The Botanical Kitchen

SO READS the story of Adam and Eve’s fall from grace, the bitter knowledge imparted by the forbidden apple bringing forth shame and humiliation, and leading to the expert crafting of loincloths out of a piece of foliage so perfectly suited to cloaking the human genitalia that you’d almost think God had all this planned out. Whether the forbidden fruit of Genesis was, as many have speculated, actually a fig rather than an apple (other contenders are pomegranates and quinces) or not, there’s no denying that fig leaves are associated with a certain frisson of eroticism and desire in Western culture. Depictions of Adam and Eve from the medieval period onwards feature modesty-preserving fig leaves, strategically and titillatingly placed, and the Renaissance period witnessed the fabulous ‘fig leaf campaign’, during which lascivious artworks were hurriedly covered with branches from nearby bushes to avoid offending delicate religious sensibilities.

Despite the cultural capital of the fig leaf, which is also useful for making an excellent ice cream, there are some underrated edible leaves out there that deserve a chance in the limelight. Blackcurrant leaves, for example. Where the vibrant, swollen blackcurrants are the beating heart of the plant, the leaves are its limbs; they are delicately imbued with that same fragrance, branched with aromatic capillaries that carry an intriguing herbal tang and mellow beautifully into ice cream or tea. Despite this potential, there are perhaps several reasons why blackcurrant leaves have never acquired the same resonance as those of the fig. For one thing, Adam and Eve would have had to work pretty hard to stitch loincloths out of these, and a single blackcurrant leaf would probably have been insufficient to cover Adam’s modesty (and if it did manage to do so, then I feel a little sorry for Eve). Blackcurrants are less exotic than figs, growing in colder climes and lacking those heady associations with the perfumes of Arabia and the whitewashed, sun-drenched terraces of the Mediterranean. Blackcurrants are also rather less sexy than figs; where a fig presents you coquettishly with downy skin, voluptuous curves and a sweet, dripping interior, a blackcurrant is small, hard, and essentially mounts an assault on your taste buds with its astringent juice. It’s the chastity belt of fruits.

Where flowers and fruits are the ostentatious – even flirtatious – parts of the plant, leaves have a stalwart usefulness that often means we overlook them. It’s hard to care much for the mundane foliage of the blackcurrant plant when one is reaching to snare a particularly perfect tangle of inky berries, or to notice the swaying, umbrageous leaves of the banana tree when observing the way its fruit hangs coiled like some alien contraption. Peach leaves have a faint taste of almonds, but given a choice between a glowing, curvaceous peach and a piece of foliage, few would bother to gain better acquaintance with the latter. No wonder tea was apparently invented by accident, when the leaves of the Camellia sinensis plant fell into a monk’s boiling water in ancient China. The tea plant is a fairly nondescript bush, the kind an unsuspecting gardener might turn into a hedge. Seeing hundreds of thousands of these plants sweeping the mountainous landscapes of India, you’d never guess at the infinite manifestations such a humble bush will eventually yield, from exclusive matcha to a mug of builder’s brew. Perhaps the world’s most culturally significant leaf – consider its association with fortune telling, the tea ceremonies of China and Japan, and our own British traditions – the infinite versatility of tea makes it a wonderful partner in the kitchen. In Myanmar, fermented tea leaves are tossed into an unusual salad with crunchy fried beans, roasted sesame seeds, peanuts and crispy, fried garlic. The Japanese pour tea over rice to finish a meal. In Britain, putting the kettle on serves as a sublimated way for us stiff-upper-lippers to express a whole host of otherwise awkward emotions, particularly when helped along by the presence of scones. Infusing tea into a dish is a way of bringing the centuries-old magic of this ingredient to your everyday cooking: as in life, tea provides a supporting role for the rest of the drama. It can add depth and aroma to a smooth scoop of ice cream, a whisper of perfume to a bowl of steaming, fragrant rice, or a malty back note to a fruity loaf cake. This versatility is a boon in both the teacup and the kitchen, with different varieties of tea all contributing their own unique qualities to a dish: romantic jasmine, feisty rooibos, aristocratic Earl Grey and tarry lapsang souchong, to name but a fraction of the available possibilities. On a recent trip to Laos, I found myself enjoying a pot of silkworm poo tea, although the delicate flavour of this one (yes, really!) is best enjoyed unadulterated, rather than used to enhance cooking.

We can deploy leaves in the kitchen in myriad ways. First, we can exploit them for practical purposes. Banana leaves (which Jane Grigson suggests would have made a better covering for genitalia than those of the fig, owing to their size) make fabulous, eco-friendly wrappings for food intended for grilling, baking, steaming or barbecuing. Not only are they practical and biodegradable, but they also contribute a smoky, slightly bamboo-like taste to whatever they are being used as a vessel for. Unwrapping a verdant parcel of fish steamed in coconut curry is always going to be much more appealing when the parcel in question is a neatly folded banana leaf, as opposed to an anaemic piece of kitchen foil. If you are lucky enough to have access to a lemon tree, the leaves make wonderful wrappings for grilled halloumi, chicken or fish, lending a subtle citrus perfume to what lies within.

Perhaps one of the reasons we enjoy cooking with herbs so much is that they are rarely necessary in a dish – instead, they are the proverbial cherry on top, a way to personalise a meal or elevate it to another level. Herbs can add surprising or unusual touches, especially if you can get your hands on some of the more unusual variants. I love grapefruit mint, which smells as glorious as it sounds and is fabulous in zesty salads with citrus and fish, or crushed in a mojito. Pineapple sage works beautifully in pork and cheese recipes, while lemon basil makes an excellent pesto and couples well with chicken in Italian dishes. Cinnamon basil partners intriguingly with strawberries and peaches in desserts, and purple basil tastes similar to the normal green variety, but adds dramatic colour and interest. Thai basil is essential in many Thai and Vietnamese dishes; its aniseed flavour is difficult to substitute. Lemon thyme is fairly common now in supermarkets, thankfully, and wonderful with fish, chicken and dairy, as well as stirred into a simple omelette or pan of scrambled eggs. Experiment with adding herbs to sweet dishes: a few delicate lemon verbena leaves work beautifully scattered over a blackcurrant cheesecake, while finely chopped rosemary needles add a delicious herbal note to an apple tart. Basil has a curious affinity with strawberries, and you can cast your culinary net even wider if you start to branch out into the numerous varieties available.

Herbs often provide useful substitutes for one another, too – lemongrass, lemon verbena, lemon myrtle and lemon balm all contain high levels of citronella and citral, as do the leaves of the kaffir or makrut lime plant. Aside from their curious habit of sprouting one leaf from another like a parent and child, these leaves are visually unremarkable; it is only when shredded and infused in the enveloping richness of coconut milk that their potent citrus qualities come to the fore, and they are essential in many southeast Asian dishes. Only the fresh or frozen leaves – the latter of which defrost in minutes and are every bit as aromatic as their just-off-the-plant counterparts – will offer you the strong, citrus snap of the kaffir lime plant, particularly when shredded finely and stirred into simmering sweet coconut milk or pounded with chilli, ginger and coriander in a pestle and mortar.

One of the best ways to bring out the qualities of many leaves is to cosset them in milk or cream. Dairy coaxes out the flavour of these aromatic botanicals, allowing it to permeate your cooking: think lemon thyme or lemon verbena added to a creamy white sauce for baked salmon, or the grassy tang of blackcurrant leaves rippled through an ice-cream custard. Hot water is also a good way to extract the freshness of herbs: both lemon verbena leaves and lemongrass (pounded briefly in a pestle and mortar) make a wonderfully palate-cleansing tea. As should be obvious from the very concept of pesto, whose name derives from the Italian verb pestare (to pound or crush), applying pressure to fragile herbs releases much of their fragrance. It is a surefire way to unleash their full potential in a dish, whether it be crushed lemon thyme leaves stirred through crumbly ricotta to serve with honeyed figs, or a spice paste, pounded and scented with lime leaves, for baking tender pieces of white fish.

Reading leaves, whether those of tea or books, has long been a magical, transporting experience. Edible leaves are no exception. Learn to ‘read’ these delicate botanicals and harness their potential in the kitchen: it will open up a world of culinary discovery.

Tips & tricks

*In my opinion, dried kaffir lime leaves are not worth bothering with. Vacuum drying these thick, intensely zesty leaves sucks the life out of them like a well-positioned aphid. Buy boxes of frozen leaves from Asian grocers – they are cheap, will last for years and the flavour is incomparable. You can now buy the fresh leaves in some supermarkets, or you could try growing a kaffir lime plant yourself – mine has thrived happily on a conservatory windowsill for years, and guarantees me a year-round supply of fresh leaves. I always shred the leaves finely, removing the tough central stem, for maximum flavour when adding them to liquids or curry sauces.

*Thoroughly rinse leaves from your garden before use. Tearing or shredding them before infusing them in liquid brings out their flavour more fully.

*You can buy banana leaves fresh or frozen from Asian grocers.

*Whole tea leaves are much more flavoursome than tea bags, and carry less bitter tannin. I recommend using loose leaves for all the tea recipes in this book. The quality is infinitely superior and they are actually much better value for money, too, as a little goes a long way and you can steep them multiple times. See stockists.

*You can buy lemon verbena plants online, and they are relatively easy to grow. The dried stuff makes a lovely tea, popular in Morocco, but won’t have the same taste when used in cooking. Substitute with lemon thyme or a mixture of thyme and lemon zest instead, if you can’t find fresh lemon verbena. The fresh leaves also make a glorious tea, with a zingy citrus snap that is lacking in the dried version – simply infuse in boiling water.

*Experiment with some of the more unusual herb varieties, which you can buy online or from good garden centres. You can also grow many of these varieties from seed, which makes them excellent value for money as you’ll end up with more plants than you know what to do with.

*Most herbs don’t freeze well, so if you want to prolong their life, blitz them into a paste or pesto and freeze in small, ice cube-sized portions. Exceptions are tougher herbs like common thyme and rosemary, which survive the process well.

*However, do freeze the bunches of coriander stalks you are left with after using the leaves in a recipe. They are a key ingredient in curry pastes and soups, and have much more flavour than the leaves alone. Roughly chop them and freeze in a plastic bag, then simply add straight to the blender or pestle and mortar when making a curry paste or soup base. You can also treat parsley stalks in this way, adding them to sauces such as salsa verde.

*Store freshly cut herbs in the fridge. Wrap the bottom of the stalks in moist kitchen paper and keep in the salad drawer. Or treat them like flowers – snip a centimetre off the bottom of a bunch of herbs and put them in a glass of water in the fridge door. However, they do tend to deteriorate more quickly this way than if you keep them in kitchen paper, so make sure you change the water regularly and use the herbs as soon as possible.

I wasn’t sure whether to include this recipe in this book, as it seemed too simple. ‘No one wants to be told to make toast,’ I said to myself. However, I then remembered that a thick slice of sourdough toast can be a beautiful thing, particularly when it is slathered in clouds of citrus-scented ricotta cheese and topped with sweet, sticky honeyed figs and their purple syrup. I discovered years ago that the fragrant notes of lemon thyme work wonderfully with the bosky depth of figs, and this is my favourite way to combine the two. It makes a good, simple starter or snack, but I like it even more for breakfast.

If your ricotta is a little watery, place it in a sieve lined with clean muslin over a bowl for 20 minutes, to drain, before you begin.

Prepare the figs. Heat the grill to medium. Place the fig halves in a small baking dish, cut sides upwards, so that they sit snugly side by side. Drizzle over the honey.

Place the figs under the grill and cook for 10–15 minutes, until they have softened and are starting to bubble and turn jammy. Set aside. Keep the grill on.

Meanwhile, put the lemon zest and 2 teaspoons of the lemon thyme leaves in a pestle and mortar along with the salt and pound to a rough, green paste. Put the ricotta in a small bowl, then add the paste and mix well with a spoon.

Toast the sourdough slices on each side under the grill (watch them like a hawk so they don’t burn).

Divide the slices between two or four plates, then divide the ricotta equally between each slice, spreading it thickly. Top each slice with three fig halves, spooning over the honeyed, purple juices.

I love all manner of east Asian soups, but tom kha gai – Thai coconut milk soup with chicken – is perhaps my favourite for its irresistible blend of the creamy and luxuriant with the fresh, hot and spicy. I wanted to make a vegetarian (even vegan) version of the classic that was just as satisfying. I substitute fudgy chunks of steamed pumpkin for the chicken. They work beautifully, soaking up the rich, coconut liquor. Noodles are not traditional in tom kha, but I add them for a more substantial meal, and everyone enjoys a good bowl-slurping session, don’t they?

300g peeled and deseeded pumpkin or butternut squash (prepared weight), cut into 2.5cm dice

Place 500ml of water in a large saucepan and bring it to the boil. Add the stock powder and half the coconut milk, along with the lemongrass, kaffir lime leaves, galangal, chillies and spring onions. Roughly chop the coriander stalks and add these too. Lower the heat and simmer gently for 20–45 minutes (the longer you leave it, the more flavoursome it will be).

Place the pumpkin or squash in a metal or bamboo steamer over a large pan or wok full of simmering water. Steam for 10–15 minutes, or until just tender to the point of a knife. Divide between two deep soup bowls and set aside.

Strain the soup liquid through a sieve into a large jug. Discard the aromatics but keep the liquid. Return it to the pan and bring it to the boil. Add the fish sauce, sugar, mushrooms and tomatoes, and cook for 5–10 minutes, until the tomatoes are starting to collapse and the mushrooms have shrunk a little. Lower the heat to a bare simmer, then add the lime juice and the remaining coconut milk and check the seasoning. You may want it a little more sweet/salty/sour, so add sugar/fish sauce/lime juice accordingly.

Divide the rice noodles equally between the two soup bowls, followed by the broth. Roughly chop the coriander leaves and scatter them over the soup. Serve with extra lime wedges to squeeze over.

When I visited Mantova in Italy on a school exchange trip at the age of 14, I was a philistine who hated nearly all foods. My host family served me a plate of pumpkin ravioli to my intense disgust. (I think my 14-year-old self genuinely thought pumpkins were only for Halloween or Cinderella.) My more mature taste buds now consider the classic pumpkin ravioli, in a brown-butter sauce with crispy sage and freshly grated Parmesan (the sweetness of the pumpkin madly but brilliantly paired with a smattering of amaretti crumbs) one of the best dishes of all time. It would certainly be a contender for my last meal on earth. Ravioli, though, is an absolute faff to make, so I’ve taken all those harmonious flavours and placed them instead on another Italian classic. Sage-scented brown butter and crispy sage leaves, strewn over buttery rounds of dough, glistening with bubbling cheese, take pizza to a whole new level.

First, make the dough. Put the flours in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a dough hook, or a large bowl if you plan to make the dough by hand. Put the sugar and yeast on one side of the bowl, and the salt on the other. Make a well in the centre and add the oil, then pour in three-quarters of the water.

Begin to knead using the dough hook or your hands, adding the remaining water gradually until you have a soft dough – you may not need all the water; it shouldn’t be sticky, just moist enough to come together. Knead for 10 minutes on an oiled work surface or using the dough hook, until the dough is soft and elastic, then return it to the bowl, cover with a tea towel and leave for 2 hours, or until it has doubled in size.

While the dough is rising, start the topping. Place the ricotta in a sieve lined with muslin over a bowl and allow it to drain (this ensures your ricotta won’t be watery).

Slice the pumpkin or squash as thinly as possible into half-moon slices and place them in a medium bowl. Add 1 tablespoon of the olive oil, and the nutmeg and paprika, then season well with salt and pepper and toss with your hands to coat the pumpkin or squash in the oil mixture.

Melt the butter in a small saucepan over a medium-high heat. It will begin to bubble and spit, and separate out into golden liquid and white solids. Keep it on the heat, swirling the pan occasionally, until the white solids start to turn golden brown and the butter starts to smell nutty (about 3–4 minutes altogether). Remove the pan from the heat immediately, then throw the sage leaves into the pan while the butter is hot. They will sizzle and spit. Leave them in the butter for 2–3 minutes, then remove them with a slotted spoon and leave them to drain on kitchen paper. Set both the butter and sage aside.

Once the dough has risen, pre-heat the oven as high as it will go (around 240°C/220°C fan/gas mark 9 is ideal). Scatter the polenta evenly over two large baking trays.

On a floured work surface, divide the dough in half and roll out each half so that you have two circles, each about 5mm thick. Place one circle on each baking sheet.

Tear the mozzarella into small chunks and spread these evenly over each circle of dough. Break half the drained ricotta into lumps and scatter these over too. Arrange the pumpkin slices over the top, scatter the remaining ricotta over, then scatter over the Parmesan.

Drizzle the brown butter all over both pizzas, then drizzle them with the remaining olive oil. Season generously with salt and pepper.

Bake for 10–15 minutes (the time will depend on the heat of your oven, so keep checking through the door!), until the dough is golden and slightly crispy around the edges, and the cheese is bubbling. Remove from the oven, then scatter over the crushed amaretti biscuits (if using) and the crispy sage leaves. Serve immediately.

This recipe is a brazen attempt to take my all-time favourite herb and cram as much of its heady citrus aroma into a dish as possible. It was more difficult than I expected. Although very potent when eaten raw or infused into tea, lemon verbena mellows surprisingly when cooked. However, using it both infused in a luxurious cream and blitzed into a vibrant pesto does lend this simple but impressive salmon dish a beautiful, fresh note. Lemon verbena is rarely available in food shops (and the dried leaves won’t work here), so I would highly recommend buying a small plant from a garden centre and growing it yourself to ensure a long-lasting supply. The aroma is incomparable. You could, however, substitute with lemon balm or lemon basil.

First, make the sauce. Heat the oil and butter in a medium frying pan over a medium heat. Add the onion and sauté, stirring regularly, for about 10 minutes, until soft and golden, but not browned. Add the garlic and lemon verbena and cook for another couple of minutes, then add the white wine, turn up the heat and let it bubble away until the liquid has reduced by two-thirds. Lower the heat, add the crème fraîche and lemon juice, stir well and cook for a couple of minutes, until you have a sauce slightly thicker than double cream. Taste and season, then leave the mixture for the lemon verbena to infuse while you make the salmon.

Use the grill/oven combination setting on your oven, and pre-heat it to 220°C/200°C fan/gas mark 7 (or pre-heat a grill to medium-high). Line a small baking dish with baking parchment.

Lay the salmon fillets snugly together along the lined tray. Squeeze over a dash of lemon juice and season well.

Blitz the garlic, the 10g of lemon verbena leaves, cheese, lemon zest and juice, rapeseed or olive oil and breadcrumbs in a food processor until you have a vibrant green crust – don’t overdo it, it should be a crust rather than a paste. Spread this over the salmon fillets, pressing it down gently.

Bake (or grill) the coated salmon for 10–12 minutes, or until the salmon is just cooked in the middle (you can check using a sharp knife or temperature probe). Meanwhile, gently warm up the lemon verbena sauce.

Garnish the salmon with a few small lemon verbena leaves and serve it with the warmed sauce, some boiled new potatoes and perhaps some peas.

One of my best memories from a trip to Cambodia several years ago was stopping at a little restaurant stall near one of the most famous Angkor Wat temples. We were sweaty, dusty and exhausted after clambering around temple after temple in sweltering heat, and allowed our tuk-tuk driver to take us to the closest place that served food. Based on my experiences of travelling Europe, where the quality of food is inversely proportional to the restaurant’s proximity to a tourist attraction, I was sceptical and resigned myself to the prospect of an overpriced, average lunch. We sat for around half an hour while ominous banging and clattering sounds came from the stove out at the back, only to then be presented with steaming bowls of the most heavenly curry, wafting seductively with brown sugar, coconut, spice and fresh fish. All my reservations immediately disappeared.

Amok means to steam a dish in banana leaves. Doing so lends a wonderful, smoky fragrance to the sauce, lightly set using eggs. Serving in banana leaves (which are widely available in Asian grocers) also looks very impressive, but you can use foil if you can’t find them.

This dish is excellent served with sticky or jasmine rice and the stir-fried pineapple, greens and cashews (omit the tofu) here.

10 kaffir lime leaves (fresh, or frozen and defrosted, but not dried), tough centre stems removed; or finely grated zest of 2 limes

3 kaffir lime leaves (fresh, or frozen and defrosted, but not dried), shredded (tough centre stems discarded)

500g thick fillet of sustainable white fish, such as coley, pollock or Pacific cod, cut into 5cm chunks

First, make the curry paste. Put everything in a food processor and blitz it to a paste (add a tiny splash of water and keep scraping down the sides to help it blitz). This will make twice the amount you need, so store the excess paste in the fridge (for up to 1 week) or freezer.

To make the curry, in a large frying pan, heat the oil over a medium heat. Add the curry paste and fry for 4–5 minutes until fragrant – stir regularly, so that it doesn’t catch and burn. Add the coconut milk, sugar, fish sauce and kaffir lime leaves, then simmer gently for 10 minutes. Turn off the heat. Leave to cool for about 10 minutes, then add the lime juice and taste – you might want a little bit more sugar or fish sauce; the flavour should be deliciously sweet and coconutty. Whisk in the egg thoroughly, then stir in the fish chunks.

Take a banana leaf and fold it over itself a couple of times until you have a large square. Fold the corners of the square together at each side so you have a boat shape that will hold the curry – fix the edges together with cocktail sticks (you can also use staples, as I learned at a cooking class in Malaysia). Repeat with the other leaf. If you’re using foil, fold two squares into boat shapes.

Spoon the curry into the leaves or foil (and leave open), then place them in a steamer (preferably a bamboo one, which gives a lovely fragrance) and steam for 20 minutes, or until the fish is opaque and the custard is lightly set. Scatter the chilli and coriander over the top and serve with the lime wedges and some steamed sticky or jasmine rice.

A Thai friend of mine, living in Bangkok, scents her refrigerator and bottles of chilled water with jasmine flowers from her garden. I long to have the kind of life where I could do the same. The magical aroma of jasmine is harder to come by in Europe, but jasmine tea – made by layering or mixing tea leaves with jasmine blossoms at night (when the flowers open and exude their fragrance) – is an excellent way to imbue your cooking with it. Jasmine tea bags are usually of very inferior quality, so find loose leaves if you can; preferably jasmine ‘pearls’, which are made by rolling the scented leaves into tight furls. Poaching salmon in a jasmine tea-scented broth, enriched with some of the deep flavours of a Japanese teriyaki, keeps it beautifully tender and provides a wonderfully delicate sauce. Serve with jasmine rice for an extra hit of this exquisite blossom.

Put the jasmine tea leaves or bags in a jug and pour over the boiling water. Set aside for 10 minutes to infuse, then remove the leaves or tea bags.

Put the salmon fillets in a small baking dish so they fit quite snugly. Whisk together the tea, mirin, sake or sherry, caster sugar, soy sauce and lime zest and pour the mixture over the salmon – it should just about cover both fillets. Set aside for 20 minutes for the flavours to mingle.

Bake the salmon in the oven for 20 minutes, or until the inside of the salmon is cooked and it flakes easily.

Cover the salmon with some foil to keep warm. Strain the liquid from the oven dish through a fine sieve into a small saucepan and set it over a high heat to reduce by half, around 10–15 minutes. Taste and adjust the seasoning as necessary.

Serve the salmon in shallow bowls on a bed of jasmine rice, with the sauce ladled over and lime wedges to squeeze. Serve with some stir-fried or steamed vegetables alongside.

This is based on one of my favourite Thai dishes. Fried kingfish with green mango salad is a staple of the famous Bangkok restaurant Krua Apsorn, and one I make a beeline for every time I travel to Bangkok. It was revelatory for me to include very thin slices of fresh lemongrass among the slivers of sharp green mango and the toasted peanuts – a trick I never would have thought of, but the absolute best way to capture the snap of a sliced, fresh lemongrass stalk. You can vary the fish to suit your taste, as long as you use thick fillets or steaks (white fillets are too delicate here). Salmon fillets or swordfish steaks are my favourites. Serve this with steamed or sticky rice, and let the addiction begin.

First, prepare the fish. Mix the lime juice, fish sauce and sugar in a small, shallow dish and add the fish fillets, turning to coat in the marinade. Set aside in the fridge while you prepare the salad.

Using a mortar and pestle, pound together the chillies, garlic, sugar, fish sauce, lime juice and rice vinegar. Taste and adjust as necessary – you may want a little more sugar, fish sauce or lime juice. Transfer the mixture to a medium bowl and stir in the shallot and lemongrass.

Peel the mango using a potato peeler, then slice the cheeks off the stone. Cut these into very fine julienne strips and add them to the bowl with the shallots and lemongrass. Stir in the toasted peanuts and coriander and set aside.

Heat a medium non-stick frying pan over a high heat. Add the rapeseed or olive oil. When it starts to smoke, add the marinated fish. Cook for 1 minute on each of the four sides, if using thick fillets, or 2–3 minutes on each flat side if using steaks, until the fish is just cooked in the middle.

Serve the fish on a bed of sticky or steamed rice with the mango salad spooned over the top.

As a teenager, I worked as a waitress in a lovely organic café. Every Saturday I would start my shift with a large pot of lapsang souchong tea. Lapsang souchong is divisive: some adore its pungent smokiness, the product of smoking the tea leaves over pinewood fires, while others say it is like drinking tar. I’m in the former camp, and one day it occurred to me that it would make the perfect cooking liquid for a rich, smoky beef stew. This is somewhere between a Mexican mole and a Moroccan lamb tagine, resulting in meat so tender it melts off the bone.

Pre-heat the oven to 170°C/150°C fan/gas mark 3. Put the lapsang souchong tea leaves or tea bags in a large jug and pour over the boiling water. Set aside for 20 minutes to infuse.

Heat the rapeseed or olive oil in a large, lidded, ovenproof casserole dish over a medium heat. Sauté the shallots or onions for about 5–10 minutes, until the shallots are scorched and burnished, or the onions soft and translucent. Remove from the pan and set aside.

Season the beef ribs well with salt and pepper. Turn up the heat and brown the ribs well, turning occasionally, until a crust forms on each side (don’t move them too much). Then, stir in the cinnamon, ginger, paprika, orange peel, bay leaf, garlic and tomatoes and cook for 2 minutes, stirring, until everything is aromatic.

Return the onions or shallots to the pan, then strain the tea through a fine sieve (discard the tea leaves or bags) into the pan and add the salt. Bring to the boil, then reduce the heat to a simmer. Place the lid on the casserole and put it in the oven for 3 hours.

After that time, add the prunes and honey, stir well, then return to the oven for a further 1 hour, until the sauce is thicker and slightly syrupy.

If the sauce is not quite thick enough for your liking by the end of the cooking time, remove the beef and prunes from the dish with a slotted spoon and set aside in a large bowl. Place the casserole on the hob over a high heat and simmer the liquid for 10–15 minutes until reduced and thickened, then return the meat and prunes to the pan. Adjust the seasoning to taste. Set aside to keep warm.

Melt the butter in a small frying pan over a medium heat. Fry the almonds in the butter for about 3–4 minutes, until lightly golden.

Serve the stew with the almonds scattered over and sprinkled with the coriander. This dish is excellent with couscous or bulgur wheat, but rice would also work.

Forgive the whimsical recipe title, but when I realised this crumble contained parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme, I couldn’t give it any other name without it feeling like a missed opportunity. This is a celebration of winter herbs and their astringent notes. Sometimes bordering on the medicinal, these resilient leaves are perfect for cutting through rich ingredients. I’ve often toyed with the idea of making a savoury crumble, with a rich, meaty sauce on the base and a crumble flecked with cheese and herbs on top. This book finally gave me an excuse to try it out. You can make this recipe your own: add different vegetables to the sauce, vary the types of sausage, and experiment with cheeses. Any version is best served with a green salad or steamed green beans.

Make the sausage sauce. Heat the rapeseed or olive oil in a large, heavy-bottomed frying pan over a medium-high heat. Slice open the skins of the sausages and crumble the meat, in rough chunks, into the pan. Cook for about 5–10 minutes, until the sausagemeat is starting to turn golden brown. Do not stir the meat too often – allow it to burnish and caramelise in patches on the base of the pan. Remove the meat from the pan and set it aside.

Add the mushrooms to the pan and cook them over a high heat, stirring regularly, until they have lost most of their liquid and are starting to become slightly sticky and golden – about 5 minutes.

Return the sausagemeat to the pan and add the onions, turning the heat down to medium. Cook the mixture for 10 minutes, stirring regularly, until the onion has softened and turned golden in the fat from the sausages. Add the garlic, fennel seeds and chilli flakes and cook for a couple of minutes more, until the garlic has softened and the fennel smells fragrant.

Add the chopped tomatoes, rinsing out the cans with 200ml of water and adding that to the pan too. Stir well, add the sugar and season with a generous amount of black pepper, then simmer over a medium–low heat for 10–15 minutes, until the sauce has thickened slightly. Leave the sauce on the heat to thicken some more while you make the crumble.

Put the flours and butter in a large bowl and rub the butter into the flour with your fingertips, until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs. Stir in the herbs, cheeses and salt and mix well. Add the milk and mix gently so the mixture turns ‘pebbly’. Set aside.

When the sausage sauce is rich and thick, taste to check the seasoning. You will probably not need salt, as sausages are naturally salty and the topping will be salty, too, but add a little if you think it necessary. Add the spinach leaves and cook for 1 minute more to wilt them.

Tip the sausage mixture into a medium baking dish, then spread the crumble mixture over the top.

Bake for 30 minutes, until the topping is golden and crunchy, then remove from the oven. Leave for 5–10 minutes to cool slightly before serving.

My Greek friend Vana, one of the best cooks I know, first brought these cookies into my life. Melomakarona, as they are known in Greece, are a Christmas treat, but in my opinion they are too good to confine to one short period of the year. Both crumbly and sticky at the same time, buttery without being too sweet, they are unbelievably moreish. They are traditionally soaked in a honey syrup, but I have added citrusy Earl Grey tea for an extra hint of flavour. You can experiment with the tea here – any strongly-flavoured tea would work well, particularly something with citrus or floral notes.

Pre-heat the oven to 200°C/180°C fan/gas mark 6. Line a baking tray with non-stick silicone or baking parchment.

Sift half of the flour into a bowl and mix well with the baking powder, bicarbonate of soda and salt.

Using an electric mixer or electric hand whisk, in a separate bowl, beat the oil, butter and icing sugar together for 3–5 minutes, until thick and creamy.

Add one-third of the sifted flour mixture, along with one-third of the orange juice, and the brandy (if using) to the butter mixture. Mix briefly, then add another third of the sifted flour mixture and orange juice, mix again, then add the remaining sifted flour mixture and orange juice and mix briefly.

Add the orange zest and the remaining, unsifted flour and mix until just combined. You should have a fluffy, soft dough that is not sticky.

Shape the dough into 20 small balls. Place the balls on the prepared baking tray, spaced well apart, and use a fork to press them down slightly and create an indent in the middle of each ball. Bake for 15 minutes, until the cookies are firm and lightly golden.

While the cookies are baking, make the syrup. Put 120ml of water into a small saucepan and add the sugar, honey and tea. Place over a high heat and bring to the boil, then reduce the heat and simmer for 3–4 minutes, until the liquid becomes slightly syrupy. Strain the mixture through a sieve, discard the tea leaves, and return the syrup to the saucepan. Keep warm.

When the cookies are baked and still hot, place them in the syrup for 30 seconds then flip them over and leave for another 30 seconds so that they have been totally soaked (you will need to do this in batches). Return the soaked cookies to the baking tray and leave them to cool. Place a walnut half on each cookie to decorate. Pour any leftover syrup over the cookies to soak in while they cool.

Rooibos tea is made from the dried leaves of the Aspalanthus linearis shrub, native to South Africa. It’s not technically a tea, as it does not come from the Camellia sinensis plant, but is harvested, treated and prepared as one. Most rooibos is red, owing to the oxidisation of the leaves after picking and cutting, although green varieties also exist (which, like green tea, involve drying the leaves immediately after picking). High in antioxidants, it has a flavour somewhere between wood, caramel, malt and resin. Those deep notes provide the basis for this sticky, low-fat rhubarb tea loaf, punctuated by the snap of ginger. The loaf couldn’t be easier to make, and a slice is an excellent afternoon boost with – you guessed it – a cup of rooibos. I also like it toasted for breakfast and spread with ricotta and a drizzle of honey.

Start your preparation at least 8 hours before you want to make the loaf, preferably the night before.

Put the rooibos tea or tea bags into a jug and add the boiling water. Leave the tea to infuse for 10 minutes, then strain it through a sieve into a bowl, keeping the liquid and discarding the contents of the sieve.

Add the raisins or sultanas and rhubarb to the liquid in the bowl. Soak the fruit for 8 hours, or overnight.

When you’re ready to bake, pre-heat the oven to 190°C/170°C fan/gas mark 5. Grease and line a 900g loaf tin.

In a large bowl, mix together the flour, almonds, baking powder, and ground ginger and cinnamon. To the tea and fruit mixture, add the egg, stem ginger and sugar and stir together well. Pour the fruit mixture into the flour mixture, and mix with a large spoon or spatula until evenly combined.

Pour the mixture into the prepared loaf tin, then sprinkle with the flaked almonds and enough demerara sugar to cover evenly. Bake for 55–60 minutes, until the top of the loaf is crusty and golden, but still gives slightly in the middle when pressed, and a skewer inserted in the centre comes out clean. Leave to cool a little in the tin before turning out onto a cooling rack and leaving to cool completely.

Many cooks I know declare they could never be without lemons in their kitchen. For me, limes are the non-negotiable constant of my fruit bowl. I sometimes wish I had the temerity to carry one in my handbag at all times so that I could use it to give inadequate restaurant dishes that extra rasp of potent, floral astringency that (in my opinion) food often so desperately needs. There are few dishes that do not benefit from the zest or juice of a lime. I have often toyed with the idea of using limes in the classic lemon drizzle cake, and here I’ve gone one step further by coupling lime juice and zest with the crisp, citrusy snap of the kaffir lime leaf, in both its fresh and powdered forms. You can buy powdered kaffir lime leaf online from Seasoned Pioneers – and I highly recommend experimenting with this intriguing, deeply flavoured powder in sweet and savoury recipes – but if you can’t find it, simply add the zest of another lime to the cake batter. You could also use matcha (green tea powder) instead, for a vibrant colour and slightly different flavour.

finely grated zest of 2 limes, plus a few pared strips or thin slices to decorate

Pre-heat the oven to 190°C/170°C fan/gas mark 5. Grease and line a 900g loaf tin.

Using an electric mixer or electric hand whisk, cream together the butter, lime zest and sugar on high speed for about 3–4 minutes, until pale and creamy. Gradually add the eggs, mixing well between each addition. Sift in the flour, baking powder and kaffir lime powder, then add the coconut and pinch of salt. Fold the mixture together with a spoon until just combined. Spoon the mixture into the loaf tin and bake for 55–60 minutes, until a skewer inserted in the centre comes out clean.

While the cake is in the oven, make the drizzle. Put 150ml of water into a small saucepan. Add the lime leaves and place the pan over a high heat. Bring the liquid to the boil then reduce the heat and simmer for 10 minutes, or until the water has reduced by just over two-thirds – you want 50ml of liquid left. Turn off the heat and leave to cool. Remove the kaffir lime leaves using a slotted spoon (or strain the liquid, discarding the leaves). Once the liquid is cool, stir in the caster sugar and lime juice.

Remove the cake from the oven and leave to cool a little in the tin. While it’s still warm, prick it all over with a skewer or cocktail stick, then pour over the drizzle. Decorate with strips of lime zest, or lime slices, and desiccated coconut. Leave to cool in the tin, then remove to a plate or board to slice and serve.

Crush a delicate, spiky blackcurrant leaf in your hand, hold it to your nose, and you cannot fail to be surprised by the ghost of blackcurrant that lingers there. Those sharp, almost grassy aromas, so bountiful in the ripe fruit, also course through the delicate veins of its leaves. Where the berries have perfume in abundance, the leaves have a fainter, more herbal note, reminiscent of potpourri. It has the zip and tang of a restorative cordial or throat sweet, mellowed by an almost fecund muskiness. The best way to use the leaves is to scrunch them generously into a rich ice cream, the flavour of which is almost impossible to describe: it carries the faintly medicinal note of the blackcurrant leaves, but mellows it with sugar and buttery silkiness. This ice cream is excellent with any dark berry desserts, or simply unadulterated.

Put the milk and cream in a large saucepan. Wash the blackcurrant leaves thoroughly in cold water, pat them dry with a clean tea towel (they don’t have to be completely dry, just not dripping wet), then crush them gently in your hands before adding them to the milk and cream mixture. Place the saucepan over a medium heat. Bring the mixture just to the boil, then remove from the heat, stir well, cover and leave to infuse for 1 hour.

Put the egg yolks in a large bowl or jug and whisk with the sugar until pale and creamy. Warm up the milk and cream mixture over a medium heat until just below boiling again, then strain it through a sieve into the egg-yolk mixture, whisking constantly. Press down on the contents of the sieve with the back of a spoon to extract all the fragrance from the leaves.

Tip the entire mixture (minus the strained leaves) back into the saucepan. Place over a very low heat, whisking constantly, for 15–30 minutes, or until the custard has thickened enough to coat the back of a spoon. Be patient – don’t turn the heat up too high, or you’ll end up with scrambled eggs. Conversely, if it’s not thickening at all after 10–15 minutes, turn the heat up a tiny bit. Keep stirring.

Once the custard has thickened, remove the pan from the heat and pour it into a bowl or jug. Allow to cool, then cover and chill the mixture for at least 6 hours, or preferably overnight.

Once the custard is very cold, churn it in an ice-cream maker until thick (about 15–30 minutes). Decant the ice cream into a freezer-safe container and freeze to firm up for 4 hours before eating.

I was first introduced to the ‘London Fog’, essentially a tea latte made with Earl Grey and a dash of vanilla, during a trip to Canada. It quickly became a morning staple: the perfect hot, fragrant pick-me-up to accompany – of course – a stack of pancakes with maple syrup. It struck me that this luxuriant combination of dairy, Earl Grey and vanilla would also make an excellent ice cream, and I was right. Use the best-quality ingredients you can afford here: it makes all the difference.

Put half the cream (refrigerate the rest for later), along with the milk, caster sugar and salt in a large saucepan. Split the vanilla pod lengthways with a sharp knife and scrape out as many seeds as possible into the milk mixture, then add the whole pod, too. Add the tea or tea bags and lemon zest, and place over a medium heat. Bring the mixture just to the boil, then remove from the heat, stir well, cover and leave to infuse for 1 hour.

Put the egg yolks in a large bowl or jug with a sieve over the top. Strain the infused milk mixture into the egg yolks through the sieve, pressing down on the tea and vanilla pod with a spatula or wooden spoon to make sure you get every last drop of flavour. Set aside the sieve and its contents for later.

Whisk the milk mixture and egg yolks together, then tip everything back into the saucepan. Place over a low heat, stirring constantly, for 15–30 minutes, or until the custard has thickened enough to coat the back of a spoon. Be patient – don’t turn the heat up too high, or you’ll end up with scrambled eggs. Conversely, if it’s not thickening at all after 10–15 minutes, turn the heat up a tiny bit. Keep stirring.

When the mixture has nearly thickened, put the remaining cream in a large jug. Put the sieve containing the tea and vanilla over the top of the jug.

Once the custard has thickened, pour it into the jug of cream through the sieve, and once more press down to extract all that remaining flavour in the tea leaves and vanilla pod. You can now discard the contents of the sieve.

Whisk the contents of the jug together. Allow to cool, then cover and chill the mixture for at least 6 hours, or preferably overnight.

Once the custard is very cold, churn it in an ice-cream maker until thick (about 15–30 minutes). Decant the ice cream into a freezer-safe container and freeze to firm up for at least 4 hours before eating.

I find dried fruit too sweet and cloying on its own, but then I learned to plump it up by cooking it in liquid, which transforms nature’s candy into an entirely different beast. The sharpness of blood orange works fantastically well against the slight muskiness of dried prunes and apricots. This dish is particularly good cold from the fridge spooned over hot porridge, but also excellent at room temperature with granola and a dollop of yoghurt, or even served alongside a plain sponge or almond cake. You can also play around with the fruit – try dried figs and cranberries in place of the prunes and raisins. It’s good for clearing out all those half-bags of dried fruit that we tend to accumulate in the larder!

Place the Earl Grey tea leaves or tea bags in a jug and pour over the boiling water. Set the tea aside for 10 minutes to infuse, then strain the liquid into a large saucepan and discard the tea leaves or tea bags.

Add the dried fruit and citrus zests to the saucepan. Place the saucepan over a medium heat and bring to the boil, then cover and reduce the heat to its lowest setting. Simmer for 25 minutes, until the fruit is plump and juicy. Turn off the heat and leave to cool – the compote will thicken as it cools, and its juice will become syrupy.

When the compote is cool, segment the blood oranges over a bowl, reserving any juice. Stir the juice and fruit segments into the compote. Serve at room temperature, or chill and serve cold. The compote will keep in the fridge for a couple of days (or longer if you add the oranges just at the point of serving).