The Botanical Kitchen

TRUST D. H. LAWRENCE to get to the heart of a fig. After all, when considering a fruit that for centuries has been closely identified with the female genitalia, who better than the author whose novel Lady Chatterley’s Lover was actually taken to court for obscenity in 1960? The word sycophant originally comes from the Greek sykophantes, which literally means ‘one who shows the fig’, referring to a vulgar hand gesture. Cato the Elder insulted the Roman Senate by offering them a handful of figs to suggest their weakness and effeminacy. The fruit is commonly associated with voluptuousness, temptation and plenty: in Greek myth, Apollo punished a messenger for getting distracted by waiting for a fig tree to ripen; figs were also associated with Dionysus, god of wine and drunkenness, and Priapus, a satyr who represented sexual desire. In her poignant semi-autobiographical novel The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath describes herself sitting amid the branches of a fig tree, ‘starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose’. The old-fashioned English saying, ‘I don’t give a fig’, similarly suggests the ripe, overwhelming abundance of these fruits.

Yet, conversely, the fig also features in various Mediterranean and Asian cultures as a symbol of precious rarity. There is a Bengali idiom that translates as ‘you have become like the fig flower’, meaning ‘invisible’, while in Hindi, ‘flower of fig’ refers to something incredibly rare. Figs are sacred in the Qur’an, a symbol of prosperity in the Bible and an important emblem of spiritual growth in Buddhism.

It is actually a miracle that the fig grows at all. One of nature’s great survival stories, the fig tree flourishes only in the most inhospitable areas, sending roots deep into the ground in search of running water. Original cultivars could be pollinated only by a particular variety of wasp, which actually enters the fruit and dies inside it (try not to think too much about that next time you take a knife to a ripe fig). If you try to grow figs in the garden, the best way to get them to fruit is to grow them in a confined container filled with poor-quality soil. The Stoic philosopher Epictetus used the fig as a reminder that ‘no great thing is created suddenly’. In many ways, the fig embodies the paradoxes at the heart of Mediterranean fruit cultivation. Often associated with rich abundance and sensuality, these are fruits born out of some of the least hospitable environments, and for centuries have been symbols of survival rather than luxury.

The apricot can also prove tricky to grow. Although the gardener in Shakespeare’s Richard II refers to apricots dangling on his trees ‘which, like unruly children, make their sire stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight’, to achieve this state of perfection – certainly in cooler northern climes – is a near-impossible feat. It is said that, like the apple not falling far from the tree, an apricot tree will not grow far from its parent, so picky is it about the soil quality. This fruit – referred to by the ancient Greeks as ‘golden eggs of the sun’ – has such a short season that, like the fig, it features in several cultures as a symbol of impossibility. The Arabic expression filmishmish, ‘in apricot season’, is the equivalent of the British ‘when hell freezes over’: something that is highly unlikely to happen.

Consider, also, the date. Mentioned more than fifty times in the Bible and twenty in the Qu’ran, this ancient fruit is often described as ‘the bread of the desert’. Correctly stored, dates can last for several years, and contain vital minerals and vitamins. It is said that an adult can live on fifteen dates a day, and dates were often essential to the survival of wandering nomadic desert tribes, particularly when combined with nutritious camel milk. The sight of date palms growing on desert horizons is an indication that there is life-giving water nearby. Dates have been integral to the existence of desert peoples for thousands of years, and this tree flourishes in the most arid environments. They are, traditionally, the first foods eaten to break the fast after sunset during Ramadan, a powerful reminder of their links with simple sustenance. Yet we also associate dates, with their furrowed skins and delectably high sugar content, with hedonistic feasting: they are a common inclusion in Christmas desserts or dried fruit selections, and form the toothsome backbone to that indulgent British classic, the sticky toffee pudding. The Spanish, in a truly marvellous act of gilding the lily, stuff dates with blue cheese and wrap them in bacon before grilling them.

Oranges, which are now so abundant that we rarely think twice about downing a glass of their tangy juice in the morning, were once extremely precious. Rich in vitamin C with a relatively long shelf life, they were planted along major trade routes by Portuguese, Spanish and Dutch sailors during explorations of the New World and the Far East, in order to prevent scurvy. In the Middle Ages, citrus fruits were so precious in Britain that they were often left uneaten; perhaps not a surprise for a fruit whose name originally comes from the Indian narayam, meaning ‘perfume within’. By the seventeenth century, the orange had become a luxury item: it was the height of fashion for grand houses and palaces to contain an orangery. Something of this magic and luxury lingers on in the coveted blood orange, a cultivar thought to have originated in the southern Mediterranean around the eighteenth century and which appears in the shops for a short season in late winter and early spring. Its flesh – ranging from deep orange to crimson-black – is sharper than that of the sweet orange, with a hint of raspberry, making it excellent for use in savoury and sweet dishes alike. It is sometimes marketed, rather prudishly, as ‘blush orange’, a denomination that seems to rather miss the point of this fruit’s dramatic, vital essence.

Although the image of a bowl piled high with fragrant citrus, glossy leaves still attached and skins glowing ‘like golden lamps’ – to quote the poet Andrew Marvell – is something we associate with sun-soaked Mediterranean vitality, oranges and lemons originally come from the Far East. They have been used medicinally for far longer than they have graced our tables, valued for their antibacterial properties, their vitamin content and, if you follow the example of the Roman Emperor Nero, their capacity as an antidote to poison. Now we zest, juice and slice our way through them with barely a second thought: in fact, the taste of orange is ranked as the third favourite flavour among Americans (second only to chocolate and vanilla), who drink on average 16.6 litres of orange juice per person per year.

Another somewhat paradoxical Mediterranean fruit is the bergamot, which manages to be both tiringly ubiquitous and enticingly rare at the same time. The name is a corruption of the Turkish bey armudu, meaning ‘prince of pears’. Its tell-tale perfume scents teacups the world over in the form of Earl Grey. The only places I have ever come across fresh bergamots in the UK are Waitrose, farmers’ markets and online delivery schemes that often charge handsomely for them (stockist suggestions). Thought to be a hybrid of the bitter orange and the lemon, these underrated fruits are mostly grown in the Calabria region of Italy, where production is strictly controlled to guard against adulteration of expensive bergamot oil with cheaper substitutes. This oil, made from the aromatic peel, is used the world over in everything from Earl Grey and Lady Grey teas to marmalade, liqueurs, perfumes, confectionery and even snus, a form of powdered tobacco popular in Norway and Sweden. The Italians also produce a delightful olive oil scented with the peel, wonderful in fish or baking recipes (stockists). Yet despite its global incorporation in such a variety of products, the bergamot is something of a problem child in the kitchen. While the zest is beautifully fragrant, the flesh is exceedingly bitter and packed with knobbly seeds. Even the internet, ever the gastronomic hive mind, comes up short for ideas when bergamot recipes are at stake – there is little beyond sorbet and marmalade. I feel that this fruit is something of a Robinson Crusoe island upon which to lay one’s culinary footprints, and have attempted to rise to the challenge with a couple of exciting bergamot recipes in this book. Persevere with these rather bulbous, green-tinged citrus and you will be rewarded with an aromatic and tangy sunshine-yellow curd, the stickiest syrupy cakes and a refreshingly fragrant ceviche.

This chapter embraces the complex heritage of the Mediterranean fruit basket, using these ingredients both as the central focus of a recipe – a plate of honeyed baked figs, for example – but also as supporting acts that bring a small twist to simple dishes: a few slivers of glowing apricot strewn through an earthy couscous salad, or a handful of dates transformed into a piquant salsa to serve alongside crispy, fried mackerel.

‘Every fruit has its secret’, wrote D. H. Lawrence. Apply a small amount of kitchen know-how, and you might just get closer to a little of that elusive promise.

Tips & tricks

*‘Not to live in a country where figs grow or can readily be bought in the season, seems to me a deprivation,’ remarked Jane Grigson. I agree. Luckily it is possible to find good imports, occasionally, but there are also many inferior specimens on the market. When buying figs, choose the ripest ones you can find – they don’t ripen any further once plucked from the tree. They should feel heavy in your hand, swollen, faintly warm and soft to the touch. The best ones are imported from Turkey in early autumn. And remember Lawrence’s advice: ‘ripe figs won’t keep, won’t keep in any clime’. Enjoy them as soon as possible. If they do start to turn, though, becoming mushy and sticky with the odd furry spot, you can still make them into an excellent jam. Just cut off any really bad bits.

*Disappointing figs can always be remedied with a little heat and honey. The same is true of fresh apricots, which are often unpleasantly woolly because they have been shipped underripe. To quote Grigson again: ‘you will perhaps be wise to regard apricots as a fruit for the kitchen, then you will not be disappointed’. Fortunately, there are several suggestions in this book.

*Homemade apricot jam is a revelation, and incomparable to cheap shop-bought versions. Add a little vanilla, lavender or cardamom to make real magic happen.

*Generally speaking, markets and greengrocers are much cheaper places to buy fresh apricots, when in season, than the supermarkets. I have picked them up for as little as £2 a kilo – perfect for cakes and jams.

*If you crack an apricot kernel with a nutcracker or hammer, the small pit inside has a delicious almond flavour that you can use to infuse ice cream or homemade apricot jam. In northern France, apricot kernel is a key ingredient in noyau, a brandy made also with almonds. Be careful though – the kernels contain small quantities of cyanide, so don’t be tempted to eat them raw! One cracked kernel in the bottom of a jar of jam is all you need for the flavour to percolate.

*Dates, especially the coveted Medjool variety, can be expensive. Middle Eastern grocers are good places to buy them in bulk, saving you money and giving you access to a host of different varieties. It’s also worth looking out for date syrup or date molasses, treacly sweeteners that you can use in baking or drizzled over hummus or grilled meats.

*Keep your eyes peeled (pun intended) for Sicilian blood oranges in late winter; their vibrant colour and sharp flavour make a gorgeous addition to sweet and savoury dishes. You can replace blood oranges in any recipe with normal oranges, but add an extra squeeze of lemon to replicate the sharpness. Amalfi lemons also emerge in early spring, and are well worth the price tag, especially if you use them in dishes that really showcase their flavour, such as a lemon tart or ice cream. They are often sold with the leaves attached, which can be used to imbue recipes with a delightful herbal citrus flavour.

*If you ever come across Persian or Meyer lemons, snap them up. The former are excellent for making Moroccan preserved lemons, and the latter make an utterly sublime lemon curd or lemon tart.

*Similarly, if you are lucky to find fresh kaffir limes (also called makrut limes, as the former name now has problematic discriminatory connotations), grab them while you can. They freeze well and the peel makes an authentic addition to a homemade Thai curry paste. For more information on using lime leaves, see the Leaves chapter.

*Should you get your hands on some fresh bergamots, don’t waste anything. The peel, along with slices of the fresh fruit, can be dried on a wire rack in a sunny windowsill and used to flavour homemade iced teas.

*For more advice on oranges, lemons, limes and everything in between, I recommend Catherine Phipps’s excellent book Citrus.

*Grigson cautions us not to waste the squeezed halves of lemons – she suggests using them to whiten your elbows! If you’re already blessed with snow-white joints, however, I’d advise you to use the squeezed halves of any citrus (especially precious varieties like bergamot and blood orange) to make a flavoursome and versatile syrup – see the (very easy) method in the Tunisian citrus cake.

This is not an authentic tabbouleh – there is no bulgur wheat and nowhere near the requisite quantity of parsley. Instead, I’ve used wholewheat giant couscous, which I love for its nutty flavour and big, toothsome grains. The recipe is inspired by the flavours of Middle Eastern salads: the crunch of cucumber, the fragrance of grassy parsley and mint, and a good glug of olive oil to dress the lot. It’s brightened with lemon and the intriguing perfume of orange blossom, and finally tossed with slivers of golden apricot. This is one to make when you are lucky enough to find perfectly ripe apricots. Out of season you can use dried, and if you find yourself with woolly, lacklustre fresh apricots, the searing heat of a griddle pan is a good way to pep them up. This salad works very well as a side with barbecued meats and fish, but is also very good with fried halloumi, or crumbled feta or goat’s cheese for a simple vegetarian main course.

2 small (Lebanese) cucumbers or 1 regular cucumber, sliced lengthways and deseeded

500g ripe apricots, halved and stoned, or 200g dried apricots, soaked in hot (not boiling) water for 1 hour

Bring a large pan of salted water to the boil and add the couscous. Cook according to the packet instructions until al dente (usually around 10–12 minutes). Drain well and set aside.

Chop the cucumber(s) into 1cm dice and place the dice in a large mixing or salad bowl. If using fresh apricots, chop them into thick slivers. (If they are not very flavoursome, or a bit dry, toss the slivers with a teaspoon of olive oil and cook them on a hot griddle pan for a couple of minutes on each side.) If using dried apricots, drain them, dry them on kitchen paper and roughly chop. Add the apricot pieces to the bowl along with the parsley, mint and lemon zest. Then, add the couscous, lemon juice, sumac, olive oil and orange-blossom water. Season with salt and pepper to taste, toss well to combine, and serve.

This is what I would like to be served at the Christmas or Thanksgiving dinner table if I were vegetarian. It is a hymn to the flavours of autumn, with a luscious, silky pumpkin custard offset by the grassy tang of goat’s cheese and the sumptuous syrupiness of fresh figs. Best of all, you can make the pastry case, pumpkin purée and candied seeds in advance, leaving you with a simple assemble-and-bake job on the day. If you’re using a different type of pumpkin (not a Crown Prince), you may want to put the purée in a sieve lined with muslin for a couple of hours to drain, as other types can be watery – and no one wants their tart to have a soggy bottom.

600g Crown Prince pumpkin wedges (deseeded but skin on) or 300g pumpkin purée from a can

If you’re using fresh pumpkin, place the wedges on a baking tray. Roast them for 30–60 minutes, until completely tender to the point of a knife (the exact time will depend upon your pumpkin). Remove the pumpkin from the oven, turn the oven off and leave the pumpkin to cool. Once the pumpkin is cool, remove the skin and discard it. Blitz the flesh to a rough purée in a food processor and transfer it to a large bowl. (If you’re using canned pumpkin, empty the purée into a large bowl.)

While the pumpkin is roasting, make the pastry. Put the flour, polenta, butter, salt and rosemary in a food processor and pulse until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs and the rosemary is roughly chopped. Add the iced water, 1 tablespoon at a time, and pulse gently until the mixture just comes together – don’t over-mix. Tip out the pastry onto a floured work surface and bring it together into a ball with your hands. Flatten it into a disc and chill it in the fridge for 1 hour. (You can do this in advance, if you like.)

When you’re ready to cook the tart, pre-heat the oven to 210°C/190°C/gas mark 6–7.

Roll out the pastry on a floured surface to a circle roughly 5mm thick. Tear off a little bit of the pastry to make a small ball. Use the pastry circle to line a 23cm tart tin, using the small ball of pastry to press it into all the edges. Run a rolling pin over the top of the tin to trim the pastry case, then lightly prick the bottom with a fork.

Line the pastry case with a disc of baking parchment (make sure it’s large enough to come up the sides as well as cover the base) and fill with baking beans. Blind bake for 20 minutes, then remove the paper and baking beans and bake for a further 8–10 minutes, until golden.

Meanwhile, make the candied pumpkin seeds. Mix the seeds, salt and maple syrup in a small bowl, then tip the mixture into a small baking dish. Bake for 15 minutes in the oven while the pastry cooks, stirring halfway through the cooking time, then remove the seeds from the oven and tip onto some baking parchment to cool. Once cool, roughly chop.

Add the remaining filling ingredients, except the figs, to the pumpkin purée in the bowl, and whisk well to combine. Taste and adjust the seasoning as necessary.

When the pastry case is ready, pour the pumpkin filling into it. Halve the figs and arrange the halves over the top of the tart, cut side up.

Bake the tart for 30–35 minutes, or until the tart is set with just a very slight wobble. Remove from the oven and allow to cool for at least 15 minutes before serving warm or at room temperature, scattered with the candied pumpkin seeds.

Combining much of what I love about Middle Eastern and North African cooking in a plethora of moreish little parcels, this recipe actually showcases three different Mediterranean fruits: date, lemon and pomegranate. Dates add a wonderful rich sweetness that balances the slightly sulphuric bitterness of roasted cauliflower, while preserved lemons – a salty staple of North African cooking – lend an intriguing depth of flavour that combines perfectly with warming spices. A ripple of syrupy pomegranate molasses (or you can use date molasses for a double date hit) lifts the tahini dipping sauce both visually and on the tongue. Altogether, this might sound like an odd fusion of east Asian and Middle Eastern, but the result is a delightfully satisfying taste adventure, with a textural depth and richness sometimes lacking in vegetarian dumplings. A true homage to Mediterranean botanicals.

Put the cauliflower florets into a baking dish or tray. Tear any tender cauliflower stalks and leaves into small pieces and add these, along with the red onion. Drizzle over the rapeseed or olive oil and scatter over the cumin, sweet smoked paprika, salt, chilli, cinnamon, and a generous grinding of black pepper. Toss everything together with your hands or a spoon.

Put the tray in the oven and roast the vegetables for around 20 minutes, giving everything a stir halfway through, until the cauliflower is slightly charred and just tender. Be careful not to overcook it or it will turn to mush, so check its progress after 15 minutes. Set the tray and its contents aside to cool.

Put the pine nuts in a small oven dish or tray and place them in the oven for 8–10 minutes, until lightly toasted and fragrant. Set aside to cool. Turn off the oven.

While everything cools, prepare the sauce. In a small bowl, whisk together the crushed garlic, lemon juice and tahini. Gradually add enough water (you’ll need about 50–100ml) to make a fairly thin dipping sauce, whisking as you go – it should be the consistency of double cream. Set aside.

Once the cauliflower is cool, put it in a food processor and add the coriander, dates and feta. Cut the preserved lemon in half, scoop out the flesh and discard.

Finely chop the peel and add this to the food processor, too. If using lemon zest, just add that to the processor. Pulse a couple of times, just to bring the mixture together and disperse the ingredients. You definitely do not want it to turn to a homogeneous paste – you should be able to see small pieces of individual ingredients. Use a spatula if necessary to move the mixture around a little so it pulses evenly. Scoop the mixture out into a large bowl and gently fold in the cooled, toasted pine nuts.

Now it is time to fill the dumplings. Have a small bowl of cold water to hand, and a large baking tray lightly dusted with plain flour. Take one gyoza skin from the packet. If you’re right-handed, hold it flat on the palm of your left hand; hold it in your right hand if you are left-handed. Dip a finger of the opposite hand in the bowl of water and moisten the edge of the wrapper in your palm to create a border of around 1cm. Place a heaped teaspoon of the filling in the centre of the wrapper, then fold the wrapper in half to enclose the filling. You should end up with a half-moon shape. Moisten one side of the curved edge of the wrapper, then use your fingertips to pinch small pleats into the curved edge of the dumpling. (There are lots of helpful internet tutorials on dumpling shaping, if you want to brush up on the technique.) Place the finished dumpling on the floured baking tray, then repeat with the remaining filling and dumpling skins until everything is used up and you have a tray of beautiful dumplings.

You will need to cook the dumplings in about three or four batches, depending on the size of your pan. Heat a large, non-stick frying pan with a tight-fitting lid, over a medium-high heat. Add 2 tablespoons of rapeseed or olive oil to the pan and swirl it around to coat the bottom. Once the pan is hot, place some of the dumplings in the pan, with the pleated edge facing upwards – you want to cover the base of the pan with dumplings, but don’t overcrowd it – they should not be touching one another. Fry them for 3–5 minutes, until the bottoms have become golden and crispy. Then, splash 25ml of water into the pan – it will immediately hiss and start to steam. Quickly put the lid on the pan and leave the dumplings for about 2–3 minutes, until the water has been completely absorbed. Transfer the cooked dumplings to a plate and keep them warm in a low oven while you repeat the process to cook the remaining dumplings.

Divide the tahini sauce between small bowls or dipping dishes, one for each guest. Drizzle a little pomegranate or date molasses into each bowl using a circular motion so you have a pretty swirl of dark syrup. Place the dumplings on a large platter in the centre of the table and let each guest take and dip as they please.

This dish combines many of my favourite ingredients. I was first introduced to the idea of serving mackerel with dates in the wonderful book Crazy Water, Pickled Lemons by Diana Henry. I’ve added blood orange, tahini, toasted pine nuts and caramelised onions for a dish that is as vibrant and luxurious as it is healthy. I like to serve this with wilted spinach and boiled giant couscous, but bulgur wheat or freekeh would also work well. Try doubling the date salsa and serving it with cold meats, smoked fish or – my favourite way – with pan-fried halloumi. I hope it becomes a new kitchen staple.

First, make the salsa. Toast the pine nuts in a dry frying pan over a medium heat for a couple of minutes (watch them like a hawk so they don’t burn), until golden, then set aside to cool. Place the date pieces in a small bowl. Add the chilli, ginger, blood orange zest and juice, olive oil and salt, and season with a good grinding of pepper. Then, add the chopped coriander and the toasted pine nuts. Stir well and set aside.

Make the mackerel. Heat half the rapeseed or olive oil in a large frying pan over a medium heat, then add the onions and a pinch of salt. Sauté for 10–20 minutes, until the onions are soft and caramelised – do not allow them to burn (you may need to turn the heat down).

While the onions are cooking, put the tahini, lemon juice and garlic in a small jug. Add a little water, whisking well, then continue to add water (you’ll need about 30–50ml in total) until you have a sauce a little thicker than double cream. Taste and season with salt and pepper, as necessary.

When the onions are ready, divide them between two plates. Heat the remaining rapeseed or olive oil in the frying pan over a high heat. Season the mackerel fillets well on both sides, then add them to the pan, skin-side down. Cook for 2–3 minutes without moving the fillets (this helps the skin to crisp up) and until you can see that they are nearly opaque on the side facing you. Then, flip them over and cook for a further 1 minute, until the flesh is opaque all the way through (you can check gently with a sharp knife).

Place the mackerel fillets on top of the caramelised onions, then drizzle over the tahini sauce. Garnish with a spoonful of the blood orange salsa and serve immediately, with the remaining salsa on the side and some wilted spinach and couscous or bulgur wheat.

I am always trying to find new things to do with bergamots, but their intense bitterness makes them a bit of a problem in the kitchen. However, it occurred to me that their potent juice would work beautifully for curing fresh fish in the style of ceviche. Adding some of the fragrant zest, too, results in a beautifully aromatic ceviche that fuses Latin American and Mediterranean flavours, the latter a nod to the bergamot’s culinary roots. You can substitute bergamot juice with lemon and lime, or even yuzu for a more Japanese feel. If you struggle to slice the salmon, place it in the freezer for 20–30 minutes to firm it up beforehand. You can either serve this as a main course with some brown rice, or in crunchy lettuce-leaf ‘cups’ as a starter or snack.

1 red chilli, halved lengthways and thinly sliced (deseeded if you want less heat)

Soak the red onion in very cold water, just enough to cover, with a generous pinch of salt, for 30 minutes. After 30 minutes, drain and pat dry with kitchen paper. Set aside.

Meanwhile, slice the salmon very thinly. Sprinkle with another generous pinch of salt and set aside for 10 minutes while you prepare the remaining ingredients.

In a small jug, whisk together the bergamot juice and zest with the chilli, ginger, garlic, sugar and olive oil. Place the salmon in a bowl and pour over the bergamot mixture. Mix well, then refrigerate for 10 minutes, then remove from the fridge, add the fennel and soaked red onion and mix well, then leave for a further 5 minutes at room temperature.

Heat a small frying pan over a medium heat, then add the pine nuts. Toast in the dry pan, shaking it regularly, until they are lightly golden and fragrant (don’t take your eye off them, as they burn easily!). Remove from the heat and set aside to cool.

Halve, stone and cut the avocado into roughly 2cm dice. Mix the diced flesh gently with the salmon. Arrange the salmon on a plate, then scatter over the coriander and toasted pine nuts. Serve with brown rice or in lettuce wraps.

This is a good, easy weeknight dinner, but one that is so much more than the sum of its parts. Blood oranges and crunchy fennel are perfect partners for the rich oiliness of smoked fish, and even more so when outlined against a dramatic canvas of black barley (but you can use ordinary pearl barley, if you prefer). If you’re making this when blood oranges are out of season, use regular oranges and add an extra squeeze of lemon juice to the dressing.

Toss the beetroot wedges in a bowl with the rapeseed or olive oil, sea salt, and a good grinding of black pepper to season. Tip the seasoned wedges onto a baking tray and spread them out in a single layer. Place them in the oven to roast for about 30 minutes, or until they are tender to the point of a knife. Set aside.

While the beetroot is roasting, drain the barley from its soaking water and put it in a medium saucepan. Cover with cold water by 5cm or so, place it over a high heat and bring it to the boil. Once boiling, lower the heat to a lively simmer and cook, covered, for 30–40 minutes, until the grains are tender but still have some chewy bite to them. They should not be chalky and crunchy in the centre. Drain the barley well in a colander, then return it to the saucepan to keep warm.

While the beetroot and barley cook, make a dressing. Using a sharp knife, slice the skin and pith off the blood oranges, then, holding the orange over a sieve placed over a bowl, cut out the segments of flesh, dropping them into the sieve. Squeeze the remaining pith and membranes over the sieve to get all the juice.

Pour the blood orange juice into a jug and add the mustard, olive oil, maple syrup or agave and red wine vinegar, and season generously with salt and some black pepper. Taste and adjust if necessary – remember, the olives and fish will be salty, so err on the side of under-salted.

When the barley and beetroot are ready, put the drained barley into a large bowl and add the blood orange segments, roasted beetroot, olives and parsley. Pour the dressing over and mix well – it is important to do this while the barley and beetroot are still warm, so they soak up the dressing.

Pick any fronds off the fennel and add them to the barley mixture. Slice the fennel bulb as thinly as possible, ideally using a mandoline. Place in a small bowl and toss well with the lemon juice and a sprinkling of salt.

When you’re ready to serve, flake the fish into large chunks and fold it gently into the barley mixture. Divide the salad between two or three plates, then top each plate with a little of the lemony fennel to serve.

This is one of my go-to dishes as soon as blood oranges start to appear in the shops in late winter. The heartiness of bolstering chickpeas, buttered almonds and smoky chicken makes for a supremely satisfying plateful, not to mention one packed with nourishing ingredients. Vegetarians can swap the chicken for slices of chargrilled halloumi, which are just as good (they don’t need marinating, just slice and grill). Try to get very good-quality chickpeas for this – they should be tender and creamy, not hard like bullets. You can also use normal oranges, but add a good squeeze of lemon juice to the chickpeas to compensate.

Make a marinade. Combine all the ingredients for the chicken, except the chicken itself, in a small bowl. Add the chicken strips and toss well to coat, then refrigerate for 30–60 minutes.

When you’re ready to make the salad, grate the zest from two of the oranges. Place it in a bowl with the chilli. Cut the skin off all the oranges with a sharp, serrated knife, then cut the orange segments away from the pith. Do this over the bowl containing the zest and chilli to catch any juice. Place the orange segments in the bowl, then squeeze in any juice from the remaining pith too, then discard the pith. Set aside.

In a large, non-stick frying pan, melt the butter over a medium heat. Add the almonds and cook for 2–3 minutes, until starting to turn golden, then add the garlic and cook until that also starts to turn golden (a further 2–3 minutes). Season with the salt. Use a slotted spoon to remove the almonds and garlic from the pan and set them aside on a piece of kitchen paper.

Add the onion and kale to the butter in the pan with 1 teaspoon of the olive oil. Stir-fry for about 5 minutes, until the vegetables are starting to soften, adding a splash of water if they start to catch or burn. Add the chickpeas and the orange mixture, and cook for another 2–3 minutes, until everything is warmed through. Add the almonds and garlic back to the pan along with half the basil, and stir everything together. Turn off the heat, add the remaining olive oil and mix well, tasting for seasoning.

To cook the marinated chicken, pre-heat a griddle pan over a medium-high heat. Remove the chicken pieces from the marinade and cook for about 5 minutes on each side, or until cooked through – the juices should run clear and the meat should be opaque. (You can do this in a non-stick frying pan if you don’t have a griddle pan.)

Divide the salad between four plates and place equal amounts of the chicken strips on top. Garnish with the remaining basil.

Candied leaves are a beautiful way to take your cooking with herbs to the next level. They are very easy to make – simply dip in egg white and then sugar – but look impressive, as if they have been touched by the frosty fingers of the Snow Queen. Sage, with its downy softness, lends itself particularly well to the process, but you could also use the same technique with mint, lemon balm or young lemon verbena leaves. You will need to prepare them a day or two in advance, so bear that in mind.

This classic clafoutis combines succulent roast apricots with verdant pistachio, adding a double hit of aromatic sage to temper the sweetness with its slightly resinous fragrance. It is a perfect pudding for high summer, perhaps with a drizzle of double cream or a scoop of vanilla ice cream to gild the lily. You could also use peaches or plums in place of apricots, and consider adding a few blackberries or raspberries to the batter too, if you happen to have any lying around. The tart fruit paired with the pillowy softness of the custard is really quite something. Unorthodox though it may be, I sometimes eat the leftovers of this for breakfast.

Make the candied sage leaves the day before you want to serve the clafoutis. Put the egg white in a small bowl or cup and sprinkle the caster sugar over a plate. Have a sheet of baking parchment nearby. Dip each sage leaf in egg white to coat thoroughly, then dredge it in the sugar, ensuring it is completely covered on both sides. Lay it gently on the sheet of baking parchment and repeat with the remaining leaves. Leave the leaves on a worktop or oven rack to dry out for at least 24 hours. They should become crisp and sparkling.

The next day, about 2 hours before you want to serve the clafoutis, put the milk and cream in a small saucepan. Roughly crush the 15 uncandied sage leaves (not the ones you just covered in sugar!) in your hand then add them to the pan. Bring the mixture to just below the boil, then turn off the heat and leave to infuse for about 1 hour.

Meanwhile, grease a baking dish of about 28–30cm in diameter and at least 4cm deep with butter. Place the apricot halves, cut sides up, in the dish in a single layer.

Once the milk and cream mixture has infused, pre-heat the oven to 200°C/180°C fan/gas mark 6.

Strain the milk mixture through a fine sieve into a jug or bowl to remove the sage (you can discard this sage now). To the mixture in the jug, add the lemon zest, eggs, flour and caster sugar and whisk well using a hand whisk or electric hand whisk until smooth. (A few small lumps are fine, but aim for it to be as smooth as you can get it.)

If you have a food processor, blitz the pistachios to a fine powder. Otherwise, chop as finely as you can. Whisk them into the milk and egg mixture.

Pour the mixture over and around the apricots in the baking dish – it may cover a few, which is fine. Sprinkle the demerara sugar evenly over the dish.

Put the dish in the oven and bake for about 35–45 minutes, or until the custard is evenly set with a slight wobble. It should be golden and puffed up around the fruit. Leave to cool for about 15 minutes before scattering with the candied sage leaves. Serve immediately.

I no longer live in Oxford, but on my rare visits back to my alma mater, I make it a matter of urgency to return to Moya, an unpretentious Eastern European restaurant whose food remains some of the best I have ever tasted. My main course is of little importance, as long as it leaves room for the apricot dessert dumpling with the poppy seed butter sauce. It’s impossible to explain the sensation of startlingly sharp, sweet, collapsing fruit cosseted in a cocoon of fluffy dough, slicked with butter that has been punctuated with the nutty rasp of poppy seeds. Instead, you’d best try it for yourself – this is the closest I could get to a recreation, although I heartily advise you to seek out the original, too. I’d recommend serving one or two dumplings per person as a dessert (depending on what you’ve eaten beforehand), but they also reheat well in a steamer, should you be unable to consume the entire batch in a single sitting. Out of season, this recipe works quite well with tinned apricot halves in syrup, and you can even try a dollop of apricot jam instead of the whole fruit (omit the sugar cubes in that case).

First make the dumplings. Put the milk, butter and lemon zest in a small saucepan over a medium heat and bring to just below the boil, until the butter has melted. Leave the mixture to cool to body temperature, then beat in the egg and vanilla paste (it is important to leave the mixture to cool as otherwise it will kill the yeast).

Put the flour and caster sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a dough hook, or a large bowl if you plan to make the dumplings by hand. Add the salt to one side of the flour mixture in the bowl and crumble the yeast onto the other. Make a well in the centre and add the milk mixture.

Using the dough hook or your hands, bring everything together to form a sticky dough. Knead using the dough hook, or your hands on an oiled work surface, for about 10 minutes, until you have a soft, elastic dough that is slightly sticky, but not wet. Try to avoid adding more flour unless really necessary.

Put the dough back in the bowl if necessary, cover with a clean tea towel and leave it to rise for about 1 hour, or until doubled in size.

Meanwhile, cut the apricots in half and remove the stones. Set aside. Line a baking sheet with baking parchment or non-stick silicone.

Once the dough has risen, divide it into 10 pieces of about 50g each. Take each piece and roll it into a ball in your hands, then flatten it into a circle about 5mm thick. Take two apricot halves and place one half in the centre of the circle, cut side upwards. Place a sugar cube in the centre of the apricot, where the stone had been. Sandwich the other half of the apricot on top of the sugar cube. Bring the dough circle upwards around the apricot, so that it is fully enclosed in the dough, and pinch the ends together to seal, to give a uniform ball of dough with an apricot inside. Roll the ball gently in your palm to smooth over the sealed end. Set the dumpling aside on the lined baking sheet, and repeat the process with the remaining pieces of dough, apricots and sugar cubes.

Once you have shaped the dumplings, leave them to rest on the baking sheet for 20 minutes. Prepare a metal or bamboo steamer over a pan of simmering water (if using bamboo, you may want to line it with greaseproof paper to avoid bits of dough getting stuck onto it and making it a nightmare to clean). Steam the dumplings for 20 minutes, until the dough is puffed up, fluffy and slightly shiny on the surface.

While the dumplings steam, prepare the sauce. Melt the butter in a medium saucepan over a medium heat, then reduce the heat to low. Grind the poppy seeds in a spice grinder or powerful blender (such as a Nutribullet) until you have a dark, slightly moist mixture that begins to stick together (it shouldn’t be a paste, though). You can do this with a mortar and pestle, but it will take more effort and you will probably need to do it in batches to avoid seeds pinging out all over your kitchen. Stir the ground seeds into the butter along with the cinnamon and caster sugar. Keep the sauce warm on a very low heat until you’re ready to serve.

Serve the dumplings with the sauce poured over, and dusted with a little icing sugar.

Really good, ripe figs are wasted in baking – you should enjoy them as they are, perhaps with a smattering of fresh goat’s cheese or ricotta. However, they are also rather hard to find, so I came up with this cake as a way to enjoy their autumnal flavour even when all you can find are bullet-hard supermarket specimens. The sharpness of raspberries (you can use blackberries instead) accentuates the figs’ honeyed notes, and they are excellent with buttery hazelnuts and treacly brown sugar. This cake is best served warm on the day it’s made, as a pudding with some ice cream or crème fraîche.

Pre-heat the oven to 200°C/180°C fan/gas mark 6. Grease and line a 20cm springform cake tin.

In an electric mixer or with an electric hand whisk, cream the butter and sugars on high speed for 3–4 minutes, until pale and creamy. Gradually add the eggs, whisking well between each addition. Add the vanilla, salt, cinnamon and milk. Sift in the flour, then add two-thirds of the hazelnuts. Fold the mixture together with a spoon until just combined to a thick batter.

Chop two of the figs into small pieces (about 1.5cm) and fold the pieces into the batter along with half the berries. Pour the batter into the tin, level the top with a spatula, then quarter the remaining figs and arrange them on top of the cake, skin side pressed into the batter, along with the remaining berries and hazelnuts. Scatter over the demerara sugar evenly and bake for about 50–60 minutes, until a skewer inserted in the centre comes out clean. Serve warm with vanilla ice cream or crème fraîche.

Earl Grey tea is named after Charles Grey, Prime Minister of Great Britain in the 1830s, who was gifted a tea flavoured with bergamot oil, probably as a result of a diplomatic connection with China. The exact details of this tale are hazy, but we must be grateful to Grey’s mysterious benefactor, for without him (or her!) it is unlikely that the bergamot would be much known outside its Mediterranean homeland. As it stands, you can even buy bergamots in Waitrose during the season, but the number of occasions on which I’ve seen them reduced to clear suggests that many of us are at a loss for how to use these greenish, sour specimens. This recipe is the answer, and my attempt to rescue those unloved fruit from the supermarket shelves. This exquisite curd is gorgeous spread on a scone or used for sandwiching a Victoria sponge (to be served with a pot of Earl Grey, of course). You can even add a splash of gin to the curd towards the end of cooking. I think the Earl would approve.

First, sterilise your jars. I do this by washing them well in soapy water, then putting the jars upside down in an oven at 140°C/120°C fan/gas mark 1 for 25 minutes, adding the lids (also upside down) for the last 10 minutes. Turn off the oven and leave the jars inside until you are ready to bottle the curd. You can alternatively run the jars through a hot dishwasher cycle, then pot the curd while they are still warm.

Put the bergamot zest in a large, heatproof bowl. Measure out 300ml of the juice (it should be about all of it), and strain it into the bowl with the zest, discarding any pips.

Add the butter, sugar and salt to the bergamot zest and juice. Suspend the bowl over a pan of simmering water (the water shouldn’t touch the base of the bowl). Using a wooden spoon, stir the mixture for 5 minutes, until the butter has melted. Remove the bowl from the heat and let the mixture cool for a few minutes before adding the eggs and egg yolks (if it is too hot, they will scramble).

Put the bowl back over the simmering water and whisk the mixture frequently as it heats up for about 30–45 minutes, until the curd thickens and reaches the ‘ribbon stage’ (when a dollop dropped from the whisk forms a ribbon on the surface of the mixture). You can use a sugar thermometer to check – the temperature should reach 76°C.

When the curd is thick, allow it to cool in the bowl, whisking occasionally, then pour into the warm jars and seal. The curd will keep in the fridge for about 2–3 weeks, and freezes well, too.

This is based on a recipe from Gayle Gonzales’s fabulous dessert blog, Pastry Studio. She makes it with oranges, and I would highly recommend trying it with blood oranges if you can’t find bergamots – it is one of the most visually stunning cakes I know. Bergamots are usually available for a short period around January to March from certain specialist grocers and suppliers. Resembling squat, yellow-green oranges, they are best known for their fragrant zest, whose oil is used to perfume Earl Grey tea. I will add a small caveat, though: their bitterness isn’t for everyone. Despite the candying process, there remains a little residual bitterness in the fruit topping of this cake that tends to divide tasters! However, if you want to keep things sweet, you can just pour the syrup over the cake and simply discard the fruit slices. You can also make it with regular unwaxed lemons, which are a little less bitter. If using lemons or bergamots, make sure you blanch them first as the recipe says, but if you are using oranges you can skip this step and simply put the orange slices straight into the syrup.

This is lovely with a scoop of crème fraîche – or a cup of Earl Grey, for die-hard bergamot fans. It also pairs well, as you might expect, with the London Fog ice cream. Use your best olive oil and honey here – they make all the difference.

1 large bergamot, zest grated and reserved, covered, to use in the cake (see below)

First, make the syrup. Bring a medium saucepan of water to the boil and reduce to a simmer.

Meanwhile, using your sharpest knife, slice the zested bergamot widthways as thinly as possible, discarding the bumpy bit at each end. Remove any seeds with the point of a knife. Put the bergamot slices in the pan of water and simmer for 1 minute. Drain, return the slices to the pan and cover with fresh water. Bring to the boil and allow to simmer gently for 1 minute, then drain again and set aside. This process helps to remove most of the bitterness.

Put 400ml of fresh water in the saucepan and add the sugar. Place over a high heat and bring to the boil, stirring to dissolve the sugar, then reduce the heat to a lively simmer and add the honey and rosemary or thyme sprigs and the blanched bergamot slices. Simmer gently, stirring occasionally, for about 30–40 minutes, or until the fruit is translucent and completely tender to the point of a knife, and the syrup has reduced by half. Set aside.

While the syrup is simmering away, make the cake. Pre-heat the oven to 200°C/180°C fan/gas mark 6. Grease (with olive oil) and line a 20cm springform cake tin.

Mix together the flour, semolina, baking powder, bicarbonate of soda and salt in a bowl. In another bowl, using an electric mixer or electric hand whisk at high speed, whisk together half the sugar, the reserved bergamot zest and all the olive oil for a couple of minutes. Add the egg yolks and beat again for 1 minute. Beat in the yoghurt and vanilla, then use a spatula or wooden spoon to fold in the flour mixture to completely combine.

In a separate, clean bowl and using a clean electric hand whisk (if they aren’t clean the egg whites won’t whip properly), whisk the egg whites to stiff peaks. Add the remaining caster sugar and whisk again until you have a thick foam. Fold one-quarter of this into the cake mixture, using gentle motions to avoid knocking out the air, then fold in the rest – you want to incorporate the egg-white foam while keeping as much air in the mixture as possible.

Pour the cake batter into the tin, level the top and bake for 30–40 minutes, or until a skewer inserted in the centre comes out clean. Remove the cake from the oven and, leaving it in the tin, prick it all over with a skewer or cocktail stick. Remove the candied bergamot slices from the pan of syrup and set aside. Pour the hot syrup over the warm cake in stages, waiting for each pouring to absorb before adding more. Ensure you distribute the syrup evenly over the whole cake.

Once all the syrup is used up, arrange the candied bergamot slices over the surface of the cake. You can do this neatly or randomly, depending on the kind of cook you are. Finally, scatter over a few sprigs or leaves of rosemary or thyme. Leave to cool before removing from the tin, dusting with icing sugar and serving.

As a teenager, I worked as a waitress at a lovely little organic café in Cambridge. The Tunisian citrus cake was always a favourite among our customers, and is memorable to me for two reasons. First, for its toothsome, slightly crunchy texture – it was made using breadcrumbs from the chef’s leftover sourdough – permeated by a heavy slick of sweet, tangy citrus syrup and a whisper of cinnamon perfume. Second, because of an incident with a customer. We used to decorate the cake with whole spices, and the last piece in the counter traditionally ended up with all the spices on top as we removed them from the preceding slices that we served. I served this last piece to the customer, leaving the spices on as I thought it would be a nice touch. When I cleared her table an hour or so later, I noticed that there was not a spice to be seen. The whole cinnamon stick, star anise and handful of spiky cloves had disappeared from the plate. There were only two possible conclusions to be had, both equally unfathomable: said customer had either consumed the whole spices along with her cake, or taken them home, drenched as they were in deeply sticky syrup. I am still mystified to this very day – but I hope she enjoyed them, regardless.

This cake is a beauty because it uses ingredients that we might otherwise waste – leftover citrus peels and breadcrumbs (slightly stale sourdough works best). I must thank Catherine Phipps for introducing me to this way of making citrus syrup. Simply macerate leftover rinds with sugar for a day or so, stirring and squashing occasionally with a wooden spoon before straining, and you’ll be rewarded with an intensely flavoursome syrup that can be used in everything from cakes to sorbets and iced teas. If you’re buying citrus fruit just to make this recipe, use the zest and juice first for something else, like the bergamot curd . Thanks also to Diana Henry for the cake inspiration in her wonderful book Crazy Water, Pickled Lemons.

the zested, juiced halves of 8 bergamots, lemons, limes, oranges or grapefruit, or a mixture

1 teaspoon lemon thyme leaves, or 2 teaspoons finely chopped lemon verbena leaves, plus a few optional sprigs to decorate

Make the syrup at least the day before you want to make the cake (but you can make it up to a week beforehand and keep it in the fridge). Roughly chop the citrus halves and weigh them. Put them in a non-reactive bowl (glass is best) and add half their weight in caster sugar. Stir well, cover with a tea towel, then set aside for at least 12 hours, stirring occasionally and pressing the fruit and sugar together with a wooden spoon. After at least 12 hours, strain the mixture through a muslin-lined sieve into a small bowl or jug. Discard the leftover fruit. You should have about 100ml of syrup.

To make the cake, pre-heat the oven to 200°C/180°C fan/gas mark 6. Grease (with olive oil) and line a 20cm springform cake tin.

Put the bread chunks in a food processor or mini chopper with the almonds and lemon thyme or verbena leaves. Blitz the mixture as finely as possible, then put it into a bowl and add the sugar, baking powder, olive oil and eggs. Whisk everything together until well combined.

Pour the mixture into the prepared cake tin and bake for 35–45 minutes, until just set and a skewer inserted in the centre comes out clean.

Remove the cake from the oven and prick it all over with a skewer or cocktail stick, then drizzle 100ml of your syrup all over the cake, letting it sink into the holes (if you have any extra syrup, serve it alongside the cake, or use it in iced tea).

Leave the cake to cool in the tin, then remove it and dust with icing sugar. You can either decorate this with sprigs of thyme or lemon verbena, or with cinnamon sticks, cloves and star anise – just make sure none of your guests eats them or puts them in their pockets! Serve the cake in slices, with fresh berries and a scoop of Greek yoghurt or crème fraîche on the side, if you like.