Vegetables - Sophie Grigson

Скачать книгу

the lamb. Add the black bean sauce and stir-fry for a final couple of minutes. Stir in the sesame oil. Taste and add a little more black bean sauce if you think it needs it.

      Sweet potato and red lentil soup with mint

      What a splendid soup this is! Perfect stuff for a spot of cold weather (I’d be tempted to bring it out on Bonfire Night), with just enough lift from the lime and mint to stop it being dull. A whole star anise, by the way, has seven or eight ‘petals’ – useful to know if yours have collapsed in their jar.

      

      Serves 6

      

       1 onion, chopped

       550g (11/4 lb) sweet potato, peeled and cut into chunks

       3 cloves garlic, chopped

       4 cm (11/2 in) piece fresh root ginger, peeled and chopped

       1 whole star anise

       2 tablespoons sunflower oil

       1 tablespoon tomato purée

       1 heaped teaspoon ground cinnamon

       150g (5 oz) red lentils

       1.5 litres (23/4 pints) water or vegetable stock

       juice of 1–2 limes

       150ml (5 floz) soured cream

       leaves from a small bunch of mint

       salt and pepper

      Put the onion, sweet potato, ginger, garlic, star anise and sunflower oil into a roomy pan and stir around. Place over a low heat, cover tightly and leave to sweat for 10 minutes, then add the tomato purée, cinnamon, lentils and water. Bring up to the boil, then reduce the heat and leave to simmer until the lentils and sweet potato are very tender. Season with salt and pepper.

      Remove the star anise, then liquidise the soup or pass through a mouli-légumes. Stir in as much lime juice as you like. Taste and adjust seasoning.

      Reheat when needed, and spoon into bowls. Finish each one with a little soured cream and a small handful of mint leaves on top.

      Southern sweet potato pie

      This is far better than pumpkin pie. Don’t be scared to line the pastry case with clingfilm – it’s a pastry chef’s trick and it works brilliantly, lifting out perfectly every time. And no, it won’t melt either.

      

      Serves 8

       3 large sweet potatoes, about 1.5 kg (31/4lb) in total

       300 g (11 oz) sweet shortcrust pastry

       30g (1 oz) softened butter

       100 g (31/2 oz) caster sugar

       1 teaspoon vanilla extract

       1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

       a generous grating of nutmeg

       4 tablespoons double cream

       1 egg

       3 egg yolks

       Meringue topping

       3 egg whites

       150g (5oz) caster sugar

      Preheat the oven to 190°C/375°F/Gas 5. Put the sweet potatoes in to bake.

      Meanwhile, line a 23–25 cm (9–10in) tart tin with the pastry, prick the base with a fork, and chill in the fridge for half an hour. Line the pastry case with clingfilm and fill with baking beans. Bake blind for 10 minutes, then take out of the oven and remove the beans and clingfilm. Return the pastry case to the oven and bake for a final 5 minutes. Leave to cool.

      Once the potatoes are done, scoop out the flesh and weigh out 950g (2lb 2 oz). Beat in the butter, sugar, vanilla extract and spices while still hot. Next beat in the cream, then the egg and yolks. Scrape the mixture into the awaiting pastry case, smooth down and return it to the oven. Once the door is closed, turn the heat down to 180°C/350°F/Gas 4 and leave to bake for around 20 minutes, until almost set.

      As it cooks, whisk up the egg whites for the meringue topping until they stand in firm peaks. Sprinkle over half the sugar and whisk again until the meringue is light and glossy and billowing, then fold in the remaining sugar. Spoon the meringue on to the hot baked pie, spreading out right to the edge and completely covering the filling. Make swirls and peaks in the meringue, then return the pie to the oven (last time) and bake for 15 minutes, until the meringue is browned nicely. Serve warm or cold, with plenty of cream.

       Turnips

      I got off to a good start with turnips, thanks to an alcoholic chef called Monsieur Bastard. He owned the restaurant at the end of the French village my family decamped to every spring and autumn. The evening we arrived we invariably ate at The Ariana. The first spoonful of M. Bastard’s vegetable soup signalled the proper start of the holiday, and we cheered whenever jambon aux navets appeared on the menu. I still salivate at the thought of that thick slice of fine French ham and tender, glazed turnips that surrounded it.

      Not everyone is so lucky. Bad turnips are enough to dismay the most ardent of vegetable eaters, let alone youngsters who are just embarking, often against their will, on the road to vegetable-appreciation. Or not. Which is a shame, because at their best turnips are downright sexy. Not the hefty, awkward lumps shrouded in tough green and grey skin fit only to be fed to cattle, not humans. No, I’m talking about the cute sorts of turnip: smaller than a tennis ball, with a handsome flush of pink or purple, waxy, tender skin and crisp white flesh.

      The trouble is that the ideal turnip, sold marble-sized in fetching bunches, is horribly expensive and far too rare – good arguments for growing your own, so that you can enjoy them as fresh as can be. Failing that, you must regard turnips as a rare indulgence, especially if you have children. Never force-feed them rank monster turnip in the hopes that they will eventually grow to enjoy it. They won’t. They’ll probably never eat turnip again. Instead, restrain your turnip intake to once or twice a year, only when you can buy and cook small, sexy turnips that will tempt one and all.

      Practicalities

      BUYING

      Turnips must, must, must be eaten young and impeccably fresh. Over-large or stale turnips are a penance we could all do without. Beauty is for once a reliable guide. Look for pert small turnips, prettily blushed with pale purple or pink, over pearly white skin. Medium-sized green and white turnips are just about acceptable, but big bruisers are to be avoided unless you are a masochist. Only buy turnips, even the most perfect little darlings, when you are sure that you will be eating them within the next 48 hours.

      COOKING

      Extra small turnips (think quail’s egg or walnut-sized), bunched together fetchingly, are the ne plus ultra, the apex of deliciousness. Don’t muck around with them – just trim the stems off a centimetre

Скачать книгу