Good Cook (23 page)

I adore split peas: their mealy texture, easy absorption of other flavors and, frugally, how nicely inexpensive they are. They also, of course, make fabulous soup. So, with this in mind, I have hopefully made provision for there to be enough leftover broth, peas and ham to make this gloriously warming brew (see the following recipe).

There are two sets of vegetables employed here. I used to think that the vegetables included while the ham hocks are cooking would be just fine to eat when the dish was ready. However, I soon began to tire of their tired flavor, the vegetables having given their all to the broth, emerging washed out, so soft and limp. The result of this disappointment is that a secondary set of carrots and leeks are separately cooked now, so retaining a touch of freshness and a better texture.

One final option: a split pig’s trotter added to the initial, long cooking of the ham hocks. This makes for a richer broth, while also adding gelatine to the liquid. If you were not to make the soup, then any leftover ham could be chopped up, mixed with some of the (reduced) broth, chopped parsley added and then packed into pots. Once cold and jellied, this can be sliced and eaten with hot buttered toast and gherkins. And very nice it is, too.

Put the ham hocks into a roomy pot. Cover with cold water, bring up to the boil and then discard the water. Refill the pot with fresh water, to generously cover the hocks, and add the vegetables, bay leaves and peppercorns. Pour in the cider, bring to the boil, remove any scum that forms on the surface and simmer quietly for 1½ hours. Carefully lift out the hocks, put into a clean pot and strain the cooking liquor over them. Discard the vegetable debris. Keep the hocks warm, in their broth.

To cook the split peas, drain them and put in a large pan. Generously cover with some of the ham broth to a depth of about 2 finger joints. Don’t add any salt, bring up to a simmer, remove any scum with paper towels, and cook until tender—about 35–40 minutes (you may need to add a touch more broth, or water, if the peas are not cooked before the broth has been absorbed). Meanwhile, put the carrots and leeks into another pan and also pour some of the ham broth over them, only just to cover, together with the butter. Put on a lid and cook until tender; about 20 minutes. Reheat the ham hocks in their remaining broth, then remove skin and fat if you wish (I like to keep some of these intact) and pull the meat off the bone.

To finish and serve the assembly, take 4 healthy servings of the split peas (keep some back for soup; see
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), mix with the buttery carrots and leeks, season well and stir in the parsley. Take a large, heated deep serving dish, pile the peas and vegetables in the center and arrange the pieces of ham hock around them, adding a little extra broth to moisten the dish, if necessary. A generous pot of freshly mixed English mustard is essential on the table too, for me.

Melt the butter in a pan and stew the onion until soft and lightly colored. Pour in the broth and add the peas. Bring up to a simmer and add the pepper; add salt only if necessary. Blend the soup, or, for a nicer, mealier texture, put it through a vegetable mill. Return to a clean pan, stir in the cream and gently reheat with the cooked ham and parsley.

I had always wanted to have a go at making a Chinese-style sweetcorn soup, but with freshly hulled corn from the cob and freshly picked crab meat, using the shells to make a stock in a European manner and then thickening the soup with the creamy roe (brown) meat. Well, it took some time to get it just right … and here it is, just for you.

I further wanted to get right away from a cornflour-thickened soup that is the usual way with traditional Chinese soups such as these. I am not averse to this way of things; a wonderful hot and sour soup, for example, I would not wish for in any other way than that of viscous wobble, dark brown and steaming, with attendant vegetables and bean curd all caught up in bowl of sweat-inducing, vinegar-hot devil’s brew. No, it was more of a pale broth that I was looking for. A lighter soup, maybe. Delicate? Yes, delicate is about right.

If you are familiar with preparing a freshly cooked crab, then proceed to so do. If not, ask a fishmonger to open up the central shell, so revealing the interior roe meat, and also ask him to crack the large claws; equally important, don’t let him chuck away the shells! From then on, it is a relatively easy task to extract both the white and brown crab meat from its shell. Put both meats into separate dishes and keep cool in the fridge.

First things first, messy-wise: attempt to crack/chop the empty crab shells/bits into smallish pieces and put to one side.

Warm the rice wine in a small pan and put in the mushrooms. Allow to soak for at least 20 minutes, or until soft. Lift them out, thinly slice and put to one side, reserving the wine. Now, warm the sesame oil in a large pot and add the bacon and garlic. Quietly fry until pale golden, then tip in the crushed/chopped crab shells. Stir around for a bit, then allow to color and infuse their flavor into the bacon fat, for about 10 minutes. Pour in the mushroom-infused rice wine and the chicken stock and pop in the star anise. Bring up to a simmer and cook together for about 1 hour; along the way, occasionally remove any fat that settles on the surface with several sheets of paper towels. Strain the mixture through a colander suspended over a clean pan, and leave to drain for at least 10 minutes. Discard all debris from the colander.

Remove the kernels from the corn cobs with a sharp knife, just cover with water (unsalted) and cook until tender—about 10 minutes. Leave in the cooking water and put to one side.

Now, place the brown meat in a small pan and add a ladle or two of the broth. Using a wand blender (or a small blender), process the mixture until smooth and return to the broth. Stir together and then strain the entire mixture through a sieve; this makes sure that no trace of shell is apparent. Add the cooked corn (including its cooking water) and reserved sliced mushrooms to the broth, together with the ginger and spring onions. Bring up to a simmer, stir in the white crab meat just to heat through, then ladle into hot soup plates and sprinkle over the coriander, if using. Finally, shake a little extra sesame oil over the surface, as droplets.

I think that I first assembled this pleasing, interestingly textured dish about seventeen years ago—and had completely forgotten about it, until now. I have always enjoyed lentils, particularly dressed as a warm salad. Anchovies—and as a paste with gusto, spread upon their crunchy croûtes—marry so well with these little pulses and, of course, are famously at home with eggs, too.

And these eggs really should be soft-boiled, so that their runny yolks further help to dress the salad (think salade niçoise, and what runny egg yolk does to that delicious assembly). I know that eggs cooked like this can be tricky, but the method for cooking them here is, I think, pretty well foolproof.

To cook the lentils, heat the olive oil in a stainless steel pan and fry the bacon until crisp and golden. Add the lentils and stir well so that they are coated with fat. Pour in the water and add the ½ stock cube. Add the cloved onion and bay leaf, then gently simmer the lentils, uncovered, for 30–35 minutes, or so, until they are just cooked; be careful that they don’t turn mushy, which they can suddenly do, so keep having occasional tastes. Remove the onion and bay leaf and allow the lentils to cool completely. Only now season with salt to taste.

To make the anchovy paste, mash together all the ingredients until smooth; use a small blender, if you wish. Put into the fridge to firm up.

To make the dressing, whisk the mustard, vinegar, salt, pepper and garlic together until well blended. Add the oils in a thin stream while still whisking, to homogenize the dressing; I sometimes add a little warm water to correct the consistency.

Put the eggs into a small pan and cover with cold water. Bring up to a full boil, switch off the heat, cover and leave for exactly 4 minutes. Rinse the eggs under cold water for a few minutes, drain and then carefully peel them; tricky, sometimes, when soft-boiled, and you may wish to go for an extra half minute, if nervous.

Warm the lentils through (drain off any excess cooking liquid if too wet), stir in the dressing, check seasoning and spoon on to 4 warmed plates. Spread the anchovy paste on to the croûtes and put 3 on each plate. Place an egg in the center of the lentils, then take a sharp knife and cut it lengthways, so that the runny yolk pours out. Trickle over each serving a little extra olive oil, add a good grinding of pepper and sprinkle with the chopped parsley.