Like a melting snowflake, the perfectly ripe pear is a fleeting thing. Something to be caught, held tenderly, briefly marvelled at, before it is gone forever.
Ripeness is all. Pears have a tendency to turn gritty in texture if left to ripen on the tree (that is the sugar crystals turning to starch). The dessert varieties are generally picked when approaching softness and brought to perfection indoors.
Summer and autumn pears are gathered before they are fully ripe, while they are still green, but snap from their branches easily when twisted.
This is a fruit whose progress you must watch if you are not to miss it at its peak. I like to ripen mine on a plate, taking care that their skins do not touch, and check them each morning, usually while I am waiting for the coffee to drip slowly through.
Their window of perfection is indeed brief, a day or two at most, then a slow descent towards soft shapelessness.
Pears
ROAST PARTRIDGE, JUNIPER AND PEARS
ENOUGH FOR 4
young, plump partridges 4
thyme 6 bushy little sprigs
juniper berries 12
butter 100g
green bacon 8 thin rashers
pears 2
a squeeze of lemon juice
white bread 4 small, thick slices
redcurrant, rowan or quince jelly 2 tbsp
vermouth or white wine a glass
Check the birds all over for any stray feathers or bits of shattered bone. Set the oven at 220C/gas mark 7.
Pull the leaves from the thyme branches and mash them with the juniper berries, butter and a hefty pinch of sea salt and black pepper, using a pestle and mortar. Reserve a tbsp for cooking the pears, then spread the butter all over the birds, but particularly on their breasts.
Lie each rasher of bacon flat on a chopping board, then stretch with the flat of a knife blade to give a longer, thinner rasher. Wrap them round the birds and place in a roasting tin.
Cut the pears into thick slices, core them, toss them in a little lemon juice and cook briefly in the reserved herb butter in a shallow pan. When pale gold, transfer them to the roasting tin.
Roast for 20 minutes, then peel off the bacon, setting it aside if it is crisp enough or leaving it in the roasting tin if not. Return the birds to the oven for a further 10 minutes' roasting.
To make croûtes, warm a little butter or oil in a shallow pan, then fry the bread till crisp. Drain on kitchen paper.
Remove the tin from the oven, set the birds on the fried bread, with the bacon and pear, then leave to rest.
Put the roasting tin over a moderate flame, drop in the jelly and let it melt into the juices. Add a glass of vermouth and stir to dissolve the pan-stickings. Bring to the boil, put the birds and their bits and pieces on to warm plates, then spoon over the "gravy".
Blueberries
The blueberry pie, its dusky berries and their purple juice held under a soft, sugar-dusted crust, is reason alone for the fruit's inclusion in my book. That and the botanical fact that the modern berry is a descendant of the diminutive and enchanting wild bilberry of British heath and moor – a forager's fruit – and one that deserves every bit of praise we can throw at it.
At first, I didn't "get" the cultivated blueberry. It lacked the sensual qualities I look for in a fruit – that rich, heady fragrance and the pinprick of sharpness that makes a berry interesting.
Where, I wondered, was the gorgeous arterial juice of the logan; the wine-like scent of the raspberry; the tempting gloss of the bramble or the charm of the wild strawberry? The fact that I first met it as part of a pavlova didn't help: the deep clouds of snow-white sugar-cake need a fruit with a sting in its tail (the Antipodeans are bang on with their inclusion of passion fruit) if the dessert isn't to cloy.
While I sometimes still find its flavour a little shallow, the fruit has slowly but surely grown on me. The powdery, violet-grey bloom, the neat little crown, its inky-blue skin and purple juice have gradually seduced me. Once you see the blueberry growing on its short bushes and witness the bell-shaped flowers in their shades of green and apple-blossom pink, it is difficult not to fall in love.
BLUEBERRY PIE
When you push the soft crust with your knife, the purple juice gushes to the surface like blood from a deep cut, staining the sugar-frost coating. The flavours here are untaxing, a different thing altogether from a blackcurrant pie with its loud, piercing ring. I choose a soft pastry, too tender to transfer from tart tin to plate in one piece. More of a shortcake really.
ENOUGH TO SERVE 6 GENEROUSLY
for the filling
blueberries 500g
lemon juice 2 tbsp
cornflour 1 generously heaped tbsp
redcurrant jelly 1 heaped tbsp
for the crust
butter 150g
golden caster sugar 150g, plus a little more to scatter over the top
plain flour 250g
baking powder 1 tsp
an egg, beaten
a little milk, or beaten egg and milk, to finish
Set the oven at 180C/gas mark 4 and put a baking sheet in it (this will help keep the base of the pie crisp). Lightly butter a 24cm shallow metal pie plate. Put the blueberries into a bowl with the lemon juice, cornflour and redcurrant jelly. Toss gently to mix, then set aside.
Cream the butter and sugar in a food mixer until pale and fluffy, pushing the mixture down the sides of the bowl from time to time with a spatula. Sift the flour and baking powder together. Incorporate the egg, a little at a time, into the butter and sugar mixture, adding a little flour if it starts to curdle. Mix in the flour and baking powder to form a soft dough.
Flour the work surface generously. Bring the dough together to form a ball, then knead lightly for a minute. Cut into two equal pieces and roll one out to fit the base of the pie plate. Line the dish with the pastry, taking care to push the dough well into the corners and to leave some overhanging.
Add the filling. Roll out the remaining pastry. Brush the edge of the pastry lining the dish with a little milk or beaten egg and milk, then lower the pastry lid on top. Press the edges to seal, trim any overhanging pastry and cut two small holes in the top (if you don't, the pastry may split). Brush with a little milk or beaten egg and milk and scatter lightly with sugar.
Bake on the hot baking sheet for 40 minutes or so, until golden. Allow to calm down a little before serving.
Chestnuts
The sweet chestnut originates from Asia Minor and has at one point or another been a staple food in Italy, Spain and Turkey. Even as late as the 1870s, it was almost the sole carbohydrate for short patches of the year in Tuscany. Pasta, polenta and bread were made from its flour, particularly in mountain areas where cereals couldn't be grown. Those grown around the Mugello region are considered to be the sweetest. The main production area in France is situated in the Ardèche, with its famous appellation contrôlée, châtaigne d'Ardèche. Our own chestnut groves are due to the Romans, who planted them wherever they went.
CHESTNUT, SAUSAGE AND MARSALA STUFFING
There is a moment, usually on Boxing Day, when I stand and eat a doorstop sandwich. It is often the best sandwich of the year. Made with white bread, layers of roast turkey, crisp bacon and stuffing. Coarse-textured stuffing is essential to what I regard as one of the glories of Christmas.
onions 2
butter a thick slice
thyme a large sprig or two
rosemary 1 large sprig
sausage meat 400g
fresh breadcrumbs 3 handfuls
cooked peeled chestnuts (boiled or roasted) 50g, roughly chopped
Madeira or dry marsala a wine glass
Peel and cut up the onions just short of finely chopped. Melt the butter in a saucepan, add the onions and let them soften and colour lightly, stirring from time to time. While they are cooking, strip the leaves from the thyme and stir them in. Remove the needles from the rosemary twig and chop them finely. Stir them into the onions, too.
When the onions are soft, add the sausage meat, breadcrumbs, chestnuts and the Madeira or marsala. Season generously with salt and black pepper. Shape the stuffing into balls slightly larger than a golf ball and set them in a buttered or foil-lined baking dish (they can remain here for a day or so, refrigerated, until you need them). Bake for about 30 minutes at 180C/gas mark 4, until sizzling.
Cherries
Cherries bring with them a certain frivolity, a carefree joy like hearing the far-off laughter of a child at play. Their appearance, in deepest summer, comes when life is often at its most untroubled. A bag of cherries is a bag of happiness.
A SALAD OF SUMMER LEAVES, CURED PORK AND CHERRIES
The sweet-sharp notes of the cherries lift the smoky, herbal notes of cured ham in the same way small tomatoes will. Air-dried hams such as Parma, mildly cured ones like speck and coppa or the paprika-spiced lomo will benefit from the uplifting quality of a handful of cherries. And yes, I think you must stone them for this.
ENOUGH FOR 2 AS A LIGHT LUNCH
Salad leaves 4 generous handfuls
Thinly sliced cured ham such as lomo, speck or coppa 75–100g
Cherries 4 handfuls
for the dressing
Dijon mustard 1 tsp
red-wine vinegar 2 tsp
olive oil 50ml
double cream 3 tbsp
parsley a little
Make the dressing: put the mustard in a bowl with a pinch of salt, the red-wine vinegar, olive oil and a grinding of black pepper. Mix with a fork, then introduce the cream. Finely chop the parsley leaves and add to the dressing.
Toss the salad leaves with the cured ham. Halve and stone the cherries and add them to the leaves. Trickle over the dressing and serve.
Peaches
There is a solitary peach on my desk, picked up at the local farmers' market. Grown on a tree older than its owner, its skin is covered in fine grey down. And that for me is the point of the peach and why I hold its qualities above those of the nectarine – the feel of the peach's soft fuzz on lips, the way the skin puckers as I bite, a teasing prelude to the sweet flesh that will follow.
When a peach is at its most sublime, it needs a plate to catch the juice, though I often forget. Or is it that I can never quite believe I will need one?
CRISP PORK BELLY, SWEET PEACH SALSA
Ask your butcher to score the skin finely for this, as the crackling is essential. The first brief roasting at the higher temperature sets the crackling on the route to crispness. These ribs are not sweet and sticky like the ones in The Kitchen Diaries, but lightly crisp and lip tingling.
ENOUGH FOR 4
Pork belly 1–1.5kg, boned, skin intact and finely scored
for the rub
garlic 3 cloves
light soy sauce 2 tbsp
groundnut oil 1 tbsp
salt 2 tsp
dried chilli flakes half a tsp
Chinese five-spice powder 1 tsp
for the peach salsa
spring onions 2
small red chilli 1
peaches 3
cherry tomatoes 8
coriander a small bunch
limes juice of 2
olive oil 3 tbsp
Put the pork in a china or glass dish. Peel and crush the garlic to a paste, stirring in the soy, oil, salt, chilli flakes and five-spice powder. Spread this paste over the skin and underside of the pork and leave to marinate for a good four hours, if not overnight.
Set the oven at 220C/gas mark 7. Place the pork in a roasting tin, then cook, skin-side up, for 20 minutes. Lower the heat to 200C/gas mark 6 and continue cooking for a further 40 to 50 minutes, until the skin is dark and crisp. Leave to rest for 10 minutes before carving.
Make the salsa. Trim and finely chop the spring onions. Finely chop the chilli. Peel, stone and finely chop the peaches and tomatoes and chop the coriander. Toss gently, then dress with the lime juice and olive oil. Serve the ribs with the salsa.
Hazelnuts
CHOCOLATE CHIP HAZELNUT CAKE WITH CHOCOLATE CINNAMON BUTTER CREAM
I like birthday cake. I love making them – and receiving them, too. This is my first choice for such an occasion. I serve it in appropriately thin slices.
ENOUGH FOR 10–12
Butter 250g
Golden caster sugar 250g
Shelled hazelnuts 75g
Dark chocolate 120g
Large eggs 4
Self-raising flour 125g
Ground cinnamon ½ tsp
Strong espresso 4 tsp
for the spiced chocolate butter cream
dark chocolate (70% cocoa solids) 250g
butter 125g
ground cinnamon a knifepoint
Set the oven at 180C/gas mark 4. Line the base of a 20-21cm loose-bottomed, deep cake tin with baking parchment. Cut the butter into chunks and put it with the sugar into the bowl of an electric mixer. Beat until white and fluffy. Toast the hazelnuts in a dry pan, then rub them in a tea towel until most of the skins flake off. Grind the nuts to a coarse powder. Chop the chocolate into what looks like coarse gravel.
Break the eggs into a small bowl and beat them gently. Slowly add them to the butter and sugar mixture, beating all the time – it may curdle slightly, but it doesn't matter. Stop the machine. Tip in half the ground nuts and half the flour, beat briefly and at a slow speed, stop the machine again, then add the rest, together with the chopped chocolate and cinnamon, and mix briefly. Gently fold in the espresso, taking care not to knock the air from the mixture. Scoop into the cake tin. Smooth the top and bake for 35 to 45 minutes, covering the cake with foil for the last 10 minutes if it is colouring too quickly. Remove the cake from the oven and test with a skewer – you want it to come out moist but clean. Leave the cake to cool a little in its tin before turning out on to a rack and peeling off the paper from its bottom.
To make the chocolate butter cream, snap the chocolate into small pieces and let it melt in a bowl balanced over a pan of simmering water (the water should not touch the bowl). Leave to melt, with little or no stirring, then add the butter, cut into small pieces, and the spice. Stir until the butter has melted. Leave to cool until the mixture is thick enough to spread. Spread the chocolate cream over the top of the cake and decorate as the whim takes you.
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