it; in fact, I think they tasted better, because they had turned more juicy. The strawberries actually tasted of strawberries; they were sweet rather than tart, and full of fragrant juice. The currants are the perfect match for the strawberries, providing a lovely sweet-sourness. One of my favourite ways of eating this mix of berries is stirred into porridge: the creaminess of the oats balances out the sourness of the currants, and then you have the gorgeous juicy strawberries and raspberries for texture and sweetness. They're also delicious on muesli, or served with vanilla ice cream. I thought about using them in a recipe - like the Czech bubble cake - but I think cooking fruit this perfect would be a bit sacrilegious. These are best eaten pure and unadulterated.



Having said that, though, I think a summer pudding would be the perfect thing to do with them: that way you keep each individual berry intact, with all its unique qualities, but create something rather special. I am going to go back and pick some more with this in mind. I'd really recommend a trip to Medley Manor Farm if you're at a loose end and want something to do. I found the whole experience incredibly relaxing; I was the only person in the raspberry field the entire time, strolling up and down the plants in the sunshine, plucking fat red berries from the leaves. It felt very old-fashioned and generally wonderful. In this hectic day and age, where food is normally something procured in a rush in a horrible crowded supermarket, it's so rewarding to be able to spend some time picking your own and being reminded of where your food comes from and the effort that goes into growing it.

The fruit is also quite good value: initially it seems more expensive than the supermarket, but that's because you end up with more than you'd normally buy, as the punnets are so large. I bought two huge punnets of raspberries and strawberries (about a kilo each), a punnet of currants, and half a punnet of gooseberries, plus some wild garlic (there's also a mini farm shop there selling things like garlic, beans, potatoes and spinach), for £14, which isn't bad considering the far superior quality and the sheer enjoyment of picking your own. I can't wait to go back.

(Click here for a guide to PYO farms in the Oxfordshire area)


Riverford dining at Jacobs & Field


Last week I went to Jacobs & Field in Headington for an evening of eating hosted by Riverford Organics. For those of you who haven't heard of either, Jacobs & Field is a lovely little deli/cafe in Headington, about 15 minutes by bike out of Oxford, and Riverford Organics are one of the biggest suppliers of organic vegetable boxes in the country. They deliver fruit and veg (around 47,000 boxes a week) from their various farms around the country to your door, and their Devon Farm is home to the award-winning Field Kitchen restaurant, where chef Jane Baxter dishes up all sorts of exciting creations using the vegetables as the main ingredient. When I first signed up to the veg box scheme I got a free copy of her cookbook, and I love its simple approach to making the best of good-quality fruit and veg. The Jacobs & Field evening, organised by Jake Swinhoe, who supplies boxes to Oxford, was a chance to sample this sort of cooking, using the best of Riverford's produce, in an informal setting.

I thought the idea behind this was great - everyone was seated rather haphazardly at an array of tables (the restaurant was definitely filled beyond capacity, and I felt a bit sorry for the waiting staff who had to pass our plates to other diners so they could reach us) often meaning you'd be sat with people you've never met before, which I think is a great idea - there's nothing like good food to get conversation going, and there's none of that pressure you get in a hushed, expensive dining room to sit silently in reverence of the food and the chef. I also enjoyed the complimentary mint and elderflower presses were were given on arrival - they reminded me a bit of the lemon and mint drink I had in Damascus that I've raved about so much.

We started off with a bowl of fat, juicy, marinated and stuffed olives before moving on to the starter: pea soup with lemon oil and "halloumi croutons", and bruschetta of broad beans and ricotta. The halloumi croutons were really just pieces of halloumi in the soup, but they worked very well: peas always need something slightly salty to bring out their sweetness (think pea and ham), and the cheese also had a nice chewy creaminess to it to contrast with the soup. The bruschetta was rather too toasted to attempt to manipulate with cutlery, but the fat, sweet broad beans were perfect with the ricotta cheese. Broad beans can sometimes taste quite bitter, especially later in the season, but these were delightfully soft against the crunchiness of the bread.



The main course was practically overflowing on the plate, a rustic style of presentation that I like for its generosity (as you will know if you read this blog at all, I am greedy). We had slices of cured meats (chorizo, parma-style ham and a fennel salami), a potato salad with watercress pesto, grilled courgettes with cherry tomatoes and spinach, and - my favourite - fennel gratin. This was amazing: beautiful soft yet still crunchy pieces of fennel in a cheesy, creamy sauce, their fresh aniseed flavour preventing the combination from cloying. They went incredibly well with the salty ham and the delicious pieces of sourdough bread we were given - this was proper sourdough, the kind that reminds you why it's called sour dough. I used it to soak up the gratin sauce. This was a good idea.



Next came the cheese course. I don't think we were told what type of cheese it was, but it came on a little cracker with a delicious dollop of chutney/relish. Finally, for dessert, we had Eton mess and gooseberries in honey saffron custard. I can't comment on the Eton mess, because I hate it - it's my least favourite dessert, mainly because I don't like whipped cream, but also because it's ubiquitous on the menus of so many formal dinners I've been to despite being possibly the laziest, most unglamorous pudding in the world. I have strong feelings about it - though no offence to Riverford, because I can see how it's a good dessert to show off their fantastic strawberries. The gooseberries were delicious: the dessert was rather like a creme brulee without the crunchy topping, the saffron custard delightfully thick and rich, the tartness of the juicy gooseberries a welcome contrast. It would have been nice to have a bit of texture in there, though - a crunchy topping, or some nuts, or a biscuit to accompany it. But again, that's my greed talking.

It was nice to see a meal in which vegetables and fruit played a starring role, rather than a big lump of meat. We had ham and salami, but it was included, I think, to bring out the beauty of the vegetable accompaniments rather than the other way round. Everything was really delicious (my favourite being that wonderful fennel gratin) and yet quite simple in conception and presentation. I've definitely been inspired to do some more cooking with Riverford produce, and also to pay further visits to Jacobs & Field - if you haven't been and are looking for something to do in Oxford, I suggest you go up there and sample some of their cooking. Their sandwiches (I was greedily eyeing the chalkboard menu while waiting for the starter) look incredible, their sourdough bread is sublime, and it generally seems like a bit of a paradise for a keen food-lover (I'm not going to use the word 'foodie', because I absolutely loathe it).

Also, a big thank you to Jake, Riverford and Jacobs & Field for organising this - I can't wait to go to the next one.


Cheese tasting with Davidstow and Nathan Outlaw


This week I was lucky enough to be invited to a wine and cheese pairing evening with two-Michelin-star chef Nathan Outlaw, organised by Davidstow Cheddar. If you watch Great British Menu (and if not, why not?) you'll perhaps know of Nathan as I do - talented chef, lover of all things piscine, and pioneer of sea buckthorn, a coastal shrub with very astringent berries that formed part of his locally sourced menu on the programme. Naturally, I was thrilled at the invitation. Nathan has been working with Davidstow Cheddar - Davidstow being just down the road from his award-winning restaurant - to produce a series of recipes using their cheese, a couple of which I've tried recently. The purpose of this evening was to sample some of these recipes, try a range of Davidstow cheeses (including several exclusive varieties not for sale in the shops) complemented by a range of wines (chosen and discussed by Guardian wine writer Fiona Beckett), and hear a bit more about the production of Davidstow cheese from cheese grader Mark Pitts-Tucker.




After I'd sampled a Davidstow Cornish Crackler cheese and potato pasty (deliciously flaky pastry and tangy melted cheese...I could probably have just eaten those all night), we sat down to a brief introduction from Mark about the process of making Davidstow cheese. He stressed the difficulty of a process that uses a variable raw material (milk is not the same all year round, and can even vary according to the time of day), yet tries to achieve a consistent product. Bigger dairies and suppliers tend to standardise their milk before the cheesemaking process, whereas Davidstow take the milk in its natural form and adjust the cheesemaking to suit it. As Mark explained, if you have such a high quality raw material, it's an "offence punishable by death" to tamper with it. Cheesemaking, he believes, is a mixture of nature and nurture: working around the raw product by altering the production process. Mark tastes hundreds of samples of cheddar to ensure each batch is perfect: it is important to find the right balance between body, flavour and texture. Because he was previously involved in cheesemaking before he became a grader, Mark is able to link the taste of the cheese back to his knowledge; if there are any problems, he is able to pinpoint them to a specific part of the cheesemaking process.

The first cheese we sampled was the Davidstow Classic cheddar. Most cheddar on the market is aged for eight to nine months, whereas Davidstow age this one for twelve to thirteen. Because of the slower maturation process, the cheese is more complex with a greater depth of flavour. Mark highlighted the importance of the aftertaste; good cheese should always leave an aftertaste, but one that is not too powerful. We ate this cheese alongside a Voyager Estate Chardonnay 2007; Fiona explained that most people are "very conservative" about cheese and naturally assume red wine is the right choice, yet often the oaky notes in a white like this one can complement the flavours better. She suggested that in this case, the wine is doing the job a piece of fruit on a cheeseboard would normally do, by providing sweetness to offset the richness.



Nathan discussed his recipes for Davidstow, remarking that it had been a challenge to come up with them, as the cheese is of high enough quality to stand on its own. However, he has produced over twelve recipes so far, and if the cheese scone we then tasted was anything to go by, he had successfully taken an excellent ingredient and raised it to new heights (although he did say the recipe took him several attempts to perfect). The cheese scone features Davidstow classic in its mixture, and is topped with pickled celery, grilled Cornish Crackler (another Davidstow cheese, and one I will discuss momentarily), and a slice of ripe fig. The real star here is the pickled celery: it was sweet and crunchy, providing a beautiful freshness and textural contrast to complement the rich cheese and fluffy scone.



The next cheese on the menu was Davidstow Lighter, which has 30% less saturated fat. As Mark observed, the notion of a lighter cheese is "an oxymoron for the cheese purist". However, he explained that there is a growing market for lower fat cheese products, and that the Davidstow version is designed to deliver on flavour but not be overpowering. We drank Camel Valley Pinot Noir Rose Brut with the lighter cheese, and sampled Nathan's recipe: grilled pear and pickled walnuts with the Lighter Classic on toast. Again, this was a perfect harmony of sweetness and richness, with a lovely bit of crunch from the walnuts. I too was sceptical about the idea of a low fat cheddar, but it really does deliver everything you'd want from a cheddar, without the horrible rubbery texture I normally associate with attempts at low fat cheese.


Next up was the extra mature Cornish Crackler, which is matured for 18-20 months. Mark described it as possessing a "flinty" texture, breaking up on a board like shrapnel when cut. This is because of its low moisture content. The reason for the name 'crackler' is that the cheese is studded with crunchy pieces of calcium lactate, a natural byproduct of the maturation process. Apparently this cheese "creeps up and mugs you in a nice, stylish kind of way": it's mature, but not overpoweringly so, and its flavour builds slowly, with a wonderful creamy aftertaste that is very moreish. I just loved the little bits of crunch, they were so unusual for a cheese. With this we drank Quinto do Crasto, a red wine made from the same grapes as port. The undisputed highlight of the evening was Nathan's recipe, an amazing smoked mackerel and Crackler quiche. I have never tasted such a beautiful quiche; the filling was so light and airy, but with a gorgeous depth of flavour from the mackerel - "my fish", as Nathan called it. I had two pieces of this quiche and am still fantasising about it. The recipe is here.


While I was still snaffling pieces of quiche, we moved on to three cheddars that are not commercially available - naturally, I was quite excited by this notion of exclusivity. Firstly, a three-year old cheddar that can only be found commercially at Nathan's restaurant; in fact, he graded it himself. Mark described it as "as flinty and rugged as the Cornish cliffs but as soft and smooth as the fields around it". He was right about its texture; it was very crumbly, breaking off in jagged shards. Like "native oysters", Nathan believes this cheese should stand alone rather than be used in cooking. The appearance of the cheese was very interesting; it was covered in a white bloom rather like chocolate that has been left out for too long. This is the calcium lactate that gives the Cornish Crackler its crunch. It was once considered a fault in cheesemaking; now it is highly prized and difficult to achieve, the sign of a great cheese. This cheese "envelopes you with a pleasant hug", as Mark said. It was reminiscent of parmesan in its strength, but had much more nuttiness to it. For this reason, Fiona partnered it with Barbadillo Amontillado Sherry, the sweetness and dried fruit aromas of which worked perfectly. 


Next came the four year old cheese, which Mark described as "moving the boundaries of what is possible in cheesemaking and keeping". Again, it was marbled with white calcium lactate. He suggested it has a dark chocolate quality to it, and I can see what he means: it has that intensity and strength and slight sweetness that you get from dark chocolate; the kind of intense burst of flavour that means you only want one piece rather than nine. We joked that this might be a better option for the Davidstow Lighter: it's so rich that you're guaranteed to eat less of it.



One of the qualities Davidstow pride themselves on is the creaminess of their cheese. Mark pointed out that when a lot of people think of very mature cheddar, they think of that mouth-puckering tartness that can be very unpleasant. This isn't the case with Davidstow, who see it as vital to create an identity that consumers buy into: they want people to buy Cornish cheddar because it is creamy and buttery, owing to the creaminess of the excellent milk produced in Cornwall. Good mature cheddar, Mark thinks, should produce a buttery feeling in the mouth, cause salivation, and taste almost juicy. By driving out moisture from the cheesemaking process you get a more stable product, but you lose those positive qualities.



Finally, a five year old cheese. This amazed me: it tasted like grilled cheese on toast. Somehow, in its raw form, it had a taste reminiscent of Welsh rarebit. I'm not sure why this is, or what part of the cheesemaking process gives it this flavour, but I immensely enjoyed it. I can't see how you'd want to do anything with this other than eat it and be astounded by the taste sensation. It is very strong, but not unpleasantly so, and has an incredible intensity of flavour and long-lasting aftertaste. We ate this with parma ham and bresaola; the cooked notes of the cheese matched perfectly with the saltiness of the meat. I can only imagine how it would taste in a rarebit.


This evening was a real eye- (and mouth-) opener for me. I had no idea about the complexities of cheesemaking; it had never really struck me that milk is such a variable product and therefore cheesemaking can be such an unstable process. Mark pointed out that people nowadays tend to have generally quite a good idea about wine, and how different vintages will differ in quality because of all sorts of factors involved in the winemaking process, yet they never apply those same principles to cheese. It's definitely changed the way I view cheese, and I'm now very keen to start experimenting more with different varieties in the kitchen. Starting, probably, with that incredible mackerel quiche. I'm especially eager to experiment after I came away from the event laden with Davidstow goodies, including a block of that oh-so-exclusive three-year old cheddar, and a beautiful slate cheeseboard (which had me in fits of excitement, because I'd been eyeing them covetously when the food was brought out on them during the evening).

A big thank you to Nathan, Mark and Fiona for such an interesting and enjoyable event, and to those who invited me; I feel very privileged to have been able to attend.