Leek

A poaching broth for fish, a chicken, or a lumbering piece of ham is all the more interesting for the inclusion of a leek or two. They soften the stock, bringing the flavors of onion, carrot, and herbs together. The ham recipe here is my standard “food for a crowd.” Poached ham slices neatly, even when it falls off the knife in chunks, and can be kept waiting patiently in its own stock without coming to any harm. I often serve it with creamed spinach. I include it here partly to show ham’s affinity with parsnips and also because it’s a useful recipe and I wanted to get it in somewhere. This seemed as good a place as anywhere. I usually buy a ready-tied piece of boneless ham from the butcher for this. It needs no soaking, but will benefit from being brought to a boil in water, drained, and then rinsed before being cooked in the apple juice.

Like asparagus, leeks produce a particularly subtle risotto. The crucial point is not to let them color. Cook them over low heat, with a lid on if you wish, or maybe with a piece of wax paper on top. Either way they must not brown.

To our list of ingredients that balance the leek’s (and onion’s) tendency toward sweetness, we can add green peppercorns. Outside the anise-scented emporiums of Chinatown they are difficult to track down in their fresh state, but bottled ones in brine are perhaps even better here. Deep-winter stuff, this. Some fresh, crisp greens might be appropriate with it, some winter salad leaves or maybe a plate of lightly cooked spinach. Whatever, I do recommend some plain, steamed potatoes to balance the general richness. Green peppercorns in brine are available in cans or bottles from well-stocked specialty markets and delicatessens.

This sounds too spartan a recipe to be true but, when cooked slowly in butter, the leeks take on a deep sweetness that makes these cakes so much more than the sum of their simple parts. They are great with broiled bacon or cold roast beef.

To balance the sweetness of leeks, we can use a little white wine vinegar, especially tarragon, or lemon juice. The addition of either removes any risk of the dish cloying. The recipe that follows is one of my all-time favorites for a good, easy midweek supper. What especially appeals is that although the sauce tastes rich and almost creamy, it has no butter or cream in it at all.

There is a point in the year, usually after the Christmas decorations have been put away, when the house gets too cold to sit still in without a wrap around you. I have always kept a cold house; hot rooms make me feel unhealthy. But sometimes the only way of getting warm here is to eat. Carbohydrate-rich meals, such as the tart of leek and cheese and pastry I made on the coldest day of the year, warm you in a way few others are capable of.

Good cooking often comes from simply going with what is around at the time. Ingredients that are in season at the same time tend to go together—in this case, the last of a hat trick of leek soups made with all that is left in the depleted winter vegetable patch.

In spring, the young leek is a welcome sight with its stick-thin body and compact green flags, particularly after the thick winter ones with their frozen cores. They are worth steaming and dressing with a mustardy vinaigrette or, as here, using as a base for a fava bean and bacon lunch. We sometimes have this in the garden, with inelegant hunks of bread and sweet Welsh butter.

A good side dish for Monday’s leftover cold roast meat. The quantities are deliberately vague because of the nature of leftovers. A recipe for which we must use our instinct.

Users of The Kitchen Diaries may feel they recognize this recipe. Previously I have always made it with cubed lamb, but I recently tried it with lamb shanks and left it overnight before reheating it. The presence of the bone and fat and the good night’s sleep have made such a difference that I thought it worth repeating here. You could make it a day or two in advance to good end.

Onions have always had a slightly awkward relationship with fish. They seem particularly ungainly and rough edged alongside the white varieties or shellfish. Shallots work better, with their milder notes and less significant dose of sugar, but of all the alliums it is the leek that marries most successfully. The white of the leek has an elegance and subtlety that is unlikely to overpower any fish you put it with. In a soup or pie, it dances with the piscine ingredients where an onion would tread on their toes. Chowder is traditionally a hearty bowl of food. The one I make with mussels and bacon is a short step away from the big clam and potato numbers I have eaten in Boston, in that it is somewhat lighter and less creamy, but it is still essentially a big soup for a cool day.

The potato and the leek are happy bedfellows, as anyone who has eaten a good vichysoisse will know. Softer than potato and onion, more graceful than a chowder, warm potato and leek soup has a peaceful, almost soporific quality. A silky, cool-weather soup that somehow manages to taste creamy and rich with only the smallest amount of butter and no cream in it.

I have long made a simple artichoke soup by adding the scrubbed tubers to softened onions, pouring over stock, and then simmering until the artichokes fall apart. I often add a little lemon juice, bay leaves, and sometimes a thumb of ginger. I blitz it in the blender, then stir in lots of chopped parsley. Some might introduce cream at this point but I honestly don’t think it’s necessary. The soup is velvety enough. It has become a staple in this kitchen over the last few winters; its warm nuttiness is always welcome on a steely-skied January day. Late in the winter of 2008, possibly having had one day too many of what Beth Chatto calls “dustbin-lid skies,” I changed the soup’s tone by adding a stirring of bright green spinach. As often happens, it came about by accident—a bowl of creamed spinach left over from a boiled ham lunch—added to the soup just to use it up. The magic in this soup is in the marriage of earthy cold-weather food and a shot of mood-lifting chlorophyll. Spring is obviously stirring.

My Iranian father is infamous for knowing how to make one single dish: rice cooked with lentils, dill, and spices. Rice is ubiquitous in Persian cooking, and there are many elaborate variations that include dried fruit, fresh herbs, nuts, and beans. This version is green and aromatic. Dried limes have a distinctly sour, herbal taste specific to Persian food. Whole or powdered dried limes can be found at the stores listed in this book’s Resources section (page 193), but if you can’t find either one, the rice can be cooked with 2 teaspoons of lemon zest and seasoned with 2 tablespoons of lemon juice right before serving.

Watercress (shown below) gives these mashed potatoes a peppery bite. They are a perfect accompaniment to fish, chicken, and mushroom entrées. Try serving them with the Grape and Ginger–Glazed Chicken (page 56). If you have leftovers, add hot stock to make a warming soup. Alternatively, whisk in milk or cream and serve as the classic cold potato soup vichyssoise.

A French classic, this soup marries humble ingredients and well-executed technique to produce an excellent first course or a warming meal with cornbread on a cold winter night. When chilled, this is the famous vichyssoise, a great soup for a cool day. Omit the cream if you want a lighter soup.

The earliest American recipes for chowder called for fish rather than clams or shellfish and were prepared by layering the fish, salt pork, and biscuits (all shipboard staples) in a pot and cooking them for hours over a fire. This recipe calls for canned clams simply because those are the most easily accessible, but you can cook and use fresh clams as well.

Mild potatoes contrast with the earthy tones of arugula in a lightly curried soup.

Cream of Wheat, or farina, is the secret to the smooth, thick texture of this soup.

Here’s a lively soup that comes together quickly. Serve with a big Greek-style salad and a fresh flatbread for a light yet satisfying meal.