The Kitchen Diaries. Nigel Slater

4

      Snow and a

      chicken

      stew

      Snow has fallen as I slept. I fold back the shutters and stare out at the garden without moving for a full ten minutes. Snow brings a hush, a softness, to the city that is all too brief. You have to make time for it. The gravel path, the spindly trees, the little hedges that frame the vegetable and fruit beds are white over. The kitchen itself is icy this morning, its light muffled by the snow that has built up on the skylights. Breakfast is porridge, made with water. No sugar, no treacle, no hot milk. Just rolled oats and water.

      Shopping is usually slipped into other jobs and journeys: a dash into the greengrocer’s whilst I am on my way to a meeting; a trip to the fishmonger’s on my way home. But today’s shopping is thought out, with a list and a big bag. There are four of us for supper and it is still snowing. I am not going to get away with a salad and a slice of tart.

      One of the advantages of my butcher’s free-range birds is that their bones are heavy and strong, as you would expect from something that has had the opportunity to exercise. The availability of these big birds and their fat, sauce-enriching bones makes it seriously worth thinking about chicken stew – a bird cooked slowly, with stock, herbs and aromatics. The results are mild but meaty, which is just what you want when the wind is cold enough to make your eyes water.

      Starch is an essential accompaniment to stew – polenta, mashed roots, potatoes slipped into the pot. This time my stew has beans in it. There is quite a lot of juice, which, despite the beans, screams out to be poured over some mashed parsnip or potato, perhaps with some parsley and a dollop of mustard stirred in. Something for the coldest days of the year.

Chicken stew and mash

      dried cannellini beans – 150g

      a large chicken, jointed

      olive oil – 50ml, plus more for frying

      balsamic vinegar – 50ml

      garlic – 4 plump cloves, peeled

      bay leaves – 3 or 4

      dried herbes de Provence – 1–2 teaspoons

      the pared rind of a small orange

      leeks – 3 medium, thickly sliced

      mash, to serve

      Soak the beans in cold water for three or four hours, though overnight will not hurt (the older your beans, the longer they will need). Bring them to the boil in unsalted water and boil them for forty minutes.

      Put the chicken joints in a glass, china or steel dish. Pour over the olive oil and a couple of tablespoons of the balsamic vinegar, then tuck in the peeled garlic cloves and the bay leaves. Scatter over the herbes de Provence, a good grinding of pepper and salt and the strips of pared orange. Leave in a cool place, overnight if possible or at least for four or five hours.

      Set the oven at 200°C/Gas 6. Heat enough olive oil to cover the bottom of a shallow pan (don’t be tempted to fry the chicken in the oil from the marinade; it will spit and pop because of the vinegar). Add the chicken pieces, shaking the marinade from each as you go, and let them fry till they are golden brown on each side. You may find it easier to do this in two batches. Transfer the browned meat to a deep casserole – one for which you have a lid. Drain the boiled beans and add them to the pot.

      In the same oil, fry the leeks over a low heat, so that they soften rather than colour. Allowing a leek to brown will send it bitter. Now add the garlic from the marinade, then pour in the remaining marinade, the rest of the balsamic vinegar and about a litre of water. Don’t be tempted to use stock instead; it will make the dish too rich. Bring to the boil, season generously with salt, then pour this mixture over the chicken. Tuck in the bay leaves and orange from the marinade, then cover the casserole and put it in the preheated oven for two hours. Half way through cooking, check that the chicken is still submerged. Check for seasoning: it may need salt, it will need black pepper and you may feel it needs a little more balsamic vinegar. Serve steaming hot, with mash, letting the thick juices from the stew form pools in the mash.

      March 5

      If there is a recurrent theme to my cooking at the moment, it is the clean bite of lime leaves and chillies. I appreciate them for the freshness and vitality they bring with them. I have no luck at the greengrocer’s with the lime leaves today, nor at the major supermarket that stands, red brick and sprawling, less than thirty minutes’ walk from home. I end up catching the bus to the crush of Chinese shops that line Gerrard Street, which have more lime leaves than you could shake a chopstick at. They freeze at a push, and for once I remember to take a second packet home with that in mind.

      I have had this problem before, usually when the leaves’ inclusion is crucial (Thai fish cakes, perhaps). People say you can use lime zest instead. I agree to an extent, but there is something missing. There is more than just the well-known flavour of lime in those finely shredded leaves. They carry a bite, a spritz, to them that is missing in the skin of the fruit. If lime leaves remain elusive, I would rather add a stalk of lemon grass instead.

      While I’m in Chinatown, I pick up a couple of papayas. Unusually, they are perfectly ripe, a deep custard yellow. Tender as a kitten, they get carried home on top of everything else. One of them still gets bruised. After the pork, I slice each fruit and scoop out the black seeds – they look like caviar – then squeeze over a little lime juice. It means there is too much lime in the meal but it has brightened up a wet day.

Pork burgers with lime leaves and coriander

      At first glance, this may seem like a lot of work. It isn’t. The whole thing should take about half an hour, plus a little time for the meatballs to chill. I like this with a salad of crisp, white lettuce, chopped mint and coriander leaves, dressed with lime juice and salt. If you need something to fill, then some plain steamed white rice would fit the bill, or some soft buns between which to sandwich the hot pork patties.

      spring onions – 4

      hot red chillies and their seeds – 4

      garlic – 4 medium-sized cloves

      the stalks and leaves from a small bunch of coriander

      ginger – a thumb-sized lump

      lime leaves – 6

      smoked pancetta or fatty bacon – 100g

      minced pork – 500g

      a little vegetable or groundnut oil for frying

      Chop the spring onions, chillies, garlic and coriander and finely grate the ginger. Roll up and finely shred the lime leaves – they should be as fine as you can get them – then put the lot in a food processor and blitz till all is finely chopped and well mixed. Scrape the paste out into a large basin. Cut up the pancetta, then put it into the processor and whiz it to a coarse mush. Now add it, with the spice paste, to the minced pork. Mix everything together – I like to do this with my hands – grinding in some salt and black pepper as you go. Set aside in the fridge for about half an hour for the flavours to mingle.

      Squash the seasoned pork into about twelve small balls, then flatten them into patties. Pour a little oil into a heavy, shallow pan, just enough to cover the bottom. When it is hot, add half the meatballs and let them cook for several minutes over a high heat, turning them half way through, till they are cooked in the middle and nicely brown and stickily, sensuously glossy on the outside.

      Enough for 4 with rice and salad

      March 7

      Inspiration

      for a lamb

      chop

      I