Salads for hot or cold

Last weekend, the lawn in front of our building was full of people sunbathing, and the air smelled smoky from all the barbeques being lit. Today, the brave souls heading out to see the Queen’s River Pageant will  have sweaters, umbrellas and, if they’re clever, flasks of hot tea.

English springs are usually variable, but this one has been more so than most: March temperatures in the high 20s, followed by the announcement of a drought and hosepipe ban and the wettest April in several hundred years. The last few weeks have featured elements of both. The plants are evidently confused too, with the first spring crops arriving weeks ahead of schedule, while others, like the asparagus, delayed and diminished by the endless wet.

Luckily, new-season potatoes and carrots seem to be readily available. They are the main ingredients in these salads, which are just as good hanging around in the sun at picnics as they are indoor alongside roast lamb or chicken or as part of a table of mezze.

Potatoes with cumin, caraway and harissa

Adapted from Moro 3

Serves 4

Active time: 15-20 minutes; Total time: 30 minutes

Special equipment: mortar and pestle

1 kg salad (waxy) potatoes

2 spring onions

1 small bunch coriander and/or parsley

½ garlic clove

½ tsp salt

½ tsp cumin seeds

¾ tsp caraway seeds

1 tbsp lemon juice

2 tbsp harissa

4 tbsp olive oil

Scrub the potatoes and cut into large bite-sized pieces. Bring a pot of salted water to the boil and add the potatoes. Boil until tender, around 12-15 minutes.

While the potatoes boil, prep the other ingredients and dressing. Slice the spring onions and set aside. Pick leaves off coriander or parsley and chop. Peel the garlic and pound in the mortar and pestle. Add salt and spices and continue to turn into a paste. Finish by adding lemon juice, harissa and olive oil and adjusting seasoning to taste.

Drain the potatoes well and place in large serving bowl. Toss well with dressing and set aside until cooled slightly. Add spring onion and herbs before serving either warm or at room temperature.

Grated carrots with Turkish seasonings

Serves 4

Active time: 20 minutes; Total time: 20 minutes

½ kg young, tasty carrots

4-5 spring onions

Small handful ready-to-eat sultanas

Turkish pepper flakes to taste

Dried mint to taste

Salt

Juice of at least 1 lemon

2-3 tbsp olive oil

Coarsely grate the carrots with either a box grater or a food processor and place in a large bowl. Slice the spring onions and add, followed by the sultanas. Mix well to combine.

Season to taste with the pepper flakes, dried mint, salt, lemon and olive oil. The carrots will leach a bit of liquid when they sit, so it doesn’t need to be too wet. The mint is there to add a bit of freshness, the salt and lemon to counteract the sweetness of the carrots and sultanas, and the pepper flakes to bring complexity.

Moroccan challah

The impending arrival of Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) brought on an unexpected desire to bake challah.

While I enjoy the process of preparing dough and bake pizza and/or chapatti about once a week, I am lucky to have a phenomenal bread selection—3 bakeries, ranging from quite good to excellent and covering between them sourdough, baguettes, granary and Central European seeded loafs—just down the street. It seems foolish, therefore, to expend time producing an inferior loaf. But as challah isn’t on the rota of any of these shops, nor is there anything like a critical mass of celebrating Jews in Brixton to generate sufficient demand for a holiday special, I felt like I could indulge my whim without any unfavourable comparisons to professional products.

My mother’s challah recipe is justifiably requested by many who eat at her table. But it wasn’t quite what I had in mind: too large to be easily consumed during its short shelf-life (unlike my father, I’m not a big fan of French toast) and not the most obvious match to the Sephardic meal I had planned. Instead I unloaded the books of Claudia Roden (whose Book of Jewish Food demonstrates little interest in Ashkenazic cuisine but is an unparalleled resource on the food eaten by Sephardim from Libya to India to Turkey) and Joan Nathan (whose books on Israeli food and French-Jewish food capture how North African Jewish food in particular has been transplanted and adapted to different milieu over the last 60 years) and got to work.

Based on the evidence provided, the challah of Tunisian Jews differs from the Ashkenazic standard only in its particular braiding and shape. By contrast, Algerian and Moroccan Jews use quite distinctive flavourings of anise and sesame seeds. The more refined versions of these challot, known as pain petri, are enriched with vegetable oil, egg and more sugar; some were also braided and glazed with egg yolk. The simpler are just lightly sweet, flavoured loaves, slightly flatter and wider than a conventional challah. (I also found one version, intended for the dairy break-fast meal after Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, where the water was substituted with milk. This is very similar to other Moroccan bread recipes not specifically associated with its Jewish population.)

I settled on the simplest version, known as a pan de casa in the dialect spoken by some Moroccan Jews. The dough came together easily and was ready to be shaped into a free-form loaf after about 90 minutes of rising time. After a further half hour, it was sprinkled with more sesame seeds and went into a medium-hot (375C or 190F) oven for 30 minutes.

It may not have been quite the challah of my youth, but my guests, who included an Anglican vicar and an Austrian Catholic, seemed unperturbed by any perceived break from tradition and very pleased with the taste.

Pan de Casa

adapted from Joan Nathan’s The Food of Israel Today

Total time: 2 ¾ hours; Active time: 15 minutes

I used a scant 2/3rds of the measurements given to make one free-from loaf large enough to feed four as a starter with dips, with leftovers for breakfast the next morning. I give the original measurements below, with the suggestion that the three smaller loafs are instead shaped into two slightly larger, higher ones. I did not find that this affected the baking time, but it may well require a few more minutes in other ovens.

The only other adjustment made was in substituting bread flour for all-purpose. I was advised by my mother than this would enable more gluten development and a higher, lighter loaf. (It seems to have worked.)

This dough makes a relatively soft crust. If you’d like something crisper, you might try putting the dough into a hotter oven, then immediately turning it down, or allowing it to cool in the switched-off oven, keeping the door open.

5 cups bread flour

1 tablespoon instant yeast

2 tablespoons sugar

1 tablespoon salt (I tend to use a bit more than called for in most bread recipes)

1 tablespoon anise seeds

1 tablespoon sesame seeds, with more to sprinkle on the shaped, unbaked loaf

1 ¾ cups warm water

Add the flour, yeast, sugar, salt and seeds to a large bowl. Pour in the water gradually, mixing by hand or with a large spoon to make a rough, slightly wet dough. (Add a bit of flour or water if the dough isn’t coming together.)

Turn out the dough onto a well-floured surface and knead until smooth and pliable, up to 10 minutes. Place back in the bowl, cover well and let rise in a slightly warm place until doubled, about 90 minutes.

Preheat the oven to 375C (190F). Grease two cookie or baking sheets. Punch back the dough and divide into two balls. Shape as desired and place on the cookie sheets. Sprinkle with additional sesame seeds. Cover and allow to rise for a further 30 minutes.

Bake the loaves for 30 minutes, or until they sound hollow on the bottom. Allow to cool fully before slicing.

September highlights

Six weeks on, I’m still waxing rhapsodic about my recent South East Asia trip. But there’s been lots of other shopping, cooking and eating going on. A few highlights:

Tomatoes

Some of our plants succumbed to root rot, a likely combination of months of bad weather and too few holes poked in the bottom of the industrial-size tomato tins which served as pots. But it’s still been a highly credible first crop; we should finish with upwards of 800 cherry tomatoes.

There have been salads and pizza toppings aplenty, as well as roast tomato sauces destined for the freezer. A fair number never make it out of the bowl on the table. For slightly deferred gratification, however, it’s been hard to beat slow-roasted tomatoes, sliced in half, tossed with a bit of olive oil, fresh thyme or oregano, bay leaves, salt and whole garlic cloves, and put in a low oven (100 C) for 2 hours, or until they are wrinkly but not entirely desiccated. They then go in the fridge topped up with more oil, perfect for sandwiches, pre-dinner drinks and tossing through pasta.

Pho @ Cafe East

Amongst the best bowls I’ve ever come across (the saté pho at Pho Dong-Huong in Paris’ Belleville remains a sentimental favourite, but it’s not completely echt) is served at a simple cafe situated in a Deptford parking lot, next to a bowling alley, multiplex and bingo parlour. Its unpromising location is perhaps less surprising when you learn that the surrounding area is home to lots of second-generation Vietnamese. I’m partial to the spicy broth; the rice noodle dishes are good here too.

Cafe East

100 Redriff Road

Surrey Quays Leisure Park

Tube: Surrey Quays or Canada Water

Closer to home

Just underneath the Brixton rec centre, a new meat and grocery shop has opened. Its Algerian-born owner is selling loose olives, lots of fresh North African pastries and French-branded groceries, and, most excitingly, making his own merguez. A rotisserie is set up outside, awaiting the arrival of British Gas.

And in the market(s) proper, the eating options just keep getting better. I’ve heard that a Beijing-style dumpling stand is on its way to Granville Arcade, and I’ve met the very excited British-Oaxacan family pushing to get their Market Row taqueria open by the end of the week.

Notwithstanding the rain, the stands at Sunday farmer’s market have been full of beautiful, cheap fruit and vegetables, the last few weeks of the courgettes, corn, tomatoes and berries overlapping with the arrival of apples, pears and pumpkins. And I can only imagine the weather must be good for beets, because the ones for sale right now are large enough to feed a Ukrainian family for at least a few days.

In the kitchen

It’s been simple—but good—eating around here: lots of stove-top pizza, tacos, grilled meats and salads. A notable success has been finding an aubergine dish that didn’t involve buckets of oil and was worth repeating. I’m not sure why it took me so long to look in the obvious place—one of the Moro cookbooks. This recipe began with the predictable steps of grilling and scooping out the flesh, but then called for sautéing the resultant mush with tomatoes, fresh coriander, cumin and cayenne until the water was cooked out, and the puree rich and caramelised. Perfect alongside grilled lamb kebabs, roasted peppers, flatbread and a tzatziki-like dip.

Salade aux carottes a la marocaine (Moroccan carrot salad)

Seasonality is a wonderful thing. But this time of year, it’s often not clear what season it really is. One day it seems almost appropriate to break out the chilled rosé, on the next the only enticing beverage is a steaming cup of hot chocolate.

Adding to the challenge is the paucity of enticing fresh produce. Faced with a choice between wintered-over apples and yet more cabbage, a pizza suddenly seems like a very good idea.

Carrots span any number of seasonal interregna, and with any luck, the ones available now will be young and fresh-dug. On the warmest of days, copy the French and serve a plate of raw, grated carrots, tossed in a sweet-sharp dressing, to awaken the palate.* Or braise carrot batons in stock and a bit of butter, finishing the dish with tarragon or chervil.

I’m partial to a Moroccan-style carrot salad in most seasons. At this time of year, though, it is particularly enticing, filling and substantial, yet bright in colour and flavour. Serve it now with roast lamb or chicken. And when it’s finally time for barbeques and picnics, make it as a side dish for grilled merguez (thin, spicy lamb sausages) or alongside tabbouleh, grilled peppers, feta and the like.

Finally, as I discovered last night, it’s a good make-ahead contribution to dinner parties or pot-lucks: pretty on the plate, able to survive a wait (or a trip on the Paris metro in rush hour) and complementary to a wide variety of foods.

Moroccan Carrots

Adapted from Jenifer Joyce and Victoria Blashford Snell’s Diva Cooking
Serves 4
Active time: 25 minutes; Total time: 3-4 hours+

Try to use the best carrots—fresh, sweet, not woody—for this dish. If you only have ground cumin and coriander, this salad is still worth making. Just ensure that the spices are recently bought and well amalgamated into the dressing.

½ kilo carrots
1 tablespoon cumin seeds
1 tablespoon coriander seeds
½ tablespoon smoked paprika (sweet or hot, as per preference)
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 ½-2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
Parsley or coriander (cilantro)

Peel carrots and slice into coins of (relatively) even thickness. Cook in salted boiling water until tender but not disintegrating. This can take from 7-15 minutes depending on the size and thickness of the sliced carrots. Drain and set aside.

While the carrots are cooking, make the dressing. Peel garlic and crush to a paste in the mortar and pestle. (A pinch of salt helps to add grip.) Add cumin and coriander seeds and continue grinding until seeds are thoroughly broken up.

Transfer spice mixture to a bowl and measure in smoked paprika. Add olive oil gradually, stirring to combine with the solids. Squeeze in lemon juice until the dressing is pleasantly sharp (somewhere between a 2-1 and 3-2 ratio.) Salt and pepper to taste.

Pour the dressing over the carrots, mixing thoroughly. Refrigerate for several hours or overnight to combine flavours.

Allow the salad to return to room temperature. Just before serving, check seasoning and add chopped herbs to taste.

*Carottes râpées are sold in traiteurs and supermarkets and served as a first course in bistros. The pre-prepared versions often sit too long, turning unpleasantly acidic. But made with care, as per these recipes, they're a simple, refreshing salad.

Tagine aux Sardines

Were I to tell my tomato and herb vendors that I hadn’t yet developed a taste for North African pastries, it’s likely that they would leave their stands in the care of underlings, escort me to any one of a number of local shops and present me with a plate of assorted sweetmeats. Yet if I were to mention that I had developed a method for fish tagine* that might yield better results than those their mother or grandmother used, I doubt that I would be invited into their kitchens for a demonstration.

Taste memory is unassailable, so too authenticity. And while it may have suffered from the ubiquity of time-saving ingredients—instant couscous, bouillon cubes and premade spice mixes—traditional North African food is something that, for much of Paris’ population, is as familiar and evocative as Friday night challah is to me. And so just as I’m dismissive of every loaf which isn’t my mother’s, I can understand why my tagine, though avoiding the common problem of overcooked fish and undercooked onions, would not past muster at the market. In the interest of ensuring my supply chain for tomato and basil salads, I’ll therefore be keeping this more or less to myself.

Sardine Tagine

Serves 2; can easily be doubled or tripled
Total time: 45 minutes; Active time: 15-20 minutes

Unlike traditional tagines, in which all of the ingredients are cooked together for the same length of time, this vegetable and herb base is virtually ready by the time the fish is added. This allows the fish to retain structural integrity and the spice rub to be fresh and unmuddied . Sardines are delicious and inexpensive, but their high oil content means they spoil quickly. If you can’t access good ones, try this with mackerel fillets or a full-flavoured white fish, perhaps mullet or bream. Either add to the fish’s cooking time or cut the fillets into large bite-size pieces.

Olive oil
1 medium onion
1 small bulb fennel
2 small tomatoes
Large handful coriander
Large handful parsley
2 cloves garlic
A few slices lemon peel
Harissa (substitute hot paprika or red pepper flakes)
400 grams sardine fillets (from 600-700 grams whole fish)
Large pinch each cumin, coriander and fennel seed
Lemon juice

Over a low heat, warm enough olive oil to just cover the surface of a heavy, lidded pan. Slice the onion and fennel bulb thinly, add, season and fry gently until just soft, 5-8 minutes. While these cook, chop tomato and herbs coarsely. Add all the tomato and half the herbs to the pan. Pour in a few tablespoons of water and cook the mixture until the tomato begins to break down and the other vegetables are fully softened, another 10 minutes or so. Slice or chop garlic and add once the mixture is nearly cooked. Add lemon peel and harissa to taste. Take off heat and set aside.

Rinse the filets and place flesh side up on a large plate. Grind the cumin, coriander and fennel seeds in a mortar and pestle or spice grinder. Using a teaspoon, distribute the ground spices evenly over the fish.

Warm the sauce over a low heat. Sandwich the fish fillets (spice-side in) and distribute over the sauce. If the mixture looks dry, add another splash or two of water. Cover and cook on a gentle heat until the fish is just cooked through (as little as 5 minutes depending on the size/thickness of the fillets). Add lemon juice, adjust seasoning and serve warm or at room temperature with remaining herbs, couscous or flatbread.


* This Arabic word describes both a conical, earthenware pot and any meat, fish or vegetable dish cooked in it.

Kefta Marocains (Moroccan Meatballs)

In a review of her Mediterranean Grains and Greens, Nicolas Lemann describes legendary cookbook author Paula Wolfert “as having mastered a technique that a few other food writers practice but which none equals: the fierce anthropological/reportorial quest for folkish recipes that are hiding in out-of-the-way, premodern places. In her cookbooks Wolfert is always traipsing up to some unelectrified mountain encampment and finding an old woman dressed all in black who has spent a lifetime perfecting one master dish whose ingredients she communicates to Wolfert using sign language.”

Years ago, when I was in the depths of my history doctorate and flirting with the idea of starting a blog, I expected that any food writing I might someday do would be at least a pale imitation of Wolfert’s trademark style, adapted to personal predilection and budget by its reliance on books and the internet rather than my physical presence in someone else’s kitchen. After all, my favourite cookbook to read—which I bought the day my first fellowship check arrived and which, in another lifetime, I’d like to believe I could have written—was Claudia Roden’s Book of Jewish Food, a meticulously researched yet compulsively engaging Jewish culinary history, complete with recipes.

But while I’ve enjoyed the scattershot research requirements posed by a generalist food blog, I’ve struggled to find a style which can integrate etymology, history and the odd bit of trivia with the lightness of touch which in some sense best suits the genre. Yet if I have not yet succeeded in this regard, at the very least I can pay some homage to Paula Wolfert, whose books are peerless, and who also, if the recipe below is any indication, makes a damn fine meatball.

And if someone should hear that Claudia Roden is looking for a (unilingual) research assistant for the re-release of her tome, please do pass on my details.

Kefta Marocains

I’m not sure I’ve ever had an ephemeral meatball, made practically weightless with the addition of copious quantities of cheese, breadcrumbs or milk. But these are certainty not of that school. Whether you choose to offset a loss in authenticity with a slightly lighter texture I leave up to you (options below). Wolfert’s original recipe also called for poaching eggs on the surface of the tomato sauce just before serving. While I imagine this would be delicious, I’ve always found that the meatballs, accompanied by nothing more than flatbread or rice and some equally rustic red wine, make for a very hearty meal.

Serves 4
Total time: 1 hour 15 minutes; Active time: 30 minutes

Meatballs
1 pound ground lamb, not extra-lean (you could also use beef)
1 onion, finely diced
2 tbsp finely chopped parsley
2 tbsp finely chopped coriander (cilantro)
1 tsp ground cumin
½ tsp ground coriander
½ cup-1 cup fine bread crumbs (optional)
Olive oil

Sauce
2 medium onions, chopped
2 cans tinned tomatoes (either pre-chopped or broken up as they go into the pan)
1 tsp ground cumin
½ tsp ground cinnamon
1 medium bunch parsley, chopped
2 garlic cloves, chopped
Harissa to taste

Combine the ground meat, onion, herbs, spices and breadcrumbs (if using) in a bowl, mixing well. Add a good pinch of salt and several grinds of black pepper. Heat a very thin film of olive oil on a medium heat in a heavy, wide-bottomed skillet or casserole. Form the meat into 1-inch balls and fry until well-browned on all sides. Depending on the size of your pan, you may need to do this in batches to avoid overcrowding. Be sure to leave at least a few minutes each time before turning, to allow a crust to form, and try not to over-handle. When finished, remove to a plate.

If you have time while the meatballs are frying, chop the onions, garlic and parsley for the sauce. Add them into the pan, along with a bit more oil if the meat was particularly lean. Pour in the tinned tomato, measure in the spices and add a small spoonful of harissa, along with salt and pepper. Cover the pan and turn down the heat to a light simmer. Cook the sauce until it is well thickened, between 20 and 30 minutes.

Add the meatballs back to the sauce and simmer for 10-15 minutes, checking after the shorter amount of time whether the meat is cooked through. Check the seasoning.

The meatballs can be served immediately, though their flavor becomes more complex if they sit for a few hours or overnight.

Harira

At the moment in France, attention seems to be focused on the Sarkozy divorce and the probability of further transport strikes. But I assume that in due course the perennial triptych of identity, immigration and integration will once again reclaim its familiar place in debate and discourse.As a newcomer here, and one largely unable to access the local media, this is a discussion that I can only follow in the most general terms. But insofar as I understand it, it is one not wholly dissimilar to that which has also been taking place over the last number of years across the Channel.

I thought about these questions last Sunday when I visited my local market. It was loud as usual, the odd bit of Arabic intermingling with North African-accented French from the outdoor vegetable vendors. Late middle-aged matrons, trailed by their shopping trolleys, proceeded down the centre aisle at a business-like pace. Older men in fez-like caps stood on the corners, smoking and chatting. The bobos­ (bourgeouis bohemians) who had already finished their shopping were gathering outside the Baron Rouge for a glass of wine.

It’s tempting to draw certain conclusions from this superficially harmonious intermingling, to use the example of the Algerian pastry shop next door to the cheesemonger as evidence that a multicultural France is alive and well, at least in my little corner of Paris. And even if the French, far more secure in their indigenous culinary traditions than their English counterparts, have been slower to fully embrace the food of their immigrant—and former colonial—populations, it nonetheless seemed right—at least to me—that I had a lunch that day of quiche, followed by a dinner of harira, the hearty Moroccan soup. Idealistic? Oversimplistic? No doubt. But perhaps for the French, the road to real integration may start with the stomach.

Traditionally eaten to break the daily fast during Ramadan, harira hovers between soup and stew. The inclusion of lamb or chicken, while not required in what is already a thick and protein-rich potage, would act as a sign of status. Although the basic formula remains the same, harira recipes vary in the type of legumes used (dried chickpeas would be typical), the quantity of vegetables and the finishing starch—any short pasta, rice, or even bulgur. Flat bread may be the most obvious accompaniment, but I chose to go the boulangerie for a baguette.

The method and seasoning for this version are adapted from Moro: The Cookbook and Casa Moro. I did, however, opt to brown the meat first in order to avoid any greasiness. If you choose to make the recipe without the meat, either use well-flavoured stock and/or begin by sautéing the vegetables in some olive oil or butter.

Overall time: 2 hours
Active time: 30-40 minutes
Special equipment: a large pot
Serves 4

350-400 grams neck of lamb, cut in pieces, or scrags of another cheap stewing cut
2 litres cold water
3 branches celery
2 carrots
1 large onion
3 cloves garlic
a good pinch of saffron
2 small cinnamon sticks
1/2 heaping teaspoon turmeric
1 scant teaspoon ginger
½ heaping teaspoon allspice
1 small bunch each coriander and parsley
half a dozen grates of nutmeg
1 cup small green lentils
1 can chickpeas, drained
½ can whole or crushed tomatoes, drained
cornstarch or flour to thicken (optional)
2 handfuls vermicelli or cappellini
To serve: remaining herbs, lemon and, if some heat is desired, harissa

Brown the lamb well over a medium-high heat. When this is done, drain off any excess fat and cover the meat with the cold water. Turn the heat well down. While the pot returns to the boil and the stock develops—this will take at least 20 minutes—chop the vegetables and herbs. Allow the liquid to boil for a few minutes, skimming any scum, then add all the vegetables, 2/3^rds of the herbs and the spices. Season well with salt and pepper and turn the heat back down to a simmer. Allow this mixture to cook for 30 minutes or so, then add the legumes and tomato. (If you use whole canned tomatoes, crush them in your hands while adding to the pot.) Cook for a further half-hour. During this time, you can thicken the mixture either with a few teaspoons of cornstarch or the same quantity of flour made into a paste with paste. If using flour, stir very thoroughly to avoid lumps. Just before you want to eat, bring the mixture back to a boil and add the noodles. Once the noodles are cooked through, spoon into bowls. Herbs, lemon and harissa can all be added at the table.

Meat on the side (or bastardised tabbouleh)

In the months when I was beginning, ever so hesitantly, to eat meat again, I was sure that vegetables and starches would continue to be the emotional core of my cooking. The evidence at the time was convincing. I had no idea of how to cook meat or fish and wasn't particularly keen to learn. And while I had begun to look longingly at the meat section of restaurant menus, I remained more excited about the side dishes that accompanied stews or roasts than the main events themselves. After all, what could possibly be as good as rustic bread, pasta, ripe summer tomatoes or roasted autumn vegetables?

As it turns out, lots. In the past several years, I've cooked tagines and casseroles aplenty, roasted chickens and lamb shoulders and seared a good number of steaks and burgers. There was even a partially successful effort at offal. I have a butcher, where they know me and let me pay the next day when I'm short on change. As for the vegetables, while they too are bought with care, their position has suffered. Bags of salad get chosen in lieu of stewing or sauteing, the odd, inspired purchase (cauliflower most recently) often languishes in the lower reaches of the fridge. The problem is magnified in the winter, when the vegetables that can be eaten with little preparation--tomatoes, cucumbers, green beans, asparagus--are either unavailable or unappealing. I've done better with vegetable-heavy soups, but they act as a precursor to the meaty main course, rather than a challenger on the same plate.

The situation has been likewise with starches. I use potatoes rarely enough that they need to be purchased specially. I have one bag of rice. Save the odd couscous, it's usually bread. Good bread, I might add, but this carbo-lover craves a bit more variety.

A reprieve came unexpectedly on Monday night, when we were eating the leftovers of a lamb, apricot and prune tagine. (This was a variation on Amanda Hesser's Kadjemoula in Cooking for Mr. Latte). Earlier in the day, I had seen a supermarket magazine recipe for a winterized tabbouleh, featuring walnuts, pomegranate and herbs. There was, I recalled, another version (utilising cauliflower and a pomegranate molasses dressing) in one of the Moro cookbooks. Inspired to use up that bloody cauliflower, I set to work. Discovering that the bulgur I had purchased was too coarse to hydrate properly in the time available, I substituted couscous. No matter. Leftover toasted walnuts were crumbled, a pomegranate messily disassembled, mint and walnut chopped. I ended up dispensing with the cauliflower entirely, though I imagine that the visual trick of the large and small nubbly bits would have been quite clever.

Doused with a copious quantity of lemon juice and olive oil, this bastardised tabbouleh was zingy and satisfying, not only a worthy complement to the better-the-next-day tagine but a contender for best on plate.

Lest I get too smug, however, the cauliflower's final resting place turned out to be the garbage can.

Bastardised tabbouleh
(adapted from Waitrose's free in-house magazine)

I hesitate to even call this a recipe. Vague on quantities, open to variation, this is more like a blueprint.

Couscous or fine bulgur, enough for two
1 smallish pomegranate
a good handful parsley (or coriander/cilantro) and mint, more if you'd like an herb-dominant version
a slightly smaller handful of walnuts (almonds or pine nuts would work too)
at least one lemon's worth of juice
olive oil

Total time: less than 30 minutes Active time: enough left over to have a quick pre-dinner drink

Hydrate the grains according to package instructions. If using hot water, allow to cool slightly. In the meantime, toast the walnuts in a dry pan or a 350 degree oven. Keep an eye on them; they shouldn't take more than ten minutes. While the nuts cool, chop the herbs coarsely and tackle the pomegranate. (I've found that placing a bowl in the sink limits the amount of bright pink juice decorating the kitchen.) Chop or break the nuts into smallish pieces. Break up any lumps in the grain then add the nuts, herbs and pomegranate. Add enough lemon juice to pull the flavours together, and use the oil for a bit more lubrication.

Eat with meat, or not.