Onion

Beef and tomatoes have enjoyed a long history together. Whether it’s tomato ketchup on your burger or tomato paste in your beef casserole, the two have an established friendship. Winter tomatoes—why do we buy them?—can add a surprising depth to gravy if they are roasted alongside the Sunday beef. I chuck them in with the onions and bay leaves that provide the background music for the gravy. The tomatoes sharpen up in the searing heat, their skin catches and burns, and they add a certain piquancy to the sweet onion and caked-on roasting juices. The winter tomato has at last found a point. You may well want some roast potatoes to go with this. I usually boil them first for ten minutes, then drain and add to the roasting tin.

There are certain unfashionable meals I want to slap a preservation order on lest they disappear altogether. Faggots and gravy, traditional Midlands meatballs fashioned from pork innards and belly and wrapped in caul fat, is one such recipe (lardy cake—the name speaks for itself—is another). Pease pudding would be many people’s chosen accompaniment; others probably a pile of minted fresh peas. To my mind, the faggot needs a cooling sidekick to soften the blow of the liver and onions. A mash of rutabaga is good, but also this rather more subtle approach.

Sweet squashes marry well with the earthy flavor of beans and lentils. This is apparent in the dhal and pumpkin soup in The Kitchen Diaries and here in a more complex main dish that offers waves of chile heat with mild citrus and the dusty “old as time itself” taste of ground turmeric. Dried (which is the only way most of us know them) chickpeas are the stars of the world’s bean dishes, used to fill bellies everywhere from India to Egypt. Their character—knobbly, chewy, and virtually indestructible in the pot—makes them invaluable in slow-cooked dishes where you need to retain some texture. Fresh chickpeas are bright emerald green and have an invigorating citrus note to them that is completely missing in the dried version. I saw some for the first time this year. I have long wanted to put lemongrass with chickpeas, partly to lift their spirits but also to return some of their lemony freshness to them (I use more lemon juice in my hummus than most as well). This recipe, which just happens to be suitable for vegans, does just that. Like many of those slow, bean-based dishes, it often tastes better the next day, when all the ingredients have had a chance to get acquainted.

Rice has for centuries been the obvious contender for stuffing a pepper—and indeed eggplant or a beefsteak tomato—flavored with caramelized onions, golden raisins, and musky raisins, and seasoned with capers, anchovies, cinnamon, or cumin. Small grains—cracked wheat, brown rice, the underused quinoa—are eminently suitable fillings, as is any type of small bean, lentil, or the plump, pearl-shaped couscous known as mograbiah. Vegetable stuffings can set the pepper alight. Piercing, cherrysized tomatoes, such as Sungold or Gardener’s Delight, or chunks of sweet steamed pumpkin offer more than just jewel colors to lift the spirits. They have a brightness of flavor very different from the humble, homely grains. They offer a change of step. A few hand-torn chunks of mozzarella and some olive oil will produce a seductive filling. Ground beef, the knee-jerk filling, somehow makes my heart sink. Mograbiah, sometimes known as pearl couscous, takes the idea on a bit, having the comforting, frugal qualities of rice but possessing an extraordinary texture, poised between pasta and couscous. Made of wheat and similar to Sardinian fregola, it is available at Middle Eastern markets.

At the top of the garden, past the sunny stone terrace, the little beds of vegetables and the unruly shrubs, is a thicket, less than ten feet (three meters) deep but just enough to give the whole garden an unkempt, relaxed feel. Here lie the compost bins with their lids of rotting carpet, green plastic bags of decaying leaf mold, and four small trees of damson, hazel, mirabelle, and a King James mulberry—the latter being a “guardian” tree planted in the northernmost corner to protect the garden from the north wind. In between grow drifts of snowdrops, wild garlic sent by a friend from Cornwall, and fraises de bois, with which this garden is littered, and whose flowers twinkle like tiny stars in spring. The work in this part of the garden is mostly done in winter, if only because the leaflessness of the trees makes it possible to see what you are doing. It is always dark and cold here, and damp, too. I come in from turning the compost or cutting hazel twigs with my feet like ice, my fingers numb. Invariably it’s a Saturday, when I have been early to The Ginger Pig for my sausages. I leave them to bake with parsnips and stock. A slow bowl of food, which often sits patiently until I come in, too chilled to the bone to do anything but eat.

These are the onions to have alongside a few slices of rare roast beef. The marriage of flavors is superb. If they are to be truly tender and silky soft, it is crucial to take them as far as you dare in the pre-cooking stage, before you scoop out the center and stuff them. They need to be boiled for a good half an hour, depending, of course, on their size. Any layers that are not supple and easy to squash between your finger and thumb should be discarded. There is no reason why these onions with their mushroomy, creamy filling couldn’t be served as a main dish. You would need two each, I think, and maybe some noodles, wide ones such as pappardelle, on the side, tossed in a little melted butter and black pepper.

I have eaten this for supper with a spot of harissa sauce stirred in (let down with a little water) but that is not really the idea. It is meant as an accompaniment to grilled lamb or fish, or perhaps some spicy meatballs. Instantly comforting, and as soothing as a pashmina.

I relish the frugality and bonhomie of a bowl of onion soup. This is slightly richer and thicker than the one in The Kitchen Diaries, possibly for colder weather. I don’t often use flour to thicken a soup but in this case it produces a particularly velvety texture.

This is a lovely dish, old-fashioned and what I call “great-grandmotherly.” I sometimes find white sauces a bit heavy, so I have lightened this one by using half vegetable stock to milk. The sauce is worth seasoning generously, with salt, pepper, grainy mustard, bay leaves, and a (mild) grating of nutmeg. I leave the bay in even when the sauce is finished and poured over the onions. It adds much in the way of subtle flavor. Should you not fancy grilled ham, then I would still urge you to make the onions—they would be good even on their own, perhaps with a mound of buttery mashed potato or, better still, golden rutabaga with lots of butter and pepper.

Onions are used in most stuffings, both lightening the rice, couscous, or breadcrumbs and introducing sweetness. As they melt down, they keep the filling moist. Ask the butcher to prepare your shoulder of lamb for stuffing. When the bone is removed, it provides a neat pocket that will hold just the right amount.

Onions make an important contribution to the filling of pies, providing a sweet balance for the savoriness of the meat and a necessary change of texture, too. A meat pie with no onions would be hard going. I rarely make a meat pie. It is one of those recipes I reserve for a cold autumn day, when it’s too wet to go out.

Of all the hot snacks I put together, it is this unctuous topping of onions, thick toast, and highly seasoned melted cheese that pleases most. The onions need to cook, with the occasional stir as you pass, for a good fifteen minutes or so. They are ready only when they are truly soft and golden—there is no shortcut. The leftover cold beer solves the problem of what to drink with your meal.

The animal’s tail has a gentle life, the occasional swish in a buttercup-strewn meadow, and I like to think that is reflected in how we choose to cook it. Oxtail is a meal of almost soporific qualities. It will not be hurried toward tenderness any more than the animal will be hurried along a country lane. After a long, slow baking with a lot of finely sliced onions and a little aromatic liquid, the velvety fibers will fall away from the bone in brown and pink flakes. Some spinach, very lightly cooked and served without butter, will flatter the meat and melt into the creamy sauce.

Onions were never a big deal at home when I was a kid. One or two turned up in the occasional stew, floating in the languid stock along with thickly sliced carrots, parsnips, and a bay leaf, but they were not stalwarts of our kitchen. In my teenage years I was finally introduced to the liver and onions so hated by most of my school friends, the onions cooked lovingly in our battered aluminium frying pan, blackened from years of Sunday fry-ups, until they took on the color of varnish and their flesh turned from acrid to a deep, honeyed sweetness. I took to this marriage of the intensely savory meat and sugary-sweet onions straightaway, though more for the glistening alliums than the panfried organ. My first attempts at cooking onions to match those luscious little nuggets I had been enjoying at home failed for lack of a heavy-bottomed pan and a little patience. The gorgeous, caramel-edged stickiness of a fried onion needs time in which to develop. A quick ten minutes in the thin frying pan that accompanied my crummy bedsit was never going to work. To make perfect fried onions, you need a shallow, heavy-bottomed pan. The temperature should be low to medium and the onions should be allowed to soften slowly. Winter onions, which contain less water, will produce a sweeter and deeper gold result. Summer onions, full of water, will produce rather a lot of liquid, which will have to be evaporated away by turning up the heat. The essence of frying onions is to let them soften in an unhurried manner with only the occasional stir to stop them sticking. You want their sugars to caramelize on the bottom of the pan; it is what gives fried onions their characteristic gloss and sweetness.

If a cauliflower is happiest under a comfort blanket of cream and cheese, we can run with the idea, dropping the cheese and introducing some of the milder, more fragrant spices such as coriander and cardamom into the cream instead. With its toasted cashews and crisp finish of spiced fried onions, this is a mild dish, so I see no reason to soften the blow with steamed rice, preferring instead to eat it with a crunchy salad of Belgian endive and watercress (or some such crisp, hot leaf ), using it to wipe the sauce from my plate.

As cuts of meat go, the turkey breast steak is a relatively new one and will please those who like their protein neat, mild, and fat free. This addition to the meat counter has its advantages for a quick supper. It can be sizzled in butter with a few aromatics (bay, black pepper, thyme sprigs, and a curl of orange rind tend to cheer it up). Turkey still reeks of Christmas, but the white meat less so than the legs, which always smell like a roasting Christmas lunch. Red cabbage makes a satisfactory accompaniment. Go further, with a few prunes and a bottle of Marsala, and you have something approaching a joyful Sunday lunch, though without a bone to pick.

After struan, wild rice and onion bread was the most popular bread at Brother Juniper’s Bakery, and a version of this recipe appears in my first book, Brother Juniper’s Bread Book. The recipe calls for wild rice, but it can also be made with brown rice or a combination of wild and brown rice, or any other cooked grain. At Brother Juniper’s, during the holiday season we even added parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme, garlic powder, and black pepper, which made for a wonderful bread for stuffing turkey. Note that it only takes about 1/4 cup of uncooked wild rice to make 1 cup (6 oz, by weight) of cooked wild rice; still, if you’re going to cook wild rice especially for this recipe, you might as well make a bigger batch and freeze 1-cup packets for future use—or have it with dinner! This new version uses the overnight fermentation method. The yeast is added directly to the bowl, not rehydrated with the warm water and buttermilk. You can use either dried or fresh onions, and you can form the loaves into any size or shape. Dried onions are about one-tenth the weight of fresh onions and will absorb water from the dough, while fresh onions will leach moisture back into the dough. If you use dried onions, don’t rehydrate them before adding them to the dough, but do be aware that you may have to add an extra 2 to 4 tablespoons (1 to 2 oz) of water while mixing.

This is the basic procedure for making any fruit chutney. Non-citrus fruits such as peaches, plums, apricots, and mangoes will need to be peeled. Use any citrus fruit combination for this recipe, although you may need to adjust the sweetness for more tart varieties like grapefruit. I chose kumquats and Meyer lemons because I like their contrasting shapes and colors, and both are naturally quite sweet.