Read the book: «The Kitchen Diaries»

january

Dal and pumpkin soup

A salad of fennel, winter leaves and Parmesan

Stew

A frosted marmalade cake

Frozen yoghurt with roast rhubarb

Double ginger cake

Onion soup without tears

Cheese-smothered potatoes

A velvety soup for a clear, cold day

Bulghur wheat with aubergines and mint

A really good spaghetti Bolognaise

Chicken broth with noodles, lemon and mint

Spiced crumbed mackerel with smoked paprika

A herb butter for grilled chops

A pot-roast pheasant with celery and sage

A clear, hot mussel soup

Sausages with salami and lentils

A lime tart

New Year’s
Day. A day
of hope and
hot soup

There is a single rose out in the garden, a faded bundle of cream and magenta petals struggling against grey boards. A handful of snowdrops peeps out from the ivy that has taken hold amongst the fruit trees. The raspberry canes are bare, save the odd dried berry I have left for the birds, and the bean stems stand brown and dry around their frames. A withered verbena’s lemon-scented leaves stand crisp against a clear, grey sky. January 1st is the day I prune back the tangle of dried sticks in the kitchen garden, chuck out anything over its sell-by date from the cupboards, flick through seed catalogues and make lists of what I want to grow and eat in the year to come. I have always loved the first day of the year. A day ringing with promise.

I bought little between Christmas and New Year, just salad and a few herbs, preferring to make do with larder stuff: white beans and yellow lentils, parsnips and a forgotten pumpkin, tins of baked beans, dried apricots and hard, chewy figs. There is still a crumbling wedge of Christmas cake, some crystallised orange and lemon slices, a few brazils to which I cannot gain entry and a handful of tight-skinned clementines. A feast of sorts, but what I need is a hot meal.

There is juice for breakfast, blood orange, the dull fruit brushed with scarlet and still sporting its glossy green leaves. It’s a bracing way to start a new year. I make a resolution to eat less but better food this year: to eat only food whose provenance I know at least a little of; to patronise artisan food producers; to increase my organic food consumption; and to shop even less at supermarkets than I do now. This should be the year in which I think carefully about everything I put in my mouth. ‘Where has this come from, what effect will this have on me, my well-being and that of the environment?’ Ten years ago this would all have sounded distinctly worthy, but today it just sounds like a blueprint for intelligent eating.

I have a tradition of making soup on New Year’s Day, too: green lentil, potato and Parmesan, noodle broth and this year red lentil and pumpkin. It is a warm ochre soup, soothing, yet capable of releasing a slow build-up of heat from its base notes of garlic, chilli and ginger; a bowl of soup that both whips and kisses.

Dal and pumpkin soup

a small onion

garlic – 2 cloves

ginger – a walnut-sized knob

split red lentils – 225g

ground turmeric – a teaspoon

ground chilli – a teaspoon

pumpkin – 250g

coriander – a small bunch, roughly chopped

For the onion topping:

onions – 2 medium

groundnut oil – 2 tablespoons

chillies – 2 small hot ones

garlic – 2 cloves

Peel the onion and chop it roughly. Peel and crush the garlic and put it with the onion into a medium-sized, heavy-based saucepan. Peel the ginger, cut it into thin shreds and stir that in too. Add the lentils and pour in one and a half litres of water. Bring to the boil, then turn the heat down to an enthusiastic simmer. Stir in the ground turmeric and chilli, season and leave to simmer, covered, for twenty minutes.

While the soup is cooking, bring a medium-sized pan of water to the boil. Peel the pumpkin and scoop out the seeds and fibre, then cut the flesh into fat chunks. Boil the pumpkin pieces for ten minutes, until they are tender enough to take a skewer without much pressure. Drain them and set them aside.

To make the onion topping, peel the onions and cut them into thin rings. Cook them in the oil in a shallow pan until they start to colour. Cut the chillies in half, scrape out the seeds and slice the flesh finely. Peel and finely slice the garlic and add it with the chillies to the onions. Continue cooking until the onions are a deep golden brown. Set aside.

Remove the lid from the lentils and turn up the heat, boiling hard for five minutes. Remove the pan from the heat, then add the drained pumpkin. Put the soup through the blender (for safety, a little at a time) until smooth, then pour it into a bowl. Stir in the roughly chopped coriander and check the seasoning. I find this soup likes a more generous than usual amount of salt.

Serve in deep bowls with a spoonful of the spiced onions on top.

Makes 4 good-sized bowls

A salad of fennel, winter leaves and Parmesan

tarragon vinegar – 1 tablespoon

Dijon mustard – a teaspoon

an egg yolk

olive oil – 100ml

grated Parmesan – 3 tablespoons

lemon juice – 2 teaspoons

thick slices of white bread – 2

olive oil for frying the bread

1 medium fennel bulb

small, hot salad leaves such as rocket and watercress – 4 double handfuls

a block of Parmesan for shaving

Make the dressing by whisking the vinegar, mustard, egg yolk and olive oil together with a little salt and black pepper, then beating in the grated cheese. Squeeze in the lemon juice, stir and set aside for a few minutes.

Cut the bread into small squares and fry in shallow oil till golden on all sides. Drain on kitchen paper. Slice the fennel finely; it should be almost fine enough to see through. Toss it with the salad leaves and the dressing. Pile the salad on to two plates, then shave pieces of Parmesan over with a vegetable peeler. I usually do at least eight per salad, depending on my dexterity with the peeler. Tip the hot croûtons over the salad and eat straight away whilst all is fresh and crunchy.

Enough for 2

January 4
A salad of
winter
cabbage and
bacon

We have the first porridge of the year, made with medium oatmeal and water and drizzled with heather honey and several spoonfuls of blueberries. Supper is a tightwad affair of shredded winter cabbage, steamed till just bright and almost tender, tossed with shredded bacon rashers and their hot fat spiked with a dash of white wine vinegar. What lifts this from the mundane is the fact that I keep the cabbage jewel bright and use the best, lightly smoked bacon in generous amounts. A few caraway seeds add a nutty, almost musky flavour. Not the sort of thing to serve to guests but fine for a weekday supper.

Afterwards we eat slices of lemon tart from the deli.

January 6

Grilled mushrooms tonight, slathered with some of that garlicky French cream cheese from the corner shop and stuffed inside a soft burger bun. A TV supper of the first order, especially the bit where the cream cheese melts into the cut sides of the toasted bun.

January 7
Frugal, pure
and basic
food for a
rainy night

I try to prune the raspberry patch whilst being buffeted by high winds; sacks, buckets and even the watering can being blown across the garden. It is this annual task, and that of pruning the fruit trees in the thicket at the end of the garden, that is the turning point in the year for me. Seeing the neatly trimmed canes and the newly shorn branches of the young quince, medlar and mulberry trees is what rings in the new year for me rather than the bells, whoops and popping corks of New Year’s Eve. Anyway, Auld Lang Syne always makes me want to burst into tears.

Pruning holds no fears for me. It is a job I look forward to almost more than any other. The crisp snap of secateurs slicing through young rose-pink and walnut-coloured wood brings the possibility that this year I might actually manage to control this downright wayward kitchen garden. A garden where dahlias poke through blackcurrant bushes and dark purple clematis rambles through damson trees. Pruning makes me think, however briefly, that I am in charge.

But I give up after an hour or two, the wind thrashing the swaying and heavily thorned raspberry canes across my face just once too often. I go in and toast crumpets, then make a stew and an orange-scented cake.

Stew

pot barley – 100g

onions – 3 medium

celery – 2 large stalks

a large parsnip

carrots – 2

potatoes – 4–5 medium

neck of lamb chops – 8 thick ones

a few sprigs of thyme and a couple of bay leaves

white pepper

water or stock to cover

parsley – a small handful

Boil the pot barley in unsalted water for a good twenty-five minutes, then drain it.

Get the oven hot. It needs to be at 160°C/Gas 3. Peel the onions and slice them into thick rings. Cut the celery into short lengths. Peel the parsnip, carrots and potatoes and cut them into fat chunks. That’s 2–3cm if you are measuring. Pile the vegetables into a large, deep pot, then tuck in the chops, thyme and bay leaves. Season with a little white pepper, no salt, then pour in the drained barley and enough water or stock to cover the meat and vegetables completely. Bring it slowly to the boil.

Skim off the worst of the froth that has accumulated on the surface, easily done with a ‘holey’ spoon. Cover the top of the stew with a sheet of greaseproof paper, then with a lid. Transfer the pot to the oven and leave it there, untouched or fiddled with, for a good two hours.

Remove the lid. The liquor should be thin, thickened only slightly by the potatoes. Chop the parsley and mix it in carefully, so as not to smash the vegetables, then season with salt and black pepper.

Leave overnight. Next day, skim the fat from the top, then reheat slowly on the stove till the meat is thoroughly hot and the broth gently bubbling. Check the seasoning – be generous – and serve piping hot.

Enough for 4

A frosted marmalade cake

I don’t, as a rule, like icing. Yet on a home-made cake, drizzled over so that it sets wafer thin, it adds a welcome contrast to the soft sponge. You could use water to mix the icing but I prefer to use fruit juice, occasionally adding a hint of orange blossom water to perfume each slice of cake.

butter – 175g

golden unrefined caster sugar – 175g

a large orange

eggs – 3 large

orange marmalade – 75g

self-raising flour – 175g

For the frosting:

icing sugar – 100g

orange juice – 2 tablespoons

Set the oven at 180°C/Gas 4. Line a loaf tin about 25 x 11cm and 7cm deep. Put the butter and sugar in a food mixer and beat till pale and fluffy. Finely grate the orange. Break the eggs into a small bowl and beat them lightly with a fork. With the machine set at moderate speed, pour in the beaten egg a little at a time, beating thoroughly between each addition. Beat in the marmalade and the grated orange zest.

Remove the bowl and fold in the flour with a large metal spoon. Do this slowly, firmly but carefully, till there is no sign of any flour. Lastly, gently stir in the juice of half the orange. Spoon the mixture into the lined tin, lightly smoothing the top. Bake for forty minutes, checking it after thirty-five with a metal skewer. Leave to cool in the tin – it will sink slightly – then remove and cool completely on a wire rack.

Sift the icing sugar and mix it to a smooth, slightly runny consistency with as much of the remaining orange juice as it takes – probably just under two tablespoons. Drizzle the icing over the cake, letting it run down the sides, and leave to set.

Enough for 8

January 8
The first
rhubarb

The first rhubarb appears with impeccable timing. Just as you want a fresh start to the year, along come the pale pink stems of the most tart and clean-tasting fruit to cleanse and invigorate. I no longer cut the stems into chunks and dip each piece raw into the sugar bowl like I did when I was a kid, but I do poach it only very lightly, so that the stems retain their shape, then I eat it first thing in the morning, slurping up spoonfuls of its limpid pink juice.

Frozen yoghurt with roast rhubarb

Warm, rudely pink rhubarb and snow-white frozen yoghurt has a smart, bright flavour and is breathtakingly pretty on a cold winter’s day. The frozen yoghurt is simply a bought vanilla smoothie chucked into an ice-cream machine; the baked fruit just rhubarb bunged in a dish with a spoonful of runny honey and the juice of an orange.

thick vanilla yoghurt smoothies – 3 × 250ml

young, pink rhubarb – 500g

an orange

mild honey – a tablespoon

To make the frozen yoghurt, pour the smoothies into the drum of your ice-cream machine and churn till almost frozen. Scoop out and into a plastic freezer box, then keep in the freezer till you need it.

Cut the rhubarb into short lengths about the size of a wine cork. Lay them in a shallow stainless steel or glass baking dish, squeeze over the orange juice and drizzle with the honey. Bake for twenty-five minutes at 200°C/Gas 6, occasionally spooning the juices over the fruit. The rhubarb is done when the stalks are tender enough to crush between your fingers. Leave to cool a little.

Divide the warm rhubarb between four dishes, then place a couple of scoops of frozen yoghurt on each, though it looks rather elegant served in separate bowls.

Enough for 4

Note

To make the frozen yoghurt without a machine, pour the smoothies into a plastic box and freeze for a couple of hours till a thick layer of ice crystals forms around the edge. Whisk the frozen edges into the middle of the mixture, then freeze again for an hour or so. Repeat, again beating the edges into the middle. Now leave the mixture to freeze. The whole process will take about four hours, depending on the temperature of your freezer. Try to catch the ice just before it freezes solid. The texture will be less smooth than if you use a machine.

January 9
Rain and
an old-
fashioned
cake

This is the grey, endless drizzle that Britain is regularly accused of having, yet in truth we rarely see, even in the depths of winter. It’s the sort of day on which to light the fire, turn on the radio and bake a cake. Once the smell of baking fills the house, I find the rain suddenly matters a good deal less, if at all. I make a decent ginger cake, a love of which seems to run in our family. My Dad adored them, along with Battenburg, or ‘window cake’ as he called it, which I leave to the experts. I take mine in the afternoon with a pot of green tea.

Double ginger cake

I am rather proud of this cake. Lightly crisp on top and with a good, open texture, it is light, moist and delicately gingery. It will keep for a week or so wrapped in paper and foil.

self-raising flour – 250g

ground ginger – 2 level teaspoons

ground cinnamon – half a teaspoon

bicarbonate of soda – a level teaspoon

a pinch of salt

golden syrup – 200g

syrup from the ginger jar – 2 tablespoons

butter – 125g

stem ginger in syrup – 3 lumps, about 55g

sultanas – 2 heaped tablespoons

dark muscovado sugar – 125g

large eggs – 2

milk – 240ml

You will need a square cake tin measuring approximately 20–22cm, lined on the bottom with baking parchment or greaseproof paper.

Set the oven at 180C/Gas 4. Sift the flour with the ginger, cinnamon, bicarbonate of soda and salt. Put the golden and ginger syrups and the butter into a small saucepan and warm over a low heat. Dice the ginger finely, then add it to the pan with the sultanas and sugar. Let the mixture bubble gently for a minute, giving it the occasional stir to stop the fruit sticking on the bottom.

Break the eggs into a bowl, pour in the milk and beat gently to break up the egg and mix it into the milk. Remove the butter and sugar mixture from the heat and pour into the flour, stirring smoothly and firmly with a large metal spoon. Mix in the milk and eggs. The mixture should be sloppy, with no trace of flour.

Scoop the mixture into the lined cake tin and bake for thirty-five or forty minutes, until a skewer inserted in the centre of the cake comes out clean. Unless you are serving it warm, leave the cake in its tin to cool, then tip it out on to a sheet of greaseproof paper. Wrap it up in foil and, if you can, leave it to mature for a day or two before eating.

Enough for 8

January 11
Onion soup
without
tears

I do love the classic onion soup, simmered for hours in a deep iron pot, but if I’m honest I hate making it. Onions make me cry at the best of times, but slicing enough for an entire pan of soup is more than I can handle, so this method where you roast the halved onions first solves all that. But there is more to this soup than convenience for those easily brought to tears; the roasting of the onions gives a sweet, caramel depth to the broth and the onions turn silky, slithery and soft. I could also add that the smell of onions baking in butter is a rather more attractive option than the pong of boiled onions wafting through the house.

onions – 4 medium

butter – 40g

a glass of white wine

vegetable stock – 1.5 litres

a small French loaf

grated Gruyère, Emmental or other good melting cheese – 150g

Set the oven at 200°C/Gas 6. Peel the onions and cut them in half from tip to root, then lay them in a roasting tin and add the butter, salt and some pepper. Roast until they are tender and soft, and toasted dark brown here and there. You might have to turn them now and again.

Cut the onions into thick segments. Put them in a saucepan with the wine and bring to the boil. Let the wine bubble until it almost disappears (you just want the flavour, not the alcohol), then pour in the stock. Bring to the boil and simmer for about twenty minutes.

Just before you want to serve the soup, make the cheese croûtes. Cut the loaf into thin slices and toast lightly on one side under a hot grill. Turn them over and sprinkle with the grated cheese. Get the soup hot, ladle it into bowls and float the cheese croûtes on top. Place the bowls under a hot grill and leave until the cheese melts. Eat immediately, whilst the cheese is still stringy and molten.

Enough for 4

January 12
Potatoes
and cheese
for a cold
night

I rather like those dishes that can be eaten as either a side dish or a main course depending on what else you might be eating. They slot neatly into my ‘very useful’ category. This potato recipe is one of those. If we were having a few slices of cold roast beef or pork, or maybe some chicken left over from Sunday, then this is what I would want to eat with it at this time of year when the weather is so cold. Yet today two of us sit down each with a plate of these potatoes as a main course, with just a bowl of crisp winter salad of chicory, frisée and roughly hashed walnuts. Whichever way you look at it, it’s a rough-looking dish of cheese melting over the lightly fried potatoes.

It is not essential to stick to my choice of cheese. Anything that melts easily will do but both Fontina and Taleggio will melt superbly.

Cheese-smothered potatoes

waxy potatoes – 500g

olive oil – 2 tablespoons

butter – 50g

a medium-sized onion, sliced

garlic – 2 large cloves, finely sliced

thyme leaves – 1 tablespoon, chopped

easy melting cheese such as Taleggio or Fontina – 120g

Rinse the potatoes. There is no need to peel them unless the skins are very tough. Slice them thinly – about as thick as a pound coin. The thinner you slice them, the quicker they will cook.

Put the olive oil and butter in a shallow pan about 25cm in diameter and cook the onion and garlic in it for about five minutes, until they start to soften. Add the potatoes, some pepper and salt and the thyme to the pan and toss gently in the cooking fat. Cover with a lid and cook over a low heat for twenty-five minutes, turning once.

Test the cooked potatoes for tenderness. If the point of a knife slices into them easily, they are done. Slice the cheese thinly and lay it over the top of the potatoes. Cover the pan once more and continue cooking for a couple of minutes until the cheese has melted. Serve immediately, while the cheese is still soft and oozing.

Enough for 2

January 13
A velvety
soup for a
clear, cold
day

Crisp, clear, and the sky looks like Sweden. One of those days when you get tricked by the bright, crystal sky and go out with one layer too few, then come home freezing cold. I had every intention of bringing back something for supper but, after eating Turkish mezze at lunch, come home empty handed and end up scouring the fridge and cupboards for something to eat.

I never throw away Parmesan rinds. No matter how dry and cracked they get, the craggy ends are full of intense, cheesy flavour. A more organised cook would freeze theirs; mine tend to collect in one of the little plastic drawers in the fridge door, the one you are supposed to keep eggs in. To get the full, soothingly velvet texture of this soup, you will need a couple of large hunks of rind, about 5-6cm long. If the fridge is bare, then ask at your local deli. They may let you have them for little or nothing.

good-sized leeks – 3

butter – a thick slice, about 40g

potatoes – 3 medium-sized

Parmesan rinds

light stock or water – 1.5 litres

parsley – a handful

grated Parmesan – 6 tablespoons

Trim the leeks, slice them into thick rings, then wash thoroughly under cold running water. Melt the butter in a heavy-based pan (I use a cast-iron casserole), then tip in the washed leeks and let them soften slowly, covered with a lid, over a low to moderate heat. After about twenty minutes and with some occasional stirring they should be silkily tender.

While they are softening, peel the potatoes and cut them into chunks. Add them to the leeks when they are soft and let them cook for five minutes or so, before dropping in the cheese rinds and pouring in the stock or water. Season with salt and black pepper, then partially cover and leave to simmer for a good forty minutes.

Remove and discard the undissolved cheese rinds, scraping back into the soup any cheesy goo from them as you go. Add the leaves of the parsley and blitz the soup in a blender. Check the seasoning – it may need a surprisingly generous amount of salt and pepper – then bring briefly to the boil. Serve piping hot, with the grated Parmesan.

Enough for 6

January 15

I buy oysters today, fines de claire from the fish shop on Marylebone High Street, six apiece. They smell clean and slightly salty. The heavy-gauge oyster opener I bought five years ago has proved a sound investment, firmer and safer than its predecessor, which was, with hindsight, too flimsy to do the job. Opening oysters requires a no-messing attitude. Not exactly gung-ho, but with a certain amount of (mock) confidence. Even then I have to fish out bits of broken shell from the tender flesh and not-to-be-wasted juices. The shellfish was quite expensive, so I strike a balance with a cheap cupboard recipe to follow.

Bulghur wheat with aubergines and mint

Bulghur is one of those mild, warming grains that soothes and satisfies. I value it for its knubbly texture and nutty flavour. This, to me, is supper, but others may like to use it beside something else, such as grilled chicken or a gravy-rich stew.

olive oil – 6 tablespoons

a small onion

a bay leaf

aubergines – 2 small ones

garlic – 2 large cloves, chopped

bulghur wheat – 225g

vegetable stock – 500ml

tomatoes – 4

pine kernels – 3 tablespoons, toasted

mint – 15-20 leaves, chopped

lemon juice to taste

Warm the olive oil in a shallow pan, peel and finely slice the onion and let it cook slowly in the oil with the bay leaf. When the onion is soft and pale gold, add the aubergines, cut into 3cm pieces, and the chopped garlic. Let the aubergines cook, adding more oil if necessary, until they are golden and soft.

Pour in the bulghur wheat and the vegetable stock. Bring to the boil, then leave to simmer gently for fifteen to twenty minutes, till the wheat is tender and almost dry. Half way through cooking, roughly chop the tomatoes and add them. Once the wheat is cooked (it should still be nutty and have some bite), stir in the toasted pine kernels and chopped mint leaves. Check the seasoning; it will need lemon juice, salt and pepper.

Enough for 2, with seconds

January 17
A bench-
mark
Bolognese

No sooner is lunch over (supermarket sushi brought to life with enough wasabi to make my sinuses sting) than it starts to rain. The butcher has fresh mince, which looks straight from the mincer, the sight of which is enough to stir me into making a proper Bolognese. By which I mean one that has been left to blip and putter slowly on the stove, so that the flavours have a chance to mellow and deepen.

A really good spaghetti Bolognese

butter – 50g

cubed pancetta – 70g

a medium onion

garlic – 2 fat cloves

a carrot

celery – 2 stalks

flat mushrooms – 2 large, about 100g

bay leaves – 2

minced beef or lamb – 400g

crushed tomatoes or passata – 200ml

red wine – 200ml

stock – 200ml

a nutmeg

full-cream milk or cream – 200ml

To serve:

spaghetti or tagliatelle for 4

grated Parmesan

Melt the butter in a heavy-based pan – I use a cast-iron one about 24cm in diameter – then stir in the pancetta and let it cook for five minutes or so, without colouring much. Meanwhile peel and finely chop the onion and garlic and stir them into the pancetta. Scrub and finely chop the carrot and celery and stir them in, too. Lastly, finely chop the mushrooms and add to the pan, then tuck in the bay leaves and leave to cook for ten minutes over a moderate heat, stirring frequently.

Turn up the heat and tip in the meat, breaking it up well with a fork. Now leave to cook without stirring for a good three or four minutes, then, as the meat on the bottom is starting to brown, stir again, breaking up the meat where necessary, and leave to colour.

Mix in the tomatoes, red wine, stock, a grating of nutmeg and some salt and black pepper, letting it come to the boil. Turn the heat down so that everything barely bubbles. There should be movement, but one that is gentle, not quite a simmer. Partially cover the pan with a lid and leave to putter away for an hour to an hour and a half, stirring from time to time and checking the liquid levels. You don’t want it to be dry.

Pour in the milk or cream a bit at a time, stir and continue cooking for twenty minutes. Check the seasoning, then serve with the pasta and grated Parmesan.

Enough for 4

January 19

Sometimes I make my own chicken stock and sometimes I buy it ready-made. Today I take the lazy route, picking up a large tub from the butcher’s, idle, good-for-nothing guy that I am. The outcome is another ten-minute supper, which turns out to be more appreciated than any supermarket cook-chill dinner, at once warming (the broth), uplifting (lemon, mint) and satisfying (the noodles).

Chicken broth with noodles, lemon and mint

dried egg noodles – 50g

very good chicken broth – 1 litre

cooked chicken (leftover roast is fine) – 200g

chopped mint leaves – 2 heaped tablespoons

roughly chopped coriander leaves – 2 heaped tablespoons

the juice of a lemon

Drop the noodles into a deep pan of boiling, salted water and cook for two to three minutes, until tender. Drain them, rinse under cold running water, then leave to cool in a bowl of cold water until you need them.

Bring the chicken broth to the boil, then turn the heat down to a simmer. Shred the chicken with a sharp knife and add it to the simmering broth with the mint, coriander and lemon juice. Add the noodles, leave for one minute, then serve steaming hot in big bowls.

Enough for 2 as a main dish

January 21
A cheap fish
supper

I sometimes feel as if I am on a one-man mission to make the world eat more mackerel. This recipe, spiced with smoked paprika and rings of soft, golden onions, is one of the best I have come up with for this underrated fish. I am not sure you need anything more with it than some steamed spinach or spinach salad.

Spiced crumbed mackerel with smoked paprika

mackerel – 4, filleted

onion – 1 medium to large

olive oil

parsley – a handful

garlic – 3 small cloves

smoked ‘hot’ paprika – half a teaspoon

fresh breadcrumbs – 100g

a lemon

Rinse and dry the mackerel fillets and lay them skin-side down in a lightly oiled dish. Season them lightly with salt and pepper. Set the oven at 180°C/Gas 4.

Peel the onion and slice it into very thin rings, then let it cook over a moderate heat in a couple of tablespoons of olive oil until it starts to soften. Chop the parsley, not too finely, then peel and crush the garlic and stir into the onion with the paprika, a seasoning of black pepper and salt and the breadcrumbs. Pour in three tablespoons of olive oil.

Spoon the spiced breadcrumbs evenly over the fish and bake for twenty minutes. It is ready when the crumbs are golden and the fish is opaque and tender. Lift on to plates using a fish slice, then squeeze the lemon over each one.

Enough for 4