Celeriac Rémoulade

Are more types of vegetables commonly available than when I was a child? I often read about the drastic decline in agricultural variety; and yet I can think of so many veggies – asparagus, kohlrabi, celeriac, sweet potato, fennel, Brussels sprouts, purple turnips, white turnips, beetroot, chard, snow peas, shallots, chicory, broad beans, red pepper – that I never ate or even saw as a child and which we now eat all the time.

I wonder, in fact, whether we have lived through the Great Decline – embodied in my family history by my grandmother's cooking: perfectly adequate, but regarded by her as a mimic of the Real Thing, that is, store-bought food, and accordingly bland – and are now experiencing a Great Resurgence? Or is this merely because I am wealthy, pretentious, and shop organic? I wonder.

One of my favourite vegetables, discovered only a few years ago, is celeriac. I had read about this vegetable, intrigued. I perused my recipe books, and contemplated how a tuber might taste earthy and yet still like bright green celery; I pored over descriptions of the knobbly root; I wondered whether I would ever taste it... then lo! celeriac appeared at our local shops and yea, I bought it and hallelujah! it was good. Selah.

Celeriac is delicious in a lentil stew; but it is most excellent in its classic preparation, celeriac rémoulade. The vegetable is shredded and tossed through a mustardy mayonnaise with parsley or tarragon. Celeriac rémoulade is lovely at dinner as a side dish; but at lunch, it takes centre stage. With some bread, some olives and some sliced ham, such a lunch can be magnificent.

The recipe that follows includes the recipe for mayonnaise posted earlier.

Celeriac Rémoulade - 1 celeriac - a lemon For the mayonnaise - 2 egg yolks, at room temperature - 1 tbs lemon juice plus more to taste - 1 tbs seeded mustard - 1 to 2 tbs chopped parsley or tarragon - about 200ml olive oil - salt to taste Place a heavy bowl on a damp cloth on the bench; the cloth will stop the bowl from sliding around. Place the egg yolks, lemon juice, mustard and a pinch of salt into the bowl, and whisk. The bigger the balloon of the whisk, the easier this is. Add the olive oil just a drop, and I do mean just a drop, at a time, whisking frantically all the while. This job is made infinitely easier if you have an oil nozzle on your oil bottle. Once you have added a couple of tablespoons of oil drop by drop, and the mixture is starting to look like mayonnaise, you can add it in a thin stream, still whisking continuously (I use my left hand to drizzle, and my right to whisk; you could also use an apprentice to drizzle as long as the apprentice understands that they must not slosh it in). When most of the oil has been added and you have a lovely soft glop, taste for lemon and salt, and correct as needed. Leave it very slightly bland as the lemon juice on the shredded celeriac will sharpen the flavour. (If the oil is added too quickly, the mayonnaise can split. If it does, place another egg yolk into a clean bowl and whisk it. Gradually add the mayonnaise a little at a time, whisking frantically all the while, until it is combined and all is right with the world. Alternatively, you can whizz it in the food processor, although it won't be as lovely and light.) Using a heavy sharp knife, carve off the wrinkly skin of the celeriac. You may need to slice quite deeply to remove all the grubby bits. Grate the root on the large holes of a box grater, and place the gratings into a bowl. Toss them with the juice of half a lemon, then drop them into the bowl of mayonnaise and mix well. Serve at once, or store in the fridge for up to a day until needed. I make celeriac rémoulade for dinner, and eat leftovers for lunch the next day with bread, ham and glee. (Local: eggs, celeriac, lemon, olive oil, herbs. Not local: mustard, salt.)

Mayonnaise

My great grandmother was a caterer. My mother often spent weekends and holidays with her, helping in the kitchen at various events – including at Freemasons' dinners. At the Freemasons' hall they were confined to the kitchen. There my great grandmother would prepare dinner; but, lest she observe their goings-on, men would carry the meal into the hall, and later return with the dishes.

After dessert, any traffic between kitchen and hall would cease and the door be carefully locked. My great grandmother would wait a few minutes, then beckon to my mother; the two of them would creep over and take turns peeping through the keyhole to watch the men strutting about in their aprons. 'Look at those silly men, Ruth,' she'd whisper, and they'd giggle and peek, their own far more functional aprons stuffed into their mouths to silence the sound; when it became too much, they'd tiptoe back to the sink to chortle softly over the dirty dishes.

My great grandmother was, by all accounts, a magnificent woman, and not just in spirit. She had a mighty chest and bulging biceps. In the days before mix masters were common, she'd whip up wedding cakes and pavlovas and gallons of cream, and all by hand.

My chest may be mighty, but my biceps do not bulge; in fact, I may be developing fedoobedahs. So to counter this, and in homage to my great-grandmother, I have been whipping: cream, egg whites, hollandaise, and, of course, mayonnaise. They may not be the ideal foodstuffs to develop shapely arms and Buns of Steel™, but they are a great way to get protein into my fussy five year old. At least, that's my excuse.

This mayonnaise is nothing like the gluey white substance found in a jar. This is the real thing: a soft yellow glop, and absolutely delicious. Use it anywhere: blanketed over lightly boiled eggs, smeared on a sandwich, tossed through coleslaw, drizzled over asparagus, or mixed through a celeriac rémoulade.

Mayonnaise - 2 egg yolks, at room temperature - 1 tbs lemon juice plus more to taste - 1 tbs seeded mustard (or not if you want a more gentle mayonnaise, or Dijon if you want your mayonnaise to be zingy but not seedy) - 1 tbs chopped parsley or tarragon (optional) - about 200ml olive oil - salt to taste Place a heavy bowl on a damp cloth on the bench; the cloth will stop the bowl from sliding around. Place the egg yolks, lemon juice, mustard and a pinch of salt into the bowl, and whisk. The bigger the balloon of the whisk, the easier this is. Add the olive oil just a drop, and I do mean just a drop, at a time, whisking frantically all the while. This job is made infinitely easier if you have an oil nozzle on the bottle and hold the bottle up high above the bowl. When you have added enough oil so that it is beginning to look like mayonnaise (a couple of tablespoons), you can start adding the oil in a thin stream, still whisking continuously (I use my left hand to drizzle, and my right to whisk; you could also use an apprentice to drizzle as long as the apprentice understands that they must not slosh it in). When most of the oil has been added and you have a lovely soft glop, taste for lemon and salt and correct as needed. If the oil is added too quickly, the mayonnaise can split. If it does, place another egg yolk into a clean bowl and whisk it. Gradually add the mayonnaise a little at a time, whisking frantically all the while, until it is combined and all is right with the world. Alternatively, you can whizz it in the food processor ('shock horror,' say the purists – it won't be as light, but it will certainly have amalgamated). The photograph shows mayonnaise with seedy mustard and no herbs – perfect for celeriac rémoulade! (Backyard: eggs, lemons. Local: olive oil. Not local: mustard, salt.)

Corn and Zucchini Custard

The ancients say that humiliation is good for the soul. With four chickens free ranging in our garden, humiliation is never more than a careless step away. Turn your head to chat with grandpa, and whoops! you're shooting along the path on a streak of chicken poo. In a more organised form of humiliation, which I try to think of as a spiritual discipline, every night I don thick gloves, grab a little shovel and a decommissioned saucepan, and spend ten minutes collecting the daily offering to add to the compost heap. Mosquitoes nipping at my ankles, hands reaching for the next little turd, I reflect on motherhood, housework, ego, humility... and fresh eggs.

Our hens are productive in more ways than one; and so, we eat a lot of eggs. What follows is a puffy eggy sort of thing, fortified with breadcrumbs. The zucchini provides a mild backdrop to the little explosions of flavour from the corn and the herbs. Served with a ready-made chutney or perhaps a thin tomato sauce, this is a lovely meal indeed.

The original recipe, by Deborah Madison, calls for cream. Too rich for my palate, I make it with milk instead. The custard still sets beautifully, and is a little lighter to eat. Leftovers are good the next day fried with a slice or two of ham.

Corn and Zucchini Custard - 500g zucchini - 1 medium onion, diced small - 4 ears corn - 2 tbs butter - ½ cup parsley and/or basil, chopped - ¼ cup vermouth or white wine - 5 eggs - ⅔ cup milk - 120g grated cheese (a handful each of cheddar and parmesan is good) - ⅔ cup fine breadcrumbs Coarsely grate the zucchini. Toss with a little salt, and leave it to drain in a colander for half an hour. Squeeze out any excess moisture with your hands or press it in a tea towel. Remove the kernels from the cobs of corn by holding the ears upright on a board, and slicing downwards with a sharp heavy knife. Melt the butter in a wide skillet, and add the onion. Sauté until soft. Add the corn, zucchini, and herbs, and cook for a minute or two. Add the vermouth or white wine, cover, and bring to a simmer. Cook for a few minutes, then remove the lid and cook until the liquid has been absorbed. Turn off the heat and leave for a few minutes to cool. Beat the eggs and add the milk. Add the vegetables and the cheese, and mix well. Heat the oven to 160°C. Butter a 1.5 litre mold (I use a round baking dish 21cm in diameter with slightly tapering sides). Sprinkle the mold generously with breadcrumbs, then toss any remaining breadcrumbs into the custard and mix well. Pour the custard into the mold, and bake for about an hour or until puffed and golden. Remove the custard from the oven and allow it to rest for several minutes. Run a flexible knife around the edge, and flip onto a large plate. Serve in wedges, with a tomato sauce or a chutney on the side. Leftovers can be fried or grilled the next day. Adapted from a recipe in The Greens Cookbook by Deborah Madison. (Local: zucchini, corn, onion, parsley, basil, eggs. Not local: butter, vermouth, milk, cheese, breadcrumbs.)

Couscous and Chickpea Salad

When I was a kid, I hated school lunches. I vividly remember the exotic food my friend Marion used to bring to high school: leftover pasta, jaffles filled with beans, doorstop sandwiches made with sourdough, and other interesting food. I'd sit beside her on the cold concrete step chewing on a flabby pressed chicken sandwich and look on enviously while she opened little tubs with interesting smells and attacked them with spoon or fork.

Now I have schoolkids of my own, I want them to have the Marion lunch experience – but bizarrely, they are reluctant. Despite my efforts, the philistines insist on nothing more than a Vegemite sandwich or perhaps ham with, as my seven year old says, 'just the barest scraping of mustard'. Good grief.

This salad is one of the delicious things that I can't quite believe my daughters disdain. One eats only the chickpeas, picking them out individually; while another eats only the couscous, leaving the chickpeas for the first – at least, like the Sprats, between the two of them they lick the platter clean. As for my four year old, she won't eat it at all without tears; 'I hate the texture,' she says.

A good judge of texture she is not. Perfect grains of couscous cling to grilled vegetables; the chickpeas are deliciously mealy; spinach adds a gentle crunch. Normal children would like it – adults certainly do. It's one of those perfectly satisfying meals in a bowl. We eat it warm for dinner, and cold the next day for lunch, either by itself or tucked into a pita wrap. Yesterday I staggered in from the gym, a little woozy; collapsed into a chair with a container of leftover salad; demolished it in minutes; and felt instantly restored in body and soul. So I at least got a good lunch out of it, even if nobody else did.

The recipe builds on a suggestion by Jamie Oliver to soak couscous in cold water and use it as the base of a vegetable salad. This week, I added a couple of zucchini; other weeks, depending on what's in season, I might add or substitute grilled eggplant, grilled red peppers or even grilled asparagus. The herbs, too, can be played around with; for much of the year I make it with mint and parsley so that it resembles a tabbouli made with couscous not burghul; but when we have an abundance of basil I make it with that, instead. Use whatever's fresh and tastes good to you.

Couscous and Chickpea Salad - 1 cup dried chickpeas (canned chickpeas taste like glue, but use them if you must) - 250g couscous - 280ml water - juice of 1 or 2 lemons - 2 tbs olive oil - 2 or 3 moderately sized zucchini (I had one yellow, one green, very pretty) - 1 generous handful mint - 1 generous handful basil - 2 or 3 handfuls baby spinach leaves Boil the kettle. Place the chickpeas into a large bowl, and cover them with a generous quantity of boiling water. Leave to soak for several hours. Drain and rinse the chickpeas, and place them into a large pot. Cover them generously with cold water this time, and bring to the boil. Turn down to a simmer, and let cook for 45 minutes or until they are soft but haven't lost their shape. Throw in 1 to 2 tsp salt, and leave to simmer for another 15 or so minutes. Turn off the heat. Drain just before adding to the salad. Place the couscous into a large serving bowl. Cover with 280ml water, and leave for 15 to 20 minutes. While the couscous is soaking, slice the zucchini crossways into thin discs. Grill or sauté the discs with a bit of olive oil until they are soft. Finely chop the herbs. Using a fork, separate the couscous into individual grains. Add the juice of 1 to 2 lemons (I like it sharp), and drizzle in the olive oil. Mix well. Add the herbs, the zucchini, the spinach and the chickpeas, and stir to combine. Serve immediately while the chickpeas are still warm; it's also tasty cold. Adapted from a recipe in The Naked Chef by Jamie Oliver. (Local: zucchini, mint, basil, olive oil, lemon juice. Not local: chickpeas, couscous, salt. No idea, but I live in hope that it's local: spinach.)

Blueberry Clafouti

This week some forty-odd years ago a child was born. He was one of those boys who played fair, and who looked out for the kids on the margins. A natural leader, he captained teams and ran youth groups; still in his teens, a baby boy was named after him.

While at uni, he lived with his grandparents. After his grandmother died, he spent an evening with his grandfather every week and talked about the racing results. Even now, at the helm of a law firm and with three kids of his own, he finds time for the lonely and marginalised. He balances commercial work with advocacy work, and stays in touch with all sorts of difficult people, seeing them not as problems, but as human.

At home, he loves to host and will find any excuse for bubbles. He remembers what people like to drink, and always has the right bottle in the house. A natural conservative, he's nevertheless open to madcap ideas and big adventures; every few years he drags his wife and young children across the world to catch up with old friends or to see something new.

He's the sort of man who gets up in the night with a crying baby; who changes nappies and packs the nappy bag; and who leaves his wife to sleep while he gives the kids breakfast. As much as he likes a girl in frilly knickers and high heels, he married a birkie wearing cotton tailed short haired feminist. Like my relatives, I'm not sure why. Perhaps it was my jokes, perhaps it was the cooking; whatever it was, it seems to work.

In gratitude to my gentle, thoughtful, generous, compassionate, kind and loving husband, I got up early on his birthday to make him breakfast. It had to be easy, because a morning person I am certainly not. I staggered into the kitchen, threw a few ingredients into a food processor and banged them in the oven; half an hour later, we celebrated with blueberry clafouti.

My husband's qualities are myriad; he was even born during blueberry season. Although clafouti is delicious with other berries, pitted cherries, quartered plums or other stone fruit, it is absolutely marvellous with blueberries. May he have many happy returns!

Blueberry Clafouti - enough unsalted butter to grease the dish - 2 punnets blueberries, or 1 cup berries or quartered stone fruit - 4 eggs - 1¼ cups plus 1 tsp plain flour - 1¼ cups low fat milk - 1 tbs sugar - 1/2 tsp vanilla Preheat the oven to 180°C. Grease a 24cm porcelain tart dish. Place the fruit in a bowl, and gently toss it with 1 tsp flour. Place the other ingredients into a food processor or blender. Whizz until all is light and frothy. Pour the batter into the greased dish, then scatter with the blueberries or other fruit. Slip into the oven, and bake for 30 minutes or until it is puffed and golden. Serve immediately. Tweaked from a recipe by Mollie Katzen in Still Life with Menu. (Local: blueberries, eggs, milk. Not local: butter, sugar, flour, vanilla essence.)

Goats Cheese Puff

Every now and then one needs something truly rich and celebratory for no particular reason at all. And sometimes one needs this midweek; that is, without planning or shopping or meticulous preparation.

The following recipe is fast becoming one of our more luxurious staples. Decadent souls that we are, we always have goats cheese and parmesan in the fridge; they sit there for weeks until needed. Our chickens provide us with an abundance of eggs, and thyme, of course, grows in the garden. With ingredients to hand, the dish takes ten minutes to prepare and another ten to cook. Thus while my little wild things watch a Maurice Sendak animation, I can assemble and cook a sublime golden puff, whip up a salad – perhaps zucchini –, set out good bread, pour out the wine and dinner, my friends, is served.

Last night Grandpa joined us. After finishing the last morsel, he sighed, then waggled his finger at my very little children. 'When you move out,' he said, 'life will be expensive. This sort of meal costs a fortune in a restaurant, so you'd better start saving!'. My children looked at him blankly; they know, you see, how easy it is – my seven year old makes this under supervision, and we are all very proud of her.

The photograph shows the puff partially deflated. If you're not photographing your food before dinner (and I rather hope you are not), insist everyone sits up at the table just before it is ready so you can whisk it out of the oven and present it, in all its golden glory, before it sinks.

The foodies among us will recognise it as a simple flourless soufflé, but since so many people are scared of soufflés we will call it puff.

Goats Cheese Puff - unsalted butter - 3 eggs, at room temperature - 150g soft goats cheese (I use Meredith Dairy chévre) - 60g grated parmesan - 1 tbs milk - 5 or so stems thyme, leaves picked and chopped to make a scant tablespoon Preheat the oven to 200°C. Grease a large ovenproof soup bowl with the butter. Separate the eggs, placing the whites into a large stainless steel bowl*, and the yolks into another largish bowl. Lightly break up the yolks with a fork, then mash the goats cheese into the yolks. Add the milk, the thyme and two thirds of the parmesan to the cheesy yolks, and mix well. Whisk the egg whites until they form soft peaks, then fold them into the mixture. Scrape into the soup bowl, and sprinkle with the remaining parmesan. Slip into the oven for twelve or so minutes. It is cooked when the centre is goldenly puffed and the insides are creamy, not liquid. You can check by opening the puff with a metal spoon. If you can see liquid, slip it back into the oven for a few more minutes. Serve immediately. Enough for three or four – it's very rich. Adapted from a recipe in the delightful Kitchen Diaries by Nigel Slater. *Plastic bowls are porous and always contain traces of fat; egg whites will not whisk if they come into contact with fat, so plastic bowls are no good. Aluminium bowls turn the whites grey, and copper bowls are wildly expensive. Thus, egg whites must be whisked in stainless steel bowls. Having said that, although whites will slide down the side of a glass bowl, if you don't have a stainless steel or copper bowl, glass will do. (Local: eggs, goats cheese, thyme, milk. Not local: butter, parmesan.)

Zucchini Salad

When I think finger food, I think kiddie food: corn on the cob, cherry tomatoes, carrot sticks. But lately I have noticed that my adult friends seem to love getting their hands dirty, too. When it's asparagus season, no one can help but snaffle a spear and whiffle it up*; and now it's time for zucchini. I serve a simple zucchini salad night after night, and it seems few can resist picking up ribbons of zucchini and, heads tilted back, delicate necks exposed, coiling them into their mouths. It's like eating grapes on a Roman couch, only there's no nubile young slave at the ready, more's the pity.

The picking up, the coiling, the draping, the swallowing, the licking of the lips, the sucking of the fingers – the eroticism of zucchini is surprising. Alas, not only do we lack slaves, but young children are present and we can go no further.

The recipe which follows is ridiculously simple – so simple I'm embarrassed to write it down – but there are two tricks. The first is to use really young, firm zucchini, when the flavour is mild and the seeds immature. The other is to slice the zucchini very thinly. I use a vegetable peeler and, by running it down the length of the zucchini, get long pretty ribbons tumbled over the plate.

When the zucchini are this fresh and sliced so thin, they need nothing more than the most basic dressing: lemon juice, olive oil and a pinch of salt. Even so, for a change I sometimes add slivers of parmesan, also shaved with a veggie peeler; or basil leaves, torn over the salad just before serving. From a mother's point of view, the parmesan is particularly effective: even zucchini hating youngsters will sometimes eat a ribbon when they can wrap it around a hefty shard of cheese.

*Incidentally, the correct way to eat asparagus is, in fact, with one's fingers.

Zucchini Salad - small firm zucchini - olive oil - lemon juice - basil leaves (optional) - parmesan (optional) - salt Hold the zucchini over a large plate. Using a vegetable peeler, peel it into ribbons which tumble onto the plate. Drizzle with olive oil and a good squeeze of lemon juice. Season to taste. If you wish, sprinkle with torn basil leaves or slivers of parmesan. Serve immediately. (Local: zucchini, lemon, olive oil, basil. Not local: salt, parmesan.)