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Nigel Slater

Nigel Slater Books

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“Amongst the ochre leaves are roses: deep-crimson Gabriel Oak, apricot-blushed Lady Emma Hamilton and the final breath of the haunting white Direktör Benschop, which clambers through the yew hedges. There are Japanese anemones-- windflowers-- and at the far end of the garden, at the foot of the crab apple tree, a cluster of pale-pink autumn cyclamen.”

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“The roses were originally picked as much for their perfume as much for their color and form. (Unlike my first roses, which were bought purely because I was enchanted by their romantic names.) Of the basic musk, myrrh, tea, fruit and old-rose fragrances I am drawn to the latter two. Fruity is a broad bush on a night like tonight. Lady Emma Hamilton, reliable though now retired by the growers, is at her most giving: apricots and white peaches spring to mind. Gertrude Jekyll is one of the most intense of the old-rose scented varieties. She calls me over every time I set foot on the terrace. Unlike the more generous jasmine, even the most scented rose requires us to bend a little, pushing the tip of our nose into the cluster of petals. Not so Gertrude tonight, mingling as she does with the white jasmine, hovering cloud-like over the hot stones of the terrace. I have a plan to bring the Queen of Denmark into the garden too, another old-rose scent, and I long for a decent musk rose such as Buff Beauty, exuding its faint note of cloves on a warm evening.”

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“The roses are fading. Turmeric petals soften to the color of old dusters, magenta becomes palest violet, edges that were dark and sumptuous turn to the color of a tea stain. What was once as white as snow is now buttermilk. Their texture changes too: petals soft and strong enough to support a portly bumblebee dry to walnut-colored fragments frail and aging till they shatter.”

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“My lesson on which blooms to pick and how to do so to preserve their scent is followed by lunch on the stone terrace. We eat flatbreads, warm and patchily charred from the griddle, folded over crumbled white cheese, tearing them apart and dipping the smoky bread and salty cheese into bowls of rose-scented jam.”

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“Direktör Benschop is a semi-double milky-white rose with egg-yolk-yellow stamens bred by German breeder Mateus Tantau in 1939, though not commercially available till after the war. The garden is also home to Alchymist, the crumpled honey, white and gold climber. I have always struggled with the notion of stripping a rose for its petals, though I do occasionally bring one into the kitchen in June, scattering them over an oval platter of raspberries, a sponge cake dusted with icing sugar or, most memorably, a vast fig meringue the size of a hat at a June wedding.”

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“Late July. Friends arrive bearing gifts. A shallow white cardboard box turns out to be carrying a cluster of flat white peaches, their soft pink cheeks nudging one another. The scent of roses teases as I open the lid. Eight plump navels, their parchment skin flushed with brushstrokes of rose and carmine.”

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“A shallow washi paper box, a gift from its maker, Wataru Hatano, never moves. Artist and craftsman, Hatano works in Kurotani, northern Kyoto, the traditional home of this soft, deeply matte paper, where the mulberry trees that go into washi-making are part of the landscape. The soft charcoal color of the box is achieved with layer upon layer of tannin derived from fermented persimmon. It is a box of treasure, where I keep my folding wooden ruler, brown Yama-guri ink and folding wire-framed spectacles. For some reason it also holds a sprig of dried roses from the garden, their petals faded to the color of belladonna.”

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“No matter its shape or its size, the perfect peach is the most heavily scented, the softest-fleshed, the one with the sweetest, most rampant juice. No acidity needed here, like with the perfect apricot. Just the softest, most suede-like skin, the most giving flesh and the sweetest juice. That is the peach I want.”

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“There is something fragrant to touch at every turn; scented geranium leaves to rub or pots of thyme to tear at. Such temptations would be spotted at any time of year but today, in this scorching sunshine, everything is heightened; the intensity of rose oil from the pelargonium leaves, lemon from the thyme and even the peppermint and pepper and notes of potted basil sing loud and true in the bright sunlight. Butterflies-- pale-blue hoppers, cabbage whites and even red admirals- head from bloom to bloom, one even coming to see what is on my plate.”

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“A small meadow of dill and lemon thyme, tarragon and lemon verbena, set amidst Attar of Roses and Prince of Orange pelargoniums. I create a pretty enough landscape that is culinary and medicinal, tucking in pots of marigolds and nasturtiums here and there. The sun hangs low, a breeze sets in and my work is done, I run my hands through the tallest fronds and gently ruffle the leaves-- trails of aniseed and pepper, chocolate and lavender, rose and lemon dance on the breeze. There are hints of cinnamon and curry, camphor and orange, mint and something I can't quite put my finger on. My hands smell of Greek hillsides and Provençal fields, an Elizabethan knot garden and a Parisian apothecary, but they also smell of long lunches in the garden. As I head in to make supper it dawns on me that spring has finally slipped into summer.”

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“As soon as I moved into the house, I planted a Discovery apple tree at the foot of the garden, by the yew hedge. A gift to the Norse gods for eternal youth, but in truth a nod to the apple tree of my childhood, whose canopy shaded the patch of phlox growing underneath, whose long stems and flowers the colors of sugared almonds hid a treasure trove of fallen fruit. Discovery is a scented apple, with bright, acid flesh that does not keep well. The small, slightly flattened fruit are best eaten straight from the tree. The flesh is white as frost, flashed lightly with strawberry pink. A child's apple. It is aptly named. Brought up as I was in a world of Dairylea, Ritz Crackers and Wonderloaf, the flavor and scent of these pale fruits were my first hint that there was something more interesting out there to eat. My tree, twenty years old now, awaits the lacework of soft-green lichen that covered the branches of my parents' and, infuriatingly, phlox has so far refused to grow beneath its boughs. It is the earliest apple, ripening in August. A fruit I think of not only as the herald of the apple season, with its Michaelmas Reds and Blenheim Oranges, its Cornish Honeypins and Ribston Pippins, but as the beginning of everything.”

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“A shallow dish the color of clotted cream, a scattering of raspberries, wine-red loganberries, redcurrants on the stem and wild strawberries the size of a child's fingernail, complete with tiny alpine strawberry flowers. Never has there been a prettier dessert, and not a recipe or a creative cook in sight.”

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“Petals the color of butter, primroses and farmhouse Caerphilly. Deep egg yolk and elephant's tusk. Others of piercing marigold, honey and Dutch orange. Trumpets of turmeric, saffron and Sienese alleyways. The narcissi I am planting have petals, coronas and stamens in all the colors of spring. The colors of a child's hand-made Easter card. The single narcissi are those I cherish most, as much for their scent as their simple, uncluttered form. Many are placed singly in small, chipped terracotta pots. They will sit snugly between larger terracotta pans of Thalia, miniature scented daffodils the color of buttermilk, and Jetfire with its orange trumpet. There will be a deep pot of Paperwhites and the scrunched creamy-orange Erlicheer. I'm digging in Avalanche with its tangerine fairy cups and Chinese Sacred Lily, which I fear I have acquired for its name alone. My plan is for a zinc table of spring yellows in all the colors of milk on its journey to cheese. Narcissi, their petals and their scent, carry the spirit of Easter. Planting them on a warm afternoon in November is something of an act of hope. The belief that spring will come once again, and that I will be around to enjoy it. If not, then perhaps someone else will.”

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“When you split and toast a hot cross bun, the warmth releases the smell of cinnamon and the citrus oils in the candied peel. The bun should be torn apart, never cut. Teasing one half from the other with your fingers provides a craggy surface whose furrows will hold the melted butter in tiny puddles like rain on a hoggin path. But (and it is a big but) the rough, toasted surface is never quite hot enough to melt the butter. Once the buttering is done, something that is to be set about with extreme generosity, the bun must be placed back under the grill in order for the butter to melt. Perfection is when you manage to catch the bun just as the butter has formed a golden pool yet retains a patch of glistening, soft-but-not-yet-liquid butter at its centre. A shining, golden coin in the middle of your bun.”

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“At night the space is filled with the scent of daphne, philadelphus and Choisya ternata. Protected by walls and hedges, the leaves still rustle in the breeze, whispering to one another or, perhaps, to me. I fancy this part is occupied by relatives of the kami, the sacred spirits of the Japanese forest, which can take the form of trees, of which the Cornus Gloria Birkett is now the most splendid, its pale bracts like a shimmer of creamy-white butterflies come to rest.”

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“Each Christmas my parents would light candles for the table, flames that softened the twinkling pink lights of the tree and infused the air with the smell of beeswax. As the candles burned low into the late afternoon, their shadows hid the gaudy paper crowns and detritus of Christmas crackers that lay torn, their snaps exploded. The flames made everyone's eyes sparkle, the sugar crystals on the fruit jellies glisten and the edges of the room dim and more interesting. By five o'clock, instead of a scene of brightly colored carnage, it was like peering at a fairy-tale world through a piece of golden gauze.”

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“There is nothing softer on which to walk. Your footsteps are silent, as if treading on velvet; each step becomes slower and more cautious. To set foot on a moss path, even the short one at the top of my garden, slows your pace, every movement now more thoughtful. The luminosity of moss is extraordinary. It holds water, a dampness reminiscent of cloisters and cathedral walls. I imagine that is how the walls of a monastery might smell.”

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“We stop at a petrol station on the road to Tehran. Not only do they have packets of the original custard creams, but orange and banana flavor too. The existence of banana-flavored custard creams is something I am rather pleased to know about. The first thing I eat in Iran is white cheese, dry and crumbly, on white plates decorated with pink roses. A sheet of flatbread folded like a book. There are coarsely ground walnuts and a glass bowl of pomegranate molasses, sticky as treacle.”

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“Off the hob, the orange jam is left to settle for a few minutes, then stirred and ladled into glass jars. Four pots of glistening amber, the curls of peel suspended like jewels in the deep-orange jelly. The kitchen is still cold, and with the scent of oranges and syrup in the air I feel the urge to make a rack of toast. Marmalade is always a pot of joy. Button-bright, glistening and quivering on a spoon, it has none of the cloying sweetness of honey, a clarion call to the start of the day. Whisper it: this thick orange jam does not feel quite right at any other time of day. It glows like a candle on the greyest January morning, cheering us out of the door to work. No preserve causes such controversy, thick-cut or hair-thin, dark or pale, softly set or firm. Mine will be barely set, light in color and as much golden jelly as peel. Any morning now, the garden white with frost, I will pick up one of the jars I have filled today, twist off the glossy black lid and inhale. I will dip in my spoon, spread the lumpy jam onto a piece of hot toast, wipe a bittersweet tear of syrup from the crust and start my day.”

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“The day I filled my little larder with jars of beans and seeds, sugars and flours, was one I had looked forward to all my cooking life. A little space for tins of sardines and bottles of anchovies, a dark corner for dried shiitake and porcini, and a home for tins of treacle and golden syrup. There was an entire shelf for vinegars, a tall one for bottles of rose and orange blossom water and shallow ones for slim boxes of crystallized violets and jars of candied orange and citron peel. Two pink egg cartons sat on the marble slab along with space for pots of marmalade and damson gin. Over the years the larder has changed a little, and I soon realized I needed to make space not just for dried beans (flageolet, cannellini, ful, chickpeas, chana dal, green and brown lentils-- I could go on), but also for bottled and tinned. Dried fruits now take up eight storage jars and there are at least six of rice (white and brown basmati, arborio and pudding rice, sushi rice and a Spanish rice called bomba that makes a delicious paella and produces a fine undercrust). My obsession with storage jars is a result of a personal concern over opened cellophane bags of ingredients in the cupboard, bags that fall or unfold allowing the contents to spill or spoil. You can often tell the time of year by peeping through the larder door. At Christmas I juggle jars and bottles to make space for beribboned packages of panettone and Stollen, golden tins of Lebkuchen and the muslin-wrapped Christmas pudding. In summer the marble slab is a useful space for ripening peaches and melons.”

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“The first time I smelled the soft, powdery rocks of Somalian frankincense James brought back from traveling; the whiff of a broken dahlia stem or inhaled green osmanthus-flower tea was like stepping through the back of the wardrobe into Narnia. Likewise crocuses, charcoal and umeshu, the citrine-hued Japanese plum wine.”

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“A second-hand bookshop draws me in a as a moth to a candle. Each shop is a small shrine to the power of beauty and words. Tightly packed shelves of old hardback novels; heavy tomes on art and design; teetering piles of poetry. There are copies of the Children's Encyclopedia used as a doorstop and wooden crates of paperbacks going for a song. Some are rare, with a price to match, others a fraction of their original cost. A book for everyone, I guess. Yes, it's the thought of words put together with such care, the pages whose surface has been worn by years of handling; the tired bindings and torn-edged covers where a book has been in less kind hands than it should. (A chance to give a damaged book a kinder home.) But even more, it is the smell that makes me want to enter every second-hand bookshop I pass. A smell that is dusty, a cross between an old leather saddle and a country church.”

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“The early-morning food is both perfunctory and delicious. Wedges of grapefruit and orange, a glass of blood orange juice and a bowl of rice threaded through with flakes of dried seaweed and beads of salmon roe as bright as Christmas baubles. It is the bowl of soup that is extraordinary. The usual light, instant miso has been replaced by a rich chicken broth, deeply savory, the beads of fat on its surface supporting a single floating mushroom. When I am eating eel donburi from a rust-red lacquered bowl and they bring me a cup of eel broth to go with it. Deeply smoky, slightly oily, dark as night.”

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“Tempura of orange pumpkin brought still crackling from the kitchen; slices of yellowtail sashimi in a puddle of sesame sauce; grilled bamboo shoots on a wooden skewer and a dish of rice porridge. There is grilled cod's roe with a pin's point of fresh wasabi, pickled butterbur buds and the earliest fiddlehead fern, simmered in dashi broth and curled up like a caterpillar. A pale-blue dish is filled with mustard greens and ground sesame. As the light lifts, the room fills with weak and watery sunshine and I am brought a bowl of suitably pale miso broth with matchsticks of dried nori and balls of chewy white mochi. As I lay down my chopsticks a pudding appears of green-tea blancmange with two rust-red goji berries. Dessert for breakfast is something I can get on top of.”

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“A wedge of autumn melon the color of apricots with a honeyed scent you catch from three feet away. A shallow lacquered tray of rust red, laid with eight individual dishes. Yoghurt in a thin glass dish; a single teardrop of deep-red syrup and a tiny green leaf float on its surface. A deep-black raku bowl of okayu, the soft and soupy rice to gently lull us out of sleep. A triangular dish of pickled vegetables and a single umeboshi plum. A white bowl of chilled black hijiki seaweed and soybeans. A pretty dish painted with wisteria flowers of the softest, stickiest silken tofu the color of the pages of an old book, decorated with a single yellow chrysanthemum flower and a lump of fresh wasabi the size of a pea.”

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“Minutes later she returns from the open kitchen at the end of the restaurant with two brown plates of steamed jjin mandu on a paper napkin, the fat pockets of dough stuffed to bursting with shrimp and chives, and a plate of untidy crisp pork dumplings that I would be happy to live on for the rest of my life. There is a tiny plastic dish of soy and another of orange kimchi and a deep black bowl of soup with shredded omelette and spring onions floating to the surface. I pour the sticky soy into a little white dipping dish and add a few drops of the dark vinegar. My dumplings, doughy, spicy, scorching-hot and as comforting as an old teddy bear, are gone in a heartbeat.”

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“Oden is many things: a stew of fishcakes and radish, boiled eggs and root vegetables or bits of meat that need a long, slow cooking. Winter food that is both cheap and nourishing, though little more. But to me, right now, it is the most comforting thing that has ever passed my lips.”

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“My childhood was full of hedges, the tight corset of green privet that ran the entire boundary of the house, orchard and garden; those I passed on the long walk to school, hedges of hawthorn and holly, sloe, blackberry and wild rose. In spring they were a tangle of white froth and carried primroses and cowslips at their base, violets and the odd bluebell that had strayed from the woods. In winter they would be peppered with scarlet, black and rust berries, grey clouds of old man's beard and dew-speckled spiders' webs that hung like diamond necklaces in the early-morning light.”

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“The wicker basket of gnarled and dimpled bitter oranges is glowing like a beacon, the fruits flashed here and there with viridian, their skins tight to the flesh beneath. Each one sports a bright-green button, which is all that is left of its stem. The words 'Seville oranges', written in red, are as welcome as the sight of the first pink stalks of rhubarb, or lemons with their glossy leaves intact. I buy two kilos and take them home with a spring in my step-- a brown paper carrier bag of sunshine on a clear and frosty January morning.”

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“I arrive back at my lodgings to a battered-tin dish of dried apricots in syrup. Small and plump, round rather than oval, and freckled with rust. I dip a spoon into the syrup, a pretty spoon battered and bent from years of service, and sip the heavily chilled, sweet liquor. Lighter than that used to soak gulab jamun, the heavy, sticky balls of dough I have consumed with nothing short of gluttony on this trip, but thinner and less cloying and with the faintest breath of rosewater. I sit in peace on the cool veranda with my tin dish of apricots like dumpy cherubs and with the dry citrus dust of ground ginger still in my hair.”

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“The fruits scorch in the fierce heat. The smell of plum jam fills the kitchen. Flesh bubbles, edges blacken, plum juices burst from their skins and mingle with the honey and lemon. Twenty minutes later they emerge, collapsed in a pool of deepest purple-red. I twist the lid from a bottle of rosewater, hand-made, no label, and shake drops over the scorched fruit. A scent of rose, sweet fruit and honey. We let the fruit rest for ten minutes. The roasted plums are served on an old tin dish, a mound of salted labneh at their side, the juices seeping into the soft, thick yoghurt like lipstick into a pantomime dame's pancake make-up. I rain a pinch of dried rose petals over the surface and offer them up. We spoon the soft fruit and labneh into our mouths, then lift the dishes to our lips to drink the last drop of rose-perfumed juice.”

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“Japanese water is soft and its low mineral composition is better for making soup. Miso soup sets me up for the day as surely as a bowl of porridge, though I have been known to take both. In Kanagawa or Kyoto, Okinawa or Sapporo, that soup may be made with dashi-- a delicate broth of smoked dried fish and seaweed-- and miso, a light (shiro) or red (aka) paste of fermented soybeans. Shiro miso has the color of thick heather honey or fudge, is lightly salty and makes for easy drinking. Aka miso is red-brown, more savory and umami-rich than the white, and makes, to my mind at least, a more soulful, almost melancholy broth. Sometimes there are shreds of seaweed or a few tiny clams waiting at the bottom of your bowl, like treasure. Soup-- clear, aromatic and lightly salty-- is a gentle way to begin the day. I am lulled, sip by slow sip, back into the rhythm of life. I start my day in good heart.”

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“Once established, jasmine grows well in this garden, and there are three, no, four varieties now. A soft yellow, like clotted cream, that hangs loosely from the window boxes, shifting in the breeze. A pink variety, Jasminum stephanense, clambers up the brittle, naked stems of a much older plant, using its relative as a trellis. White stars of Jasminum grandiflorum cover the tendrils that have woven a canopy over the courtyard, a fragrant white parasol whose petals fall like snowflakes each autumn.”

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“On a deep bed of rice sits a neat rectangle of grilled eel fillets, a dish I could easily choose as my last supper if I could eat it here, in Japan. Those bronzed pieces of fish, shiny, soft enough to cut with chopsticks and tantalizingly savory, are the food I dream of when I am on the plane, and are now sitting in their shining box, dusted very lightly with fine green sansho pepper. What I refer to as Japanese dust-- the ground dried berries with notes of pepper and citrus.”

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“At home, a bowl of long-grain white rice will get a stream of melted butter and a crumbling of sea salt and then, as I turn the grains slowly in the warm, golden fat, perhaps a grating of Parmesan, then a little black pepper and lemon juice. A bowl of sticky rice feels more at home with sansho pepper or toasted sesame seeds, crumbs of dried nori and some crisp pickled radish. Another day I will heat the meat juices left over from the Sunday roast and stir them into the rice, streaking them with ribbons of glistening mahogany.”

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“Late February has brought crocuses to cheer us in the melancholy of winter. The petals-- white, lilac, mauve and gold-- are perfect against a grey-white sky. We planted a thousand small, hairy corms and a couple of hundred have come up. Plucky little flowers, they must fight against the rain, mice, squirrels and sparrows, all of which seem hell-bent on their destruction. Most welcome are the luminous white Jeanne d'Arc, which have swan-like petals with a tuft of egg-yolk-orange stamens. Others include Orange Monarch, a deep saffron and mauve, and a few Pickwick, the palest lilac with a delicate feathering of mauve. Common varieties, but none the worse for it.”

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“Purées of plum or dusky berries float on glass pots of yoghurt; scallops and oysters quiver on the half-shell and platters of sashimi sit on jagged crystals of crushed ice. Slices of boiled bacon with a mustard glaze are arranged in a soldierly line; poached white fish is wantonly sprinkled with spring onions; a mixture of aubergines and minced pork and another of hot and leafy mustard greens bask in chafing dishes next to stainless-steel cauldrons of miso soup. There are wicker baskets of dumplings steaming and a whole table of ingredients--- rice, eggs, greens and soy sauce--- with which to build your own bibimbap.”

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“Their petals are as delicate as antique lace but I grow them for their leaves, which are scented-- lemon, camphor and rose. There is Edna Popperwell's Ashby, whose leaves smell not of the advertised rose but (to this nose at least) of frankincense. Attar of Roses has furry leaves which remind me of Turkish delight, Orsett smells of balsam whilst Prince of Orange and Queen of the Lemons speak for themselves, the latter of sherbet lemons rather than the fruit. At the top of the garden is a wayward, rambling Copthorne, whose clusters of marshmallow-pink flowers are entangled amongst the bars of the old iron gate. Others are here not for their scent but for the delicate flowers. The diminutive Shannon sends her frilly parsley leaves and straggle of wandering stems over the table. She has no scent at all, but flowers that resemble salmon-pink stars, which twinkle against the watery-grey zinc of the garden table. The leaves are nothing to look at but show their magic once you rub them between finger and thumb. I use them for a spritz of inspiration as I write, but I occasionally take them into the kitchen too. If you layer their leaves amongst caster sugar in a jam jar they will infuse the crystals with the essence of lemon, orange or rose. Pick the right leaves and you have delicate, scented sugar with which to crown a summer sponge cake or to infuse in a jug of cream for raspberries.”

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“The content was clear, pale green and smelled of a summer lawn just mown. It was not steaming-hot but comfortingly warm, verdant and with a piercing clarity of color. Tea, green, bright and umami-rich, is now so much part of my life that I can hardly think of a time without it. Two, three times a day is not too often; I am making up for half a century of wasted time. The owner, Timothy d'Offay, is now a dear friend, the person who first encouraged me to travel to Japan, who introduced me to the senchas and gyokuros, the hōjichas and oolongs that now mark the progress of each day as surely as the ticking of a clock. I will be forever grateful.”

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Book:A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts
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“Many years ago, around the early 1980's, I penned a story about fruit crumble in a rather delightful, now defunct, magazine called Food Illustrated. The point of the piece was not so much the crust (to which I suggested adding coarse brown sugar or ground almonds or oats) or the luscious fruit (gooseberries, damsons, rhubarb or plums) that lay sleeping beneath. The point was to identify what I consider to be the best bit, neither crust nor crumble but the layer of fruit-soaked dough that lies just beneath the crust. It is often a rich purple color or, in the case of apple crumble, the hue of heather honey. The hidden dough takes on a consistency that is both dry and wet and for which the most accurate description might be plumptious, if that was actually a word. I referred to it then as the undercrust, a term I have watched slowly spread. The undercrust of a crumble is only one of several such silken treats that await us. The layer of soggy dough where shortcrust pastry meats gravy in a steak or chicken pie for instance. The point at which custard meets sponge in a trifle or, now I come to think of it, that bit of the suet dumpling that sits in the sauce of the stew, richly sodden with flavor and plump with aromatic liquor.”

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Book:A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts
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“The honey appears on an oval tin tray, craggy blocks of honeycomb oozing their sticky cargo onto the tray. We scoop the honey up with forks (I looked in vain for a spoon), trying hard not to drip on the tired pink carpet that covers the floor of the tent. The honey is not as sweet as that at home, more liquid, and its fragrance is both floral and resinous. Perched in the tent on a mountain, surrounded by tall pines, the scent of woodsmoke and the sound of the distant water rushing over rocks like the laughter of happy children, this could well be the breakfast of dreams.”

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Book:A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts
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