Opening the door for Spring
In amongst these early weeks of this new season, one of newness and promise and warmer days ahead, I am disheartened by wet skies that show no let up, distracting for both appetite and attire.
I’d be lying if I said this dip in temperature and omnipresent rain hasn’t lowered my mood. I’m the first to throw my arms wide & greet the cooler weather as we move into Autumn, I turn my face upwards towards icy blue skies across winter and am entirely accepting that, for the majority of days between the clock-hands winding back as the nights draw in and being nudged forward again to mark British Summer time, these will be muddy, wet, cold and unforgiving. The stalwarts of my kitchen table come into their own across these seasons rooted in the dark and cold, deep copper pans that linger in a low oven for most of a day, piles of creamy mash and roasted roots packing a punch as day slips prematurely into night.
But these are days of Spring. The magnolia boughs that overhang our redbrick wall, always cheering with their brief season of nude pink flowerheads streaked with fuschia are in full bloom, seemingly oblivious to the dismal forecast. Low hanging blossoms are snipped and poked into chipped enamel vases from a market somewhere in the Loire, resplendent on our tired oak kitchen table and with a longer life I’d wager right now than taking their chances outdoors. Whilst they have dared to bud and open, their delicate strength is no match for the heavy downpours that pull ballet pink petals to the ground. One minute the extended Easter weekend delivers skies warm enough to flush our cheeks and bring freckles to the fore, bright skies an inspiring reminder of dishes overlooked in the fog of winter, the next we’re caught in a thunderstorm in the middle of the meadow. Bullets of hail that soak and sting flesh simultaneously are driven sideways by gale force winds, our three sodden hounds rolling their eyes out loud as we huddle beneath a cluster of old fashioned Pines, wetter than an otter’s pocket and a good twenty minutes from the dry indoors.
Finding my stride in the kitchen, as weeks from the outward season overlap those of the new often puts me in a state of flux. With a flurry of new season ingredients to weave across dishes, one cautious eye keeps watch for any shift in temperature, which invariably sets the tone for what we sit down to. Plans for a supper of sunblush tomato and basil tart, with a tangle of peppery leaves and warm potato salad is shelved in a heartbeat as blue skies turn a sooty grey. The pastry instead lines a deep collared baking tin, where girthy leeks are sweated until tender, the aforementioned potatoes steamed and mashed in their skins and leftover blue cheese from any weekend board becomes the third prop, by way of the trio of ingredients leaned on for this easy pie. Pastry clad and with the benefit of it’s sturdy shortcrust lid, we throw whatever greens languish in the veg drawer into the steamer pan and be done with getting our hopes up for spring. Dishes that are nailed onto summer nights sit on the backburner across these early weeks of longer days and inclement skies.
Flavours across warmer months beckon our tastebuds in a different way I’m inclined to think. My own interpretation believes them to be crisper, fresher, brighter, lighter. Bowls of just picked leaves and fragrant herbs that catapult the mind to hilltop restaurants in Positano and cobbled squares in Provence turn up at almost every sitting. Inspired by dry blue skies as we spilled into the bank holiday weekend, I poked about in our petit greenhouse - the one fashioned from old french grapevines, that if I never buy a potted or cut bunch of herbs again in this lifetime might, just might, pay for itself - and in amongst the debris resulting from my careless disregard for Jack Frost, tufts of tarragon were still holding firm to life! Quite how they managed to square up to the cruel temperatures this latest winter served up when all around them fell to their knees - rosemary, thyme and mint, I’m looking at you - I have no clue.
It doesn’t take much to bolster my trepid green fingered enthusiasm. Regular knocks to my confidence in the gardening dept are softened by the simple joy of discovering that, by a sheer stroke of luck, something has clung to life and is flourishing. I manage to refrain from tugging at the modest stems of slender aromatic leaves, instead giving them chance to rally entirely under this new watch of Springtime. Theirs is an imprint to weave amongst a pan of mushrooms, dark gills softened by salty butter and puddles of cream imbued with the scent of aniseed. I tuck them in abundance across a pan of chubby chicken thighs, skin on and uncovered within the confines of a hot oven to colour and crisp the flesh, wedges of lemon poked here & there. My own, somewhat rudimentary version of a beurre blanc, relied on so often to douse a lump of white fish, often strays from it’s purest form and finds tender tarragon infusing the pale sauce with its aromatic charm.
Overlooking for a minute the increasingly vexing weather, I’ll share with you a much leaned on collaboration between pasta, courgettes, lemon, basil and parmesan. Until I manage to find enough spare hours across a week outside of my day job to recipe test, a crucial part of any formal recipe where quantities and precision are expected, I’ll share instead the basis of how I get this dish to the table and the framework of ingredients used. Truth be told, this is the altogether casual format I share my recipes with friends and family, where a page is torn from a diary or jotter and I scribble the bones of a dish they can go on to make their own. I urge you to give it a try.
This supper was inspired by a podcast recording I listened in to with the legendary Ruth Rogers and her River Cafe Table Four series of interviews. It talks of salty air and waves that break gently against a shoreline. It speaks of tables tucked into the cool shadows of ancient buildings and an omnipresent hum of animated conversation at any given hour. Just the very idea of butter that puddles enough to drench a tangle of linguine seduces. Courgettes charred by a hot pan whilst still able to hold their shape blur with the pasta, a glorious shower of lemon zest akin to specks of sunshine. Seasoning is with a heavy hand, Parmesan - shaved not grated - is wanton and basil leaves are torn and lightly tossed into the mix. An entirely satisfying supper, though one I would wager bears few, if any hallmarks to the dish served on the inimitable menu at the River Cafe.
As a side note, and because I’m from the school of cooking that if something is worth a share, then do so; a complementing filled pasta works well in place of straight from the box Linguine. I’ve leaned on the fresh pasta aisles for girasoli stuffed with spinach, ricotta and lemon, and a mighty fine basil and pine nut ravioli, both that sit comfortably with the ingredients here. Lest the dish becomes drier if using these filled pasta parcels, feel free to loosen the butter with a splash of double cream and warm through ahead of adding the drained pasta to the pan of buttery courgettes.
Feeds 2
Linguine - a good yardstick I am told is 100g of dried pasta per person, though I tend to use my eyes by way of a measure to match our differing hunger or One pack of fresh stuffed pasta from the fridges of a decent delicatessen or supermarket
One noticeably large courgette (or two medium ones)
A wedge of parmesan, with sufficient shavings using a fine peeler to match your appetite - mine is one of greed here
A dozen or so leaves of basil
An unwaxed lemon large enough to stand a chance of winning an allotment prize
Approx 60g salty butter
Rinse the courgette and cut into one inch slices along the length of the vegetable, discarding both ends. Quarter each circular disc and sprinkle with a little maldon salt.
Bring a pan of salted water to a gentle boil. Whilst I am reliably advised the addition of a drop of olive oil in the water doesn’t in fact prevent the pasta from sticking together, I ignore their words and add a drop anyway; it’s a habit that has never been detrimental either. If using linguine, or other dried pasta, add this to the water and following the cooking instructions, typically somewhere between 9 - 11 minutes. If you’ve invested in the fresh, stuffed stuff, then usually 4 meagre minutes are all that’s needed to cook the diminutive parcels to tender perfection. (again, follow the instructions on the packet)
Melt the butter in a frying pan large enough to house the chopped courgette in a single layer. Once the butter is bubbling, add the courgette, season with milled black pepper and pop on a lid. Keep atop a moderate heat until the courgette has taken on some colour here and there, but still retains its shape when nudged with the prong of a fork. Set aside. If you’re relying on fresh stuffed pasta alongside, add a drop of double cream to the pan and gently warm this with the butter and a squeeze of lemon juice (once it’s been zested)
If all’s going to plan then your pasta should be al dente by about now. Drain and, against the usual advice of retaining a little of the cooking liquor, don’t. It simply serves to dilute the rich buttery sauce in this instance. Once the pasta is rid of it’s cooking water, add it to the pan with the courgette and toss it in the buttery puddles. Season again, shower with the parmesan gratings, throw in the torn basil leaves and with the aid of a fine blade grater, zest the marvellously large lemon over the pan. I tend to use large salad servers to easily combine the pan ingredients thereafter, ensuring the pasta is sufficiently tangled with the other ingredients and then serve, with an extra flurry of lemon zest and yet more parmesan, but that is just my penchant.
If it all sounds long winded, be assured it isn’t; my inability to be succinct with instructions extends to all areas of my life where I have a tendency to use one hundred words when ten would likely suffice.
Bon appetit :) I would dearly love to hear from any of you who might have been fortunate enough to have enjoyed this plate of delights at the River Café. Equally if you do rustle this dish up in your own kitchen, or have any questions ahead of attempting, drop me your comments in the box below.
This time of year is always so erratic isn't it weather wise? As you say, one minute it's lovely and sunny and you think Spring is here, the next it's freezing and hailing... it's drizzly and a bit miserable here today. Sunny and mild yesterday. Earlier in the week we had a few days of rain and such strong winds. Your lovely dog looks happy though!! 🐾 He/she looks totally gorgeous.