For me, the central Christmas feast is the least problematical meal to consider, since I cook the same thing every year: I know what I have to do; there’s nothing really to think about further. I don’t feel complacent about it, though: it still makes me excited and nervous in equal measure. But it’s the other days that need a little more careful consideration. Since I find thinking about food a pleasure in itself, this isn’t difficult. And nor, indeed, are any of the meals I make over Christmas. My cooking is never complicated or tricksy, but over this time, it’s especially important that life is made easier. Relax: I have a plan.
Since much of this time is spent exhausting oneself with Christmas shopping, wrapping (for me, every bit as nerve-jangling as late-night shopping) and related seasonal stresses, I need food I can rely on for succour, both in the kitchen and at the table.
First up: oxtail on toast. There is something so comfortingly old-fashioned about this, and since it needs to be made ahead so that the flavours deepen and gravy jellify, I make a batch, and then stash portions of this stew, aromatically Christmassy with its allspice and clementine, in the deep freeze or fridge (depending on how soon I may have to call upon it) as well as a good loaf in the bread bin, so that I may call upon it whenever a little something cosy on toast is called for – which is often at this time of the year. A little goes a long way, so even a batch isn’t as dauntingly big as it sounds. The oxtails are cooked until they flake softly away from the bones, and the scant, set liquid helps them cover the toast without making it hopelessy soggy (though that would be good, too). It’s also wonderful as a sauce for wide egg noodles or poured over soft polenta.
Second up: sweet potato macaroni cheese. When ballast is required after a Christmas party or general seasonal carousing, or to feed overexcited children after a nativity play or carol service, this is what I call upon. This, too, can be made in advance, so that a quick reheat in the oven until the macaroni cheese is golden and bubbling is all that’s needed on a tired or late night. All macaroni cheese is good – that’s a given – but this, with its sweet potato countered by the sharpness of feta and the elegant bitterness of sage (which can be left out if it would cause problems with children insistently opposed to “green bits”) is, as immodest as it inevitably sounds, the best I’ve ever made or eaten. I always have macaroni cheese and a joint of gammon on Christmas Eve, and this version is an even better partner with the sweet-salty ham.
Third up: barbecuey pork butt. This is, frankly, pulled pork by another name, and ideal for lunch or supper when you have a large group of people to feed and need to do so without losing your sanity. The pork cooks for long, slow hours in a low oven, filling the house with a gorgeously welcoming scent, and all you need to serve alongside are some soft buns, to be split open and filled with this tender, rich meat. The pork itself is cooked without its rind, but if you buy the meat from the butcher, you can ask for the rind separately and make crackling to eat over pre-dinner drinks. I always do: nothing better.
Fourth up: drunken noodles. As the name suggests, these are just what’s needed when seasonal overindulgence has taken its tiresome toll. Even those with a very sore head can manage to soak rice noodles then toss them in a wok with enough spices to clear the very worst of hangovers. But while they offer balm to those who need it, they also make for a perfect, simple supper for those who require a culinary counterpoint to the meat-heaviness of holiday eating.
Finally: lemon pavlova. Make a great pudding, and you can bring out those cold cuts yet again without apologising for them. This is that great pudding. I make the base ahead, and then have nothing more effortful to do on the day itself than spread with lemon curd, whip up some cream to dollop on top, and toast some almonds to sprinkle over. And were you to want to make this look especially Christmassy, all you’d need to do is add a ruby scattering of pomegranate seeds before the crunch of the almonds.
Barbecuey pork butt
It’s embarrassingly childish of me to find this name funny, but I do, and that’s why I’m keeping it. Pork butt is what Americans call pork shoulder, although my butcher says that it is more properly the blade bone part, which is why I have specified so in the ingredients. What I’ve made below, though, is essentially pulled pork, and I’m sure any part of the shoulder would do just fine.
The real treat about this – apart from the ease of preparation and the joy of eating – is that you cook it for such a long time in a low oven, that not only does your house smell magnificent (I put this in late at night, and come down at breakfast to be heralded by it), but you don’t need to do anything when the hungry hordes arrive, except shred it. But I have also given an option for a shorter cooking time, should that make life easier.
If you have a double oven, ask the butcher to give you the scored rind too, snip it into pieces with kitchen scissors and roast in an oven preheated to 220C/gas 7 for 25 minutes, then turn them over for a final 5 minutes. Serve alongside the pork. This is very, very good squidged into baps.
Serves 8-10
pork shoulder 2kg, boneless and rindless from blade end, with a good layer of fat remaining, rolled and tied
soft light brown sugar 2 x 15ml tbsp
Dijon mustard 2 x 15ml tbsp
sherry vinegar 2 x 15ml tbsp
sea salt flakes 2 tsp
Chinese 5-spice powder 2 tsp
hot chilli powder 2 tsp
garlic 4 cloves, peeled and finely grated or minced
Line the base and sides of a small roasting tin, just large enough to take the pork, with a double layer of foil, sit the pork in it, fat-side up, and let it come to room temperature, which takes about 40-60 minutes, depending on your fridge and the weather. When it’s almost there, heat the oven to 250C/gas 9.
Mix the sugar, mustard and vinegar in a bowl, stir in the salt, 5-spice and hot chilli powder, then add the garlic.
When the pork is ready to go into the oven, mix the rub ingredients together again (I use a rubber spatula for this, and for smearing the pork joint) and cover the pork joint with as much as you can. The barbecuey rub may not look very appealing at this stage, but that need be of no concern. Put the smeared pork into the very hot oven and leave for 10 minutes – by which time the top will be beginning to burn in parts – then turn down the oven to 100C/gas ¼ and cook for at least 12 hours, or up to 18, tenting with foil after 14-15 hours.
Alternatively, after a 10-minute blast at 250C/gas 9, turn the heat down to 150C/gas 2 and cook for 5½-6 hours, tenting with foil after 3 hours.
Remove from the oven, untie, discard any bits that are too blackened to eat (though the burnt bits are my favourite) and pull to pieces with a couple of forks. Pour over some of the juice (though you might want to spoon off a little of the fat first) and serve immediately.
STORE NOTE
Cool leftovers, then cover and refrigerate within 2 hours of making. Will keep in the fridge for up to 3 days. Reheat in an ovenproof dish, covered with foil – or wrap the pork in foil, if small portions – in an oven preheated to 150C/gas 2 for about 30 minutes (timing will depend on quantity) until piping hot. Add a splash of water, if needed, to prevent it from becoming too dry.
Sweet potato macaroni cheese
I’m just going to say it: this is the best macaroni cheese I’ve ever eaten – better than the macaroni cheese I ate as a child; better than the macaroni cheese I brought my own children up on when they were little (they don’t agree); better than any fancy restaurant macaroni cheese with white truffle or lobster; better than any macaroni cheese I have loved in my life thus far, and there have been many.
I don’t feel it’s boastful to say as much, as the greatness lies not in any brilliance on my part, but in the simple tastes of the ingredients as they fuse in the heat. That’s home cooking for you.
I do rather love the way these little macaroni cheeses, with their pixie-penne, look like they’ve been made with artificially coloured, cheap squeezy cheese or out of a box, when in fact their exotic glow comes courtesy of the earthy goodness of a sweet potato.
Serves 4
sweet potatoes 500g
pennette or other small short pasta 300g
soft unsalted butter 4 x 15ml tbsp (60g)
plain flour 3 x 15ml tbsp
full-fat milk 500ml
English mustard 1 tsp
paprika ¼ tsp plus ¼ tsp to sprinkle on top
feta cheese 75g
mature cheddar 125g, grated, plus 25g to sprinkle on top
fresh sage leaves 4
salt and pepper to taste
Preheat the oven to 200C/gas 6. Put on a large-ish pan of water to boil, with the lid on to make it come to the boil faster.
Peel the sweet potatoes and cut them roughly into 2-3cm pieces. When the water’s boiling, add salt to taste, and then the sweet potato pieces, and cook them for about 10 minutes or until they are soft. Scoop them out of the water into a bowl – using a “spider” or slotted spoon – and lightly mash with a fork, without turning them into a purée. Don’t get rid of this water, as you will need it to cook your pasta in later.
In another saucepan, gently melt the butter and add the flour, whisking to form a roux, then take the pan off the heat, slowly whisk in the milk and, when it’s all combined and smooth, put back on the heat. Exchange your whisk for a wooden spoon, and continue to stir until your gently bubbling sauce has lost any floury taste and has thickened. Add the mustard and the ¼ teaspoon of paprika. Season to taste, but do remember that you will be adding cheddar and salty feta later, so underdo it for now.
Cook the pennette in the sweet-potato water, starting to check 2 minutes earlier than packet instructions dictate, as you want to make sure it doesn’t lose its bite entirely. Drain (reserving some of the pasta cooking water first) and then add the pennette to the mashed sweet potato, and fold in to combine; the heat of the pasta will make the mash easier to mix in.
Add the feta to the sweet potato and pasta mixture, crumbling it in so that it is easier to disperse evenly, then fold in the white sauce, adding the grated cheddar as you go. Add some of the pasta cooking water, should you feel it needs loosening up at all.
Check for seasoning again, then, when you’re happy, spoon the brightly sauced macaroni cheese into 4 small ovenproof dishes of about 375-425ml capacity (or 1 large rectangular dish measuring about 30 x 20 x 5cm deep and 1.6 litre capacity). Sprinkle the remaining cheddar over each one, dust with the remaining ¼ teaspoon of paprika, then shred the sage leaves and scatter the skinny green ribbons over the top, too.
Put the pots on a baking tray, pop into the oven and bake for 20 minutes (or, if you’re making this in a larger dish, bake for 30–35 minutes), by which time they will be piping hot and bubbling, and begging you to eat them.
Drunken noodles
The general explanation given for why Thai drunken noodles are so called is that they have enough chilli in them to shake you out of even the worst hangover. The only difficulty here – prepared though I am to believe it – is that making a traditional pad kee mao is not an undertaking I’d recommend while worse for wear. So this is my simplified version. I’ve cut to the chase – no meat, fish or veg, just highly seasoned, searingly hot noodles.
Not that you need to be hungover to eat them. Why give yourself all that pain, in order to get to the pleasure? Mind you, I say that as someone for whom a glass and a half of white wine is too much, though I could cope with a beer, so cold it hurts, while going for the blissful burn of these addictively hot noodles.
Anyway, I make them so often when in serenely sober Bowlfood Mood. Most of the ingredients come from the store cupboard, and the finished dish is in front of you in 10 minutes. I find these hot noodles hard to beat, and they do really blow your head off: if you want less of a fiery fright, then halve the chilli flakes. To start with, at least …
Serves 2, or a very drink-soaked or greedy 1
dried flat rice noodles (the pad thai sort) 150g
cold water 2 x 15ml tbsp
oyster sauce 1 x 15ml tbsp
toasted sesame oil 1 tsp
sunflower oil 2 tsp
fresh ginger 3cm piece (15g), peeled and finely grated
garlic 1 clove, peeled and finely grated or minced
lime 1, preferably unwaxed
dried chilli flakes ½ tsp
soy sauce 4 x 15ml tbsp
fresh coriander a handful, chopped
Soak the rice noodles in hot water for 8 minutes, or according to packet instructions, then drain and refresh under a cold running tap.
Put the 2 tablespoons of water into a cup and stir in the oyster sauce, then set aside for a mo.
Put the oils in a wok, turn on the heat and add the ginger, garlic and grate in the zest of the lime – I use a coarse microplane grater here, only because it’s faster than a fine one. Sprinkle in the chilli flakes. Stir well, then tip in the soaked, drained rice noodles and stir them – I find this easier with an implement in each hand – quickly in the hotly seasoned oil.
Add the watered-down oyster sauce, the juice of ½ the lime and the soy sauce, then transfer to a waiting bowl (or bowls) and toss with the chopped coriander. Keep the bottle of soy sauce and the remaining ½ lime close at hand, should you need either of them as you eat. I am such a pyrophile, I like to keep some extra chilli flakes to hand, too.
Oxtail on toast
Sometimes I get obsessed with a recipe, and this is such a one. I first ate the most divine oxtail on toast at a restaurant called Hubbard & Bell, and could talk of nothing else for days. Some months later, I came across a recipe for oxtail marmalade in Jody Williams’s Buvette cookbook and knew I had to have a go myself. My recipe is much simpler than either version, but I am grateful for the inspiration from both.
It is quite extraordinary how much mileage you get from this: it makes enough to spread on 6–8 pieces of toast, and you’ll still be able to conjure up a sauce with what’s left to eat with wide egg noodles, or over polenta. Just make sure to reheat only as much as you need for each outing. I freeze mine in portions – enough to spread on 4 pieces of toast – for much comfort and joy at later dates.
Makes 2 litres, enough for 6- 8 pieces of toast, plus a stew for 4 or a sauce to pour over 500g of pasta (dried weight) for 4-6
onion 1 peeled and roughly chopped
garlic 1 clove, peeled and roughly chopped
carrot 1 peeled and roughly chopped
celery 1 stick
fresh parsley small handful
duck, goose or bacon fat 1 x 15ml tbsp (15g)
clementine zest and juice of 1 (or ½ orange), preferably unwaxed
dried thyme 2 tsp (or 1 x 15ml tbsp fresh thyme leaves)
ground allspice 2 tsp
cocoa 2 tsp
red vermouth or ruby port 4 x 15ml tbsp
beef stock 500ml (the sort that comes “fresh” in tubs is fine)
Worcestershire sauce 2 x 15ml tbsp
sea salt flakes 2 tsp
oxtail 1.25kg, cut into 5-6cm slices
bay leaves 2
fresh thyme to serve (optional)
Preheat the oven to 170C/gas 3.
Put the chopped onion, garlic and carrot into the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Tear the celery stick into 2 or 3 pieces and drop that in too, along with the parsley, and blitz till finely chopped. Or you can simply do this by hand.
Melt the duck (or other) fat over a medium heat in a heavy-based casserole (with a tight-fitting lid), and when hot, grate in the zest of the clementine (or orange), stirring it in the warm fat and letting the scent waft up, before adding the mixture from the processor. Cook, stirring every now and again, for 5 minutes.
Add the dried thyme (or fresh thyme leaves), ground allspice and cocoa and stir together before pouring in the vermouth (or port). Let it bubble up, then pour in the beef stock and Worcestershire sauce, squeeze in the juice of the clementine or orange (don’t worry if you get a bit of pulp) and sprinkle in the salt. Give it a stir, then add the oxtail to the liquid in the pan, bring to a bubble, add the bay leaves, clamp on the lid and transfer to the oven to cook for 3½ hours.
You’ll know the oxtail is ready when it’s falling off the bone. Using 2 forks, start pulling the meat off and shredding it. If you want to wait until it’s a little cooler, by all means do. Cool the stew, remove the bones, then keep in the fridge in a covered container for at least 1 day, or up to 3 days.
When you’re ready to reheat the oxtail, remove the fat, which will have risen to the surface in a solid disc, and add as much oxtail as you need to a pan big enough for the portion size you’ve settled on. It will seem dry, but this is just because the juices have jellied – you do not need to add water, however much you itch to. But you must make sure the heat under the pan is low, and the lid is tightly clamped on, to preserve the liquid you do have, and make sure it is piping hot before serving.
Spread on toast made with good bread – I find a cupful of stew, in its cold jellied state, is enough for 3 pieces of toast, maybe 4 – and strew with some fresh thyme leaves, should you have some.
STORE NOTE
The oxtail can be made up to 3 days ahead. Cool, cover and refrigerate within 2 hours of making. Freeze cooled oxtail in an airtight container for up to 3 months. Defrost overnight in fridge before reheating. Note: the oxtail should be reheated once only.
Lemon pavlova
Ever since my first pav in How To Eat, I have been something of a pavaholic. For me, acidity is key. I never understood why anyone would pile sweet fruit on top of something that is essentially – and dreamily – a cross between a marshmallow and a meringue. So, naturally, a lemon pavlova made perfect sense. I had the idea – yes, really – from the actor Michael Sheen. This didn’t come in the form of a personal tip, I should admit. I saw him create a great pile of lemony pavs on The Great Comic Relief Bake Off, and it inspired me. Diolch, Michael (if I may).
You will note there are a lot of flaked almonds required: that is because they are the topping of the pav and not mere decoration; the crunch they offer is essential.
I make this with a jar of shop-bought lemon curd, but obviously I wouldn’t stop you from making your own. Should you want, proceed as follows: whisk together 2 large eggs, the yolks from 2 further large eggs and 150g caster sugar in a heavy-
based saucepan (off the heat). Add the finely grated zest and juice of 2 unwaxed lemons and 100g soft unsalted butter, cut into 1cm cubes or teaspooned out into similar-sized blobs, and put the pan over a medium heat, stirring constantly with a little flat whisk, until thickened. This will take around 5-7 minutes, but keep taking it off the heat – stirring or whisking all the while – at regular intervals during this time. When thickened, pour and scrape into a cold bowl and let it cool, stirring occasionally.
I am childishly excited about this pavlova: a reminder that good ideas come unbidden, much as happiness does.
Serves 8-12
egg whites 6 (feel free to use egg whites from a carton, such as Two Chicks, if wished)
caster sugar 375g
cornflour 2½ tsp
unwaxed lemons 2
flaked almonds 50g
double cream 300ml
lemon curd 1 x 325g jar (see above)
Preheat the oven to 180C/gas 4 and line a baking tray with baking parchment.
Beat the egg whites until satiny peaks form, then beat in the sugar a spoonful at a time until the meringue is stiff and shiny.
Sprinkle the cornflour over the meringue, then grate in the zest – a fine microplane is best for this – of 1 lemon and add 2 teaspoons of lemon juice.
Gently fold until everything is thoroughly mixed in. Mound onto the lined baking tray in a fat circle approximately 23cm in diameter, smoothing the sides and the top with a knife or spatula.
Place in the oven, then immediately turn the temperature down to 150C/gas 2, and cook for 1 hour.
Remove from the oven and leave to cool, but don’t leave it anywhere cold as this will make it crack too quickly. If you think your kitchen is too cool, then leave the pavlova inside the oven with the door completely open. When you’re ready to eat, turn the pavlova onto a large flat plate or board with the underside uppermost – I do this before I sit down to the meal in question and let it stand till pudding time. This is so the tender marshmallow belly of the pav melds with the soft topping.
Toast the almonds by frying them in a dry pan over a medium to high heat until they have started to colour. Shake the pan at regular intervals and don’t let them burn. This doesn’t take more than a minute or so. When they’re done, remove to a cold plate so that they don’t carry on cooking.
Whip the cream until thick and airy but still with a soft voluptuousness about it, and set it aside for a mo.
Put the lemon curd into a bowl and beat it with a wooden spoon or spatula to loosen it a little. Taste the lemon curd (if it’s shop-bought) and add some lemon zest and a spritz of juice if it’s too sweet.
With a light hand, a glad heart and a spatula, spread the lemon curd on top of the meringue base. Now top with the whipped cream, peaking it rather as if it were a meringue topping. Sprinkle with the zest of the remaining lemon – you can grate this finely or coarsely as you wish – followed by the flaked almonds, and serve triumphantly.
Extracted from Simply Nigella (Chatto & Windus, £26). Click here to buy a copy for £20 from the Guardian Bookshop
