Kale Soup, Winter 2011

I once frequented a hairdresser in a trendy strip. He told me that, despite specialising in dreadlocks and mohawks and very short haircuts for girls, a tiny older woman came in once a month to have a blue rinse. That particular shopfront had been a hair salon for more than forty years, and she saw no reason to go somewhere else just because the owners had changed and the ethos shifted. So my hairdresser kept a supply of blue rinse chemicals on hand for her, and hoped and prayed that nobody else ever found out that he did them.

Being someone who is fairly oblivious to fashion, I found it rather touching. I loved the idea of my hairdresser, a muscular skinhead, carefully tinting a tight white perm to the perfect shade of blue. After all, I am probably going the same way as his customer, insisting that my current hairdresser keep my hair in a certain edgy crop years about a decade after it has lost its edge. Apparently I am now supposed to have it thick and top heavy, but having done that in my early twenties, I'm comfortably past that. In fact, I keep finding myself wanting to compliment young waiters and bartenders on their pinching high-waisted acid wash jeans and rolled brim hats; after all, I wore all that that when I was a teenager. Their clothes makes me happy in a sentimental sort of way.

As much as I am no longer au fait with current fashions, or at least choose to ignore them, I do have trends when it comes to cooking. The silhouette of my trousers may be fairly constant, and my hair has barely changed since 2003, but I have changed my preferences for soup. Last year I enjoyed my version of the ribollita served by our landlady in Tuscany many years ago, a sort of wet compost. But this year my tastes have changed. I no longer want a blended soup thickened with bread; instead, I yearn for kale soup with firm vegetables, separate and distinct. I've also become a purist, wanting only cavolo nero, or Tuscan black kale. When cooked, black kale has a rich sweet flavour that I love.

So this is what I'm eating in the winter of 2011. It draws from Skye Gyngell's recipe in her lovely book, My Favourite Ingredients, but as usual I make my own departures.

Kale Soup, Winter 2011 -200g dried cannellini beans, soaked overnight - 3 small brown onions, chopped - 3 cloves garlic, flattened with the side of a knife and roughly chopped - 2 large potatoes, peeled and chopped - 1 bulb celeriac - 4 smallish carrots - 1 can tomatoes - a big bunch of cavolo nero (that long skinny black kale) - 150g stellini (tiny star shaped pasta; I used wholemeal spelt stellini, but use whatever makes you happy) - salt, pepper - parmesan (totally optional) Drain the soaked beans in a colander. Place them into a big saucepan and cover them well with cold water. Bring to the boil, then lower the heat and simmer for 1 to 1½ hours, or until they are soft but not falling apart. Salt, and set aside. Warm a good slosh of olive oil in a soup pot. Add the onions and a pinch of salt, and cook over medium heat until translucent. Add the garlic and the celeriac, carrots and potatoes. Cook until the vegetables turn glossy, then add the tomatoes. Mix well, turn the heat right down, clap the lid on and leave to cook for twenty minutes. Remove the thick stems of the kale and chop the leaves coarsely. When the other vegetables are done, add the kale, the cannellini beans and about a litre of water – just enough to cover. Replace the lid, and cook gently for 45 minutes to an hour, or until the vegetables are really soft. Meanwhile, bring a pot of water to the boil (I used the bean pot to save on washing up). Salt, throw in the stellini and cook until barely done, perhaps a minute less than the instructions say. Drain and toss the stellini with a drizzle of olive oil and set aside. When the soup veggies are soft and you are ready to eat, throw the stellini into the soup, warm them, and serve. A bit of parmesan grated over the top is nice, as is an extra drizzle of bright green olive oil and some freshly ground pepper. (Local: kale, potatoes, onions, celeriac, carrots. Victorian: salt. From infuriatingly many miles away: parmesan, pepper, dried white beans, canned tomatoes (I never did get round to canning tomatoes last summer dammit, and could someone please tell me why is it so hard to get organically grown dried white beans and canned tomatoes from Victoria?)

Buckwheat Noodles with Lentils and Carrots

When I was 14, my mother went back to work with a vengeance. She had been working from home before then, forever talking on the phone cradled against her neck as she stirred pasta sauce or chopped onions.

But suddenly she was out of the house twelve or more hours a day. After about a year of two minute noodles and Dad's valiant attempts at cooking, I realised it was time for me to learn to cook – but like all good teenagers, I announced that if I was going to cook, then I was going to do it my way. This meant vegetarian.

Looking back, I realise I've been cooking almost completely vegetarian for twenty years now. Early days were mostly pasta, with a few forays into just plain gross; I particularly remember a fairly putrid recipe for bolognese sauce made from mashed tofu. I tried it once, but really there is no excuse. It was – and is – a horrible thing to do to tofu.

Now I have developed my own style and range of recipes, heavy on the pulses and leafy greens. But as much as I hate to admit it, even after all these years of vegetarian cooking and eating I still find it difficult to feel perfectly satisfied with a veggie meal. It's hard to achieve the complexity of flavours and textures that make meat so special.

However, I do have a shortlist of perfectly balanced, utterly satisfying meals. This pasta is one of them. The leek and carrots add a light sweetness, complementing the earthiness of the lentils, chard and buckwheat. Whether or not you add the cheese is up to you; but I find that the chévre is the difference between pretty good and spectacular.

Buckwheat Noodles with Lentils and Carrots - 270g soba (Hakubaku noodles are from Ballarat) - ½ cups green lentils (mine are from Horsham) - 1 bay leaf - ¼ tsp salt - olive oil - 1 clove garlic, smashed with the side of the knife blade then finely chopped - 1 leek, white part only, quartered lengthwise and thinly sliced - 1 stalk celery, diced small - 2 carrots, diced small - 1 bunch chard or kale, or a mixture - 5 stems flat-leaf parsley - 150g chévre (optional. Meredith Dairy's goat chévre is perfect) Sort the lentils, then cover them with cold water, add the bay leaf and salt, and bring to the boil. Simmer for 20 minutes or so, until they are tender. Check regularly to see if they're done. As soon as they're soft, drain them into strainer set over a bowl. Retain the cooking water. Gently warm a good swirl of olive oil in a wide skillet with the garlic and a pinch of salt. (The salt prevents the garlic from sticking and burning.) Add the leeks, and sauté; then the celery and carrots. Leave them to cook over medium heat while you wash the chard or kale. Remove the tough stems, then slice the leaves into narrow ribbons. Add them to the skillet with the drained lentils. Measure the lentil cooking water, and top up with water, if necessary, to make ¾ cup of liquid. Pour it into the skillet, then cover and leave to cook gently for 30 minutes or so, or until the carrots are soft. Stir from time to time. Add a little more water if necessary to prevent the vegetables from sticking, and to ensure there is a little sauce at the end. While the vegetables are cooking, bring a large pot of water to the boil. When the vegetables are tender, cook the soba according to the directions on the packet. Place into a large serving bowl, and add the vegetables and parsley. Drizzle with extra virgin olive oil, and mix gently but well. Serve as is, or with little knobs of chévre tossed through the noodles. Pass the pepper grinder. Adapted from a recipe by Deborah Madison in The Greens Cookbook. (Local: noodles, garlic, leek, celery, carrot, chard, kale, parsley, bay leaf, olive oil, chévre. Victorian: lentils.)

Carrot and Beet Salad

It may be cold and wet, but I still like a bit of salad from time to time. This robust winter salad is very satisfying, either at dinner next to something more substantial, or at lunch with perhaps a poached egg on top. It also makes a spectacular sandwich with a good wodge of avocado or maybe a little crumbled feta cheese. This week we ate it with a pea and potato frittata.

I adapted it from a recipe found at the delectable Chocolate & Zucchini. However, the original recipe was too garlicky and heavy for my taste, so I switched from nut oils to olive oil, and from vinegars to lemon juice, and tweaked the proportions of this and that. Now it is, to me, just right!

Carrot and Beet Salad - 2 medium carrots, peeled and coarsely grated - 1 pretty big or 2 medium beet(s), peeled and coarsely grated - ½ clove garlic, minced - 2 tbs extra virgin olive oil - the juice of a lemon - 1 tsp Dijon mustard - 8 to 10 stalks flat-leaf parsley, chopped - a good handful of sunflower seeds - salt, pepper Place the garlic, oils, lemon juice, mustard, salt and pepper into a small jar. Shake it up! Mix the grated carrot and beet in a large bowl. Toss through the parsley and then dress with the vinaigrette. Mix well to distribute the dressing. Sprinkle generously with sunflower seeds, then toss again. Serve. This salad keeps well in the fridge for a day or two. It's the sort of thing my husband and I eat for dinner one day, then lunch and dinner the next. Adapted from a recipe by Clotilde Dusoulier posted at chocolateandzucchini.com. Picture shows the salad in a simpler incarnation, made with coriander and no seeds. (Local: carrots, beets, garlic, olive oil, lemon, parsley. Not local: mustard, sunflower seeds, salt, pepper.)

Daikon and Carrot Salad

Of all the fish to fall for, my children have given their hearts to mackerel. We were in Cornwall earlier this year, and bought mackerel from the fisherman's wife. The fish were so fresh they still looked surprised at being caught. I baked them with a little pear cider and a few bay leaves gleaned from a neighbour's garden, and my kids demolished them – my six year old ate an entire fish.*

Even now, it's the only fish my four year old will eat. I found imported smoked mackerel recently, and she devoured even that with relish. But buying rare overpriced groaning-with-air-miles smoked fish is insane, so I'm trying to convince her to eat a little salmon. It, too, is oily with a firm flesh and distinctive flavour.

We don't eat it often, but when we do we like to serve it with this salad. The sharpness cuts through the unctuousness of the fish, and the sesame goes well with the salmon.

We also eat this salad as part of a meal of rice and vegetables; Korean or Japanese flavours are the best match.

*I blame my children's passion for mackerel and other English fish partly on The Mousehole Cat. My kids can identify every fish in the book and have asked me many times now to make stargazy pie. You can read more about The Mousehole Cat here.

PS – You might enjoy my short hymn to English food; click here.

Daikon and Carrot Salad - 1 carrot, very coarsely grated - 1 medium-sized daikon, very coarsely grated - salt - 1 tsp sugar - 1 tsp soy sauce - 1 tbs sesame oil Put the carrot and daikon in a colander and salt lightly. Leave on the draining board for up to an hour. Rinse well, drain, then press dry on a clean tea towel. Place the daikon and carrot into a bowl. Mix together the sugar, soy sauce and sesame oil, then toss through the daikon and carrot. Serve. A few leaves of coriander make a nice garnish. (If you need to skip the salting stage, the salad will be a bit watery. You can compensate slightly by increasing the amount of soy – but, for both flavour and texture, it's best to salt.) Adapted from a recipe in Korean Cooking by Hilaire Walden. (Local: daikon, carrot. Not local: sesame oil, soy sauce, sugar.)

Root Vegetable Soup

It was a grey old Saturday morning and I needed a little comfort food. Rolling around in our crisper were turnips, carrots, pumpkin, and a lone parsnip. What on earth could I do with a single parsnip, and a surfeit of root vegetables? Turn them into soup, of course!

The parsnip and carrots made it oh so sweet, balancing out the white pepper note of the turnips.

We had a little double cream leftover in the fridge and added a dob to each bowl – but the soup was almost as delicious the next day even without the cream.

This soup freezes well. Whenever I make soup, I freeze any leftovers in individual portions – there's nothing like soup for lunch on a cold day!

Root Vegetable Soup - 2 tbs unsalted butter - 1 large onion, chopped - 2 large carrots, chopped - 1 kg other root vegetables – parsnip, pumpkin, turnips, swede, celeriac, rutabaga – peeled and chopped - 1 large potato, peeled and chopped - 2 litres water, veggie stock or chicken stock (I used homemade chicken stock made from the carcass of a roast chicken, onion, celery, carrot, bay and peppercorns) - 1 bay leaf - ½ cup parsley, finely chopped Melt the butter in a large pot over medium heat. Add the onions and bay leaf, and cook gently until the onions are translucent. Add the root veggies and sauté for 5 to 10 minutes until glistening. Pour in the stock and stir carefully, scraping up any veggies stuck to the bottom of the pan. Bring to a simmer, then cover and simmer gently until the veggies are quite soft, 30 to 45 minutes. Remove the bay leaf. Process the soup in a food processor or large blender, and return it to the pot. Add the parsley, season, and serve. Adapted from The Ultimate Cook Book: 900 New Recipes, Thousands of Ideas by Bruce Weinstein and Mark Scarbrough. (Backyard: bay leaf, parsley. Local: onion, carrot, potato, other root veggies. Somewhere in Victoria: butter.)