When I was growing up, we had a lovely nutcracker shaped like a Dandy Dinmont terrier, with jaws that cracked the nut. I suspect it made us children eat more nuts, particularly at Christmas when the bowl was piled with walnuts, Brazils, almonds and cobnuts, all in their shells. I looked in vain for something similar when my sons were young but ended up with a sleekly elegant modern take on the classic nutcracker design (see here). It’s made of heavy, satin finish stainless steel, the handles subtly shaped to be extremely pleasing to hold, and seamlessly hinged. The serrated crackers are strong enough to deal with the most resistant Brazil or awkwardly shaped walnut. It offers control, too, so just the right amount of pressure is applied to each type of nut, so the kernel isn’t shattered to smithereens. Being Italian, it is called Schiaccianoci. You don’t need me to translate.
Nuts, like apples and oranges, were always there for the taking when I was growing up. We never thought about how old the nuts were but the thin skin that clings glove-like to nuts is what makes the kernel bitter. It dries and turns flaky with age. These days, it’s only at Christmas that we think of buying nuts in their shells, although walnuts are always available. Cobnuts, actually large hazelnuts – which I used to pick in my school holidays – and almonds are sometimes on sale as they come into season in the spring and early summer, and both are so much more interesting to eat then. We are used to buying nuts without their shell, with or without their inner skin rubbed away.
Every so often someone comes up with a new nutcracker design. They are usually variations on the classic design like mine, or the screw-in-the-bowl-shaped cracker, winding slowly until the nut cracks, or a ratchet job that reminds me of the tool box. One such is a German-designed stainless-steel Mono Pico walnut opener, stylish enough to wear as a piece of jewellery. It is strung on a short leather thong and works like a key, splitting the shell (see here).
I suspect, though, that the nutcracker trade is a dying one. Conversely, old nutcrackers like the one from my childhood are highly collectable. The local antique shop is the place to look.
The paucity of ingredients in this simple pasta dish belies its deliciousness. It makes a lovely quick supper but works well as an accompaniment to lemon-and-olive-oil-splashed grilled white fish.
8 walnuts
2 garlic cloves
10g bunch dill
200g pappardelle
4 tbsp Greek or other fruity olive oil
about 8 mint or basil leaves
100g Greek feta
rocket or lettuce salad, to serve
Use the nutcracker to carefully crack the nuts so the halves aren’t broken. Roast the pieces in a heavy frying pan, tossing them around for a couple of minutes until aromatic and slightly darkened in colour. This intensifies their flavour. Cool slightly and break into chunky pieces. Crack the garlic, flake away the skin, chop finely, then crush to a paste with the flat of a knife. Tear the leaves off the dill stalks and chop.
Cook the pasta according to packet instructions in plenty of salted water. Drain and add 2 tablespoons of oil and the garlic to the pan. Cook, stirring constantly for a couple of minutes until aromatic. Return the pasta and stir to mix. Shred the mint or basil. Add the walnuts, dill and mint or basil. Crumble the feta over the top and mix. Serve with a generous splash of olive oil and a simple rocket or lettuce salad.
If you’ve ever been lucky enough to lay your hands on fresh nutmegs, brought back perchance by a friend visiting the Moluccas, Sri Lanka or Indonesia, they are likely to be covered in bright red lace. This pretty camisole is mace. It is a quite different hauntingly aromatic spice with a perfumed, sweet scent and clean bitter flavour. The nutmeg itself is inside a thin, almost ceramic dark brown shell that needs to be cracked and discarded. Nutmeg is not a nut but the kernel of a seed. It is roughly egg-shaped and about the size of an acorn, the colour pale brown with a grey hue. It is solid and hard, almost woody, but once you start grating or slicing, it is deceptively crumbly. Inside it has a delicate veined surface reminiscent of a white truffle. It is exceedingly aromatic with an instantly recognizable flavour that complements all sorts of things, from rum punch and milky foods like rice pudding and cheese sauces, to spicy food, potatoes and some surprises like Brussels sprouts (see here).
All box graters feature a small grater punched with tiny holes for grating nutmeg because it has always been a popular spice in dried fruit cakes and puddings. Separate nutmeg graters come in various shapes and sizes. I own several but all have been usurped by my Peugeot nutmeg grater. Whole nutmegs sit awaiting their destiny around a central chamber inside an acrylic dome that twists on to a pale, natural wood base with chrome trimmings. A small handle on the side grinds effortlessly – Peugeot have been making grinders (as well as cars) since 1840. When the nutmeg is finished, it can be quickly replaced by one of the decorative spares.
Nutmegs retain their qualities almost indefinitely but are best stored out of direct light and away from heat or damp.
In early 2000, the Guardian newspaper ran a series of interviews with well-known people about their perfect meal. John Mortimer – or was it Rumpole of the Bailey? – chose a starter of spinach malfatti. The description was short yet so enticing that I tore out the article and filed it. A few years later, I had a go at the recipe (adapted by Jeremy Lee, now at Quo Vadis) and as nutmeg is such a crucial ingredient, it was an obvious choice for inclusion here. Try as I might, I couldn’t find my carefully saved tear-out anywhere so in the end I made up my own recipe.
Malfatti are a very delicate gnocchi made with ricotta, eggs, Parmesan, a little flour and lots of nutmeg. Malfatti means ‘badly made’ and the mixture is so soft, it is hard to shape. I picked up a clever solution using a wine glass from Rose Gray and Ruth Rogers of the River Café. It sounds odd, but all is revealed in the recipe.
Like all gnocchi, malfatti need only a few minutes cooking in boiling water before they’re ready to eat. At the River Café they serve chard malfatti with sage butter, made by melting about 25g of butter with two or three sage leaves per serving. It is a slightly lighter alternative to this rich creamy sauce, but either goes very well with spinach malfatti. Tomato sauce would be another good alternative. Semolina flour, incidentally, can be made by grinding semolina or polenta in a food processor.
500g young spinach leaves
250g ricotta
2 large eggs
2 tbsp ‘00’ or potato flour
½ whole nutmeg
100g finely grated Parmesan
approx 6 tbsp semolina flour
For the sauce:
125g Gorgonzola dolce or dolcelatte cheese
100ml whipping cream
6 tbsp milk
Rinse the spinach carefully and pile into a colander. Put a large pan over a high heat and add the spinach with only the water clinging to its leaves. Add a pinch of salt, cover and cook, turning over the leaves a couple of times, for 3–4 minutes, until soft and wilted. Spread out on a tray to cool. When cool enough to handle, squeeze out as much liquid as possible. Finely chop the mound of spinach. Place the ricotta, eggs, flour, freshly grated nutmeg and 50g of finely grated Parmesan in a mixing bowl and use a fork to mix thoroughly, adding a pinch of Maldon sea salt and a few grinds of pepper. Stir in the spinach thoroughly. Scatter half the semolina flour over a small tray. Place about 1 tsp semolina flour in a wine glass. Gently drop a scoop of mixture, about a dessertspoonful, into the bottom of the glass, gently swirl it round in the flour to make a shape and gently drop it on to the floury tray. Repeat until all the mixture is used.
Next make the sauce. Break the cheese into a pan, add the cream and place over a medium heat. Stir as the cheese melts, stirring in sufficient milk to give a glossy, thick finish.
To finish the dish, place a big pan of water over a high heat, bring to a boil, and drop in as many malfatti as will sit comfortably at once. When the malfatti rise to the surface – a couple of minutes – they are done. Have ready a hot platter or serving plates. Add a little hot sauce (or melted butter) and the malfatti, lifted one at a time with a slotted spoon. Spoon over some of the sauce and finish with freshly grated Parmesan, this time grated on a larger hole so the pieces are spiky.
Every time I grate nutmeg I’m back in Pringle Cottage watching my mum pouring a huge amount of milk into an absurdly small amount of rice and sugar, cutting off chunks of butter, then wiping her hands on her apron before grating the nutmeg. It was my favourite pudding, but my brother Jonathan used to hide in the downstairs loo when it was served (the same place he lurked when it was time for his washing-up shift). When my sons were growing up, I always seemed to be looking around for last-minute pudding ideas and one was to stir yoghurt and caster sugar, with a few toasted almonds, into leftover rice and serve it with soft fruit purée. If I wanted to make a proper rice pudding I had to plan ahead. This one, an all-time favourite, takes ages. To end up with the desired creamy texture and thin skin that billows like a tarpaulin as it cooks but settles and softens again once the pudding is out of the oven, it needs long slow cooking. The skin on my mum’s version, which she regularly burnt, stayed like tarpaulin and became a vital component of rice pudding. She served it with the top of the milk – in those days gold-top milk was like pouring cream – and home-made strawberry jam (see here). Other good accompaniments include cooked strawberry or raspberry sauce (see here) and puréed plums. Both are served lukewarm or cold, so a great make-ahead pud.
50g butter
75g caster sugar
100g pudding or other round-grain rice
1 litre full-fat milk
1 vanilla pod, split lengthways
150ml double cream
nutmeg
For the plum purée:
2 bay leaves
½ split vanilla pod
300ml water
3 strips of orange zest
3 tbsp vodka
3 tbsp demerara sugar
6 large, ripe plums
Heat the oven to 140°C/gas mark 1. Begin the cooking in a sauté pan and have ready a deep gratin dish of 1.5 litre capacity to transfer the pudding into. Melt the butter in the sauté pan. Add the sugar, stirring gently over a medium-low heat until straw-coloured and gooey. Add the rice and continue stirring, until the rice looks puffy, pale golden and syrup-sticky. Add the milk, stirring as the liquid heats to disperse any clumps of rice. Add the vanilla pod, squashing it around a bit so it releases its seeds. Add the cream and salt and bring to the boil. Season generously with freshly grated nutmeg, stir, then place in the oven for 2½–3 hours, until just starting to set but still slightly liquid-looking in the centre. Leave to cool. As it cools, it will firm slightly more. Serve lukewarm or cold, as milk puddings have very little flavour eaten piping hot.
For the plum purée, place the bay leaves, half vanilla pod, water, zest and vodka in a pan that can accommodate the chopped plums in a single layer (but don’t add them yet). Simmer, uncovered, for 10 minutes. Stir in the sugar to dissolve. Remove the bay leaves and vanilla. Slice the plums off their stones in big chunks into the pan. Simmer, covered, for 5 minutes.
Liquidize the plums with sufficient liquid to make a thick purée. Pour into a bowl or jug and leave to go cold.