Today is, of course, Remembrance Day, Poppy Day, when we remember those who have died in the line of duty. I have breakfast at the Wolseley in London’s Piccadilly, where, on the dot of eleven, a full minute’s silence is observed by staff and customers. Hush falls on the enormous, high-ceilinged room; the staff stands still, not so much as a teaspoon tinkles in a saucer. I am moved almost to tears.
I have cooked a ham around this time of year for as long as I can remember. A practice run for the ham I will need over Christmas, that eternally useful cut-and-come-again joint for lunch, supper, sandwiches.
I usually take the route of simmering the rolled and tied joint in water or apple juice with peppercorns, cloves, celery, carrots and onions, then draining and baking it. The poaching keeps it moist, and the baking ensures a sticky crust, the surface of the ham usually having been spread with marmalade, apricot jam or honey.
This year I take the same route, but decide on quince paste – membrillo – as the sweet spread for the crust. The quince jelly is a good idea; it stays put in the oven, which is more than you can say for maple syrup or apricot jam, which you painstakingly paint over the meat only to find it slides off into the tin. The fruity-tartness is welcome with the sweet pink ham.
Ham with quince paste, cauliflower and dill
Serves 6 hot (with enough for a further 6 cold)
gammon, rolled and tied – 2.5kg
quince paste – 250g
dry Marsala or medium dry sherry – 4 tablespoons
For the stock:
an onion
cloves – 5
a cinnamon stick
black peppercorns – 10
bay leaves – 3
For the cauliflower:
cauliflower – 1.3kg
dill – 25g
Put the gammon into your largest saucepan or stockpot. Peel and halve the onion, then add it to the water along with the cloves, cinnamon stick, peppercorns and bay leaves. Bring to the boil, then turn down the heat and remove any froth from the surface of the liquid with a draining spoon. Partially cover with a lid and leave to simmer, gently, for an hour and a half. After an hour’s cooking, turn the meat over.
When the ham is ready, remove it from the cooking liquor and place it in a roasting tin, reserving the stock. Heat the oven to 200°C/Gas 6. Mix the quince paste and the Marsala or sherry in a small saucepan, letting it bubble briefly until it melts. Spread the paste over the ham. Bake for twenty-five to thirty minutes, or until the glaze has set. Remove and loosely cover with foil to keep warm.
While the ham bakes, break the cauliflower into florets and place in a saucepan. Ladle enough of the hot ham stock into the cauliflower pan to cover the florets, then bring to the boil – no need to add salt. Let the florets simmer until tender, about twenty to twenty-five minutes.
Remove half the cauliflower with a draining spoon and place in a warm, shallow dish. Put the remaining cauliflower and 200ml of the cooking stock into a blender with the dill (do not overfill – you may need to do this in two lots). Pour the cauliflower and dill purée over the cauliflower florets.
Serve the ham, carving it thinly, with the cauliflower. You will have plenty of ham left for tomorrow. Serve it with the apricot and tomato chutney recipe (see December 12, here).
Orange poppy seed cake
It is also useful to have a cake that will keep in fine condition for several days. This soft, moist, citrus-scented loaf cake has the crunch of poppy seeds running through it.
Serves 8
soft butter – 225g
golden caster sugar – 225g
grated zest of an orange
grated zest of a lemon
plain flour – 110g
baking powder – generous ½ teaspoon
ground almonds – 115g
eggs – 4
poppy seeds – 20g
For the topping and syrup:
candied orange and citron peel
juice of the orange and lemon above
caster sugar – 75g
poppy seeds and golden sugar – 1 tablespoon of each
You will need a deep-sided, rectangular cake tin, 22cm × 12cm × 7cm deep, lined on the base and sides with baking parchment.
Set the oven at 180°C/Gas 4. Cut eight thin slices of the orange and citron peel, no thicker than 5mm, and the right size to sit on top of the cake, and set them aside. Put the butter into the bowl of a food mixer, add the caster sugar, and cream for a good five minutes until soft and fluffy. Add the orange and lemon zest. Sift together the flour and baking powder, then stir in the ground almonds.
Break the eggs into a small bowl and beat lightly with a fork to combine. With the beater at a moderate speed, add the eggs, a little at a time, to the butter and sugar. If the mixture appears to curdle slightly, add a spoonful of the flour and almond mixture. Continue adding the flour until thoroughly creamed. Mix in the poppy seeds.
Transfer the mixture to the lined cake tin, gently smoothing the surface flat. Place the slices of citrus peel on top of the cake. Bake for forty-five to fifty minutes, until a skewer, inserted into the cake, comes out without any raw cake mixture attached. Leave the cake to cool for ten minutes.
Make the syrup: put the orange and lemon juice into a saucepan and add the sugar. Bring to the boil, stirring until the sugar has dissolved. Still in its tin, pierce the cake in about twenty places with a metal skewer or a fine knitting needle. Spoon the citrus syrup over the surface, letting it trickle through the holes. Scatter the surface with poppy seeds and, if you wish, golden sugar crystals.
12 NOVEMBER
A pot roast partridge
We never had Champagne. At least not the real stuff. All that mattered was that a cork went pop and there were bubbles in our glasses. No one minded that what we drank was tummy-twistingly acidic and had bubbles the size of Maltesers. The point was noise and fizz. Asti Spumante had it with brass knobs on.
For a family on the quieter side – Mum, softly spoken as ever, with her calming there-there tone; Auntie Fanny, deaf as a post, who just sat and hummed to herself; and me, the little boy too scared to speak lest he upset his father – we nevertheless managed to make quite a bit of noise at the Christmas table. Dad was unusually loud, Mum got the giggles, brothers and aunties and grandmas were animated and chatted excitedly. Even the docile, flatulent golden retriever would run in circles around everyone’s legs. It never occurred to me that the table came to life because everyone was slightly pissed. We appeared, for once a year at least, like any other vast, happy family.
The year I was seven, Dad opened a bottle of the Italian fizz at the table, the cork flew across the room – a trajectory aimed at nowhere special – and contrived to hit one of my mother’s precious painted birds that lived on the wall over the fireplace, knocking the poor thing into an explosion of blue and yellow feathers. Mum laughed, yet I could