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or 1 plump guinea fowl

       1 onion, chopped

       3 cloves garlic, sliced

       500g (1lb 2oz) carrots, cut into batons

       4 sprigs tarragon

       150 ml (5 floz) dry Riesling

       100 ml (3 1/2 floz) double cream

       salt and pepper

      Heat the butter with the oil in a flameproof casserole large enough to take the birds and all the carrots. Brown the pheasants or guinea fowl in the fat, then remove from the casserole. Reduce the heat, then stir the onion and garlic into the fat and fry gently until tender. Add the carrots and tarragon and stir around for a few minutes, then return the pheasants or guinea fowl to the pot, nestling them breast-side down in amongst the carrots. Pour over the Riesling and season with salt and pepper. Bring up to the boil, then cover with a close-fitting lid. Turn the heat down low and leave to cook gently for 1 hour, or a little longer if necessary, turning the pheasants or guinea fowl over after about half an hour.

      Once the birds and carrots are tender, lift the birds out on to a serving plate and keep warm. Stir the cream into the carrots and juices and simmer for 2 minutes or so, then taste and adjust seasoning. Spoon around the birds and serve immediately.

      Carrot cake

      Everyone knows that carrot cake is a very good thing, indeed. What a cheery thought it is that you can have your cake and eat vegetables at the same time.

      This is the recipe I return to regularly, after playing away with less successful variations. I’m not usually a big fan of baking cakes or pastry with wholemeal flour, but for once it makes absolute sense, absorbing some of the moisture that the carrot provides, and giving the substance the cake needs.

      

      Serves 8–12

       250g (9oz) light muscovado sugar

       250ml (9floz) light olive oil or sunflower oil

       4 large eggs

       2 tablespoons milk

       250g (9oz) wholemeal flour

       2 rounded teaspoons baking powder

       60g (2 oz) ground almonds

       2 tablespoons poppy seeds

       125g (41/2 oz) shelled walnuts, roughly chopped

       250g (9 oz) carrots, grated

       Frosting

       200g (7oz) cream cheese

       200g (7oz) butter, softened

       250g (9oz) icing sugar, sifted

       1 teaspoon vanilla extract

       12 walnut halves to decorate

      Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/Gas 4. Base-line two 20cm (8in) round cake tins with baking parchment and grease the sides. Whisk the sugar with the oil, eggs and milk. Mix the flour with the baking powder, ground almonds, poppy seeds, walnuts and carrots. Make a well in the centre and add the sugary liquids, scraping the last of the sugar from the bowl. Mix the ingredients thoroughly.

      Scrape into the two prepared cake tins and bake for 40–45 minutes until firm to the touch – check by plunging a skewer into the centre. If it comes out clean, then the cake is cooked. While the cake is baking, beat the cream cheese with the softened butter, icing sugar and vanilla extract to make the frosting.

      Let the cakes cool in their tins for 5 minutes, then turn them out on to a wire rack. Leave to cool completely, then sandwich together with about one-third of the frosting. Spread the remaining frosting over the top and down the sides, then decorate with the walnut halves.

       Celeriac

      Perhaps the most brutish-looking of vegetables (swede competes for the title, and it’s hard to decide which merits the crown most), celeriac is a form of celery with an absurdly swollen rootstock, known technically as a corm. Both celeriac and celery share the Latin name Apium graveolens, even though they look so very different. When the stems are left on celeriac, sticking up like a brush, the connection is more obvious. The stems are slender, but topped with the same leaves, as if someone had squeezed hard on the broad succulent stems of a head of celery, forcing all the liquid back down into the root to puff it up like a balloon. The odd thing is that celeriac doesn’t taste at all like celery. Celeriac tastes of nothing but itself. Most people love it, and many people find it infinitely preferable to celery.

      So, discount the exterior and concentrate on the firm, cream-hued interior. Solid and dense and generously proportioned, it is a remarkably delicious vegetable. I’ve never really understood why we don’t use it more: over in France it is the substance of one of their favourite mainstream salads, sold in every charcuterie and supermarket, as popular as and infinitely better than, most of the coleslaw consumed here. Yet here it is still considered something of an outsider, idly hovering on the fringes of popularity. How much longer before it breaks through to become a household name?

      Oddly enough, celeriac sales were boosted by the vogue for the Atkins diet. Celeriac is, apparently, very low in carbohydrate. What a godsend for those who missed potatoes. Here was a great substitute, particularly when mashed with shedloads of cream and butter. Now that the Atkins diet is no longer as fashionable as it once was, I hope that the celeriac habit endures – it is far too engaging a vegetable to drop the minute the diet is over.

      Practicalities

      BUYING

      Celeriac is always big, but don’t buy the most colossal ones, as these may have swelled up so far that the centre has become spongy or hollow. Be satisfied with plain big. Choose celeriac that is firm and heavy with no soft, bruised spots. Store it in the vegetable drawer of the fridge, where it will keep happily for a week or more.

      COOKING

      Celeriac can be cooked in a number of ways, but before that you have to take off the outer layer and the gnarled tangle of roots at the base. I usually slice the celeriac thickly then discard the roots and cut away the skin around the edge of each disc. If I’m boiling the celeriac, I then hack it into big chunks, ready to drop into the pan. If not used immediately, celeriac discolours, so once cut drop it into a bowl of water acidulated with the juice of ¹/₂ lemon or a dash of wine vinegar.

      The most cherished way to serve celeriac is mashed, either à la Atkins, in other words pure celeriac and lots of rich cream and butter, or – rather nicer, both in texture and flavour – mashed with equal quantities of potato, a large knob or two of butter and some milk. Either way it begs for plenty of salt and a good scraping of nutmeg. Another fine variation that I make occasionally, especially as Christmas approaches, is a mash of celeriac and chestnuts – true, the colour is muddy, but the taste is divine. Unless you are saintly, use vacuum-packed cooked chestnuts, and mash with double the quantity of celeriac, butter and cream. Nutmeg is essential. Distract from the colour with a sprinkling of chopped chives and a knob of melting butter in the centre of the hot

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