a food journal

The photo of this dish - which I uploaded to Instagram (an app I'm using with increasing fervency these days) - was described by user @ssusu_you as 'awesomely lurid', which summed it up perfectly. A visually striking, shockingly vivid plate of food that also ate really well; with chunks of sweet, piquant pickled beetroot offsetting the richness of the parmesan and marscapone-bound rice and offering a textural contrast.

Before cooking the risotto itself I prepped the beets - which we had in abundance, stockpiled, due to their appearance in pretty much every recent veg box. I peeled them, squared them off, cut nice even cubes to pickle and kept the trimmings to purée.

I made a small batch of pickling liquor (50g sugar / 100ml white white vinegar / 100ml water), added the beetroot cubes and simmered them gently for about half an hour until just cooked but still firm. Meanwhile I slowly simmered the beetroot trimmings in enough water to cover them until soft enough to purée. I blitzed the trimmings, adding just enough of the liquid they were cooked in to make a smooth purée. I grated some parmesan, finely chopped an onion and got a pot of veg stock on the go. Prep done.

I fried the onion in a little oil and butter until soft and translucent (but not coloured), added two handfuls of rice (one per person) and gently toasted it, allowing the heat to get into the grains before I added a splash of white wine (I forget which - it's not that important). When the wine had completely evaporated I began adding the stock, a ladleful at a time, stirring constantly until the rice was al dente (about seventeen minutes).

I stirred in the beetroot purée, turning the grains in an instant from dull grey to a startling shade of crimson-violet. I let It cook for a minute longer to correct the consistency before beating in the marscapone and parmesan.

Into bowls it went, pickled beetroot and a few choice salad leaves scattered over the top, a drizzle of good oil, a few cracks of pepper. Awesomely lurid...

If ever there was a worthy contender to usurp strawberry jam as King Of Preserves, this would surely be it.

Since taking an interest in making preserves in recent years, Spring has been a time fraught with regret. The Seville orange season is shockingly short, blink-and-you'll-miss it short, Verne Troyer short; and come mid-March I'd invariably realise that I'd missed it completely and would have to wait until next year (almost ten months) to scratch my marmalade-making itch. And then I'd forget all about it until the following Spring.

Last year though I was on the ball and managed to make three batches during the 6-8 week season that runs through January and February. I burnt the first batch, because that's how I roll. Once you've pushed an ingredient or technique to the edge and ruined all your hard work you won't make the same mistake again. You will however be aware of the technique's limitations - you'll know how hard and fast you can boil the marmalade and how frequently you need to stir it. It makes you stronger*.

*Yes, I'm making excuses.

I used brown sugar (demerera, I think) in both the batch I ruined and the one I made shortly afterwards. It resulted in a marmalade too dark for my tastes, bitter than I would've liked and redolent of molasses. A hardcore 'Oxford' marmalade that many people like but just isn't my cup of tea. I decided to try bog-standard granulated sugar in the next batch and it worked wonders. A great balance of bitterness and sweet and absolutely stunning in colour - an amber jelly suspending gossamer-thin strips of golden candied zest.

So last month the season rolled around again and I couldn't wait to get my hands on some Sevilles and rustle up another batch. I got around to it at the weekend. Here's what I did:

1k fruit / 2k sugar / 2 lemons / 2l water

First, prep the oranges. Remove the 'button' (where the stalk connects the orange to the tree) and cut them into quarters. Separate the zest from the flesh (this is really easy - unlike some sweet oranges the zest just peels away at the lightest touch) and slice the zest to your desired thickness - the thinner the better, I say. A sharp knife is imperative. As is patience - this takes some time. 

Place the sliced zest in a decent heavy-bottomed, high-sided pan (and remember that I managed to burn my marmalade in these dream conditions so use a cheap, flimsy pan at your peril). Place a sieve or colander lined with muslin cloth over the pan and squeeze through all the juices from the flesh before wrapping it - pips and all - and tying securely with string. 

Drop the fruity bundle into the pan and pour in two litres of water followed by the juice of two lemons. Bring the pan to the boil then reduce to a simmer. It'll take around two hours for the zest to become tender, depending on how fine the slices are. You don't want to over-cook it, but you do need to ensure that it is tender enough for your tastes before adding the sugar (which, once added, will prevent it from getting any softer).

Remove the bundle of pith and pips and suspend it over the pan, leaving it to drip for an hour or so. You could squeeze out all the juices in seconds but that would result in a cloudy marmalade. Have patience. It's worth it.

When the dripping has all but stopped bring the pan back up to a boil, add the sugar and stir frequently until dissolved. Then keep stirring and stirring and don't take your eyes off the pan for even a second. Think of all the time spent slicing the zest - it'd be a shame if all that hard work went in the bin.

It'll take around half an hour for the marmalade to reach setting-point, during which it will bubble vigorously. After twenty minutes check the set by spooning a dollop onto a chilled plate and conducting the 'wrinkle test'. When cool it should wrinkle slightly when you touch it. If it doesn't, carry on boiling and stirring and checking every five minutes until it does. 

When it finally gets there take it off the heat and after fifteen minutes of resting give it a good stir (this ensures the zest is evenly distributed) before sealing in sterilised jars. Then enjoy it on buttered toast, bake it in puddings or send it off to The Marmalade Awards like I did and hope for the best.

Update: March 6th 2012

So, the results are in and my marmalade scored an okay 16/20. It is officially 'good flavoured' - an amusing choice of words that borders on damning with faint praise. Anyway, bronze is fine I suppose, but next year I'm going for gold.

The predominant flavour here is that of celeriac. Which, pureed into a soup alone can be a touch heavy, a little bit hard-going. The Granny Smith brings a lightness and freshness that the robust root requires. Sliced into batons, a slither of green flesh left on either end, it makes for a rather attractive garnish too.

Sweat down an onion and a couple of cloves of garlic until soft but not coloured. Add a medium sized celeriac, finely sliced, and allow to soften slightly while gently warming. Remember to set aside some Granny Smith batons (for garnishing) before peeling, coring, finely slicing, and adding the apples to the pan.

Combine and heat 500ml each of stock and milk (I used veggie and skimmed but chicken and whole would certainly be better) and add to the pan. Boil then simmer until the celeriac is soft (5-10 minutes, depending on how fine the slices are). Blitz, adding more liquid if necessary - cream if you're feeling indulgent, milk or stock if not. A few nobs of butter will offer a nice richness. Season and pass.

If you go overboard with cream and butter or the celeriac/apple balance is slightly out of whack, redress is with a squeeze of lemon juice or a few drops of sherry vinegar.

Ladle into bowls, scatter over the Granny Smith batons and drizzle with good oil.

This dish came out of nowhere, it took me by surprise. Yesterday, when going through the fridge, trying to make room for the new veg box, I found all sorts of disparate ingredients. A smorgasbord of vegetables that desperately needed using up, many of them on their last legs: a quarter of a pumpkin (its flesh exposed, its skin drying, spilling its seeds all over the shelf), a sad little cauliflower (its once proud leaves wilting and yellowing around it), a handful of baby shallots (huddled together like refugees, languishing in the bottom of the veg drawer), half a bag of chard (its leaves hanging limply, no longer firm and crisp) and a couple of beets (which were actually in rather good nick - resilient little buggers).

Looking over this sad cast of vegetal misfits I figured I'd be able to cobble them together into a kind of warm salad, maybe bulked out with quinoa or couscous. Because the vegetables were not their freshest and I had a couple of hours to kill I decided to play around and quick-pickle them. This would hopefully inject into them a bit of flavour, a bit of life, where they may otherwise have been lacking.

First though, I gave them all a good wash, and left the chard in a bowl of restorative ice-cold water to firm up and get its groove back. An hour later and it was fit as a fiddle.

I made a batch of pickling liquor by dissolving and slowly warming 100g sugar in 250ml white wine vinegar. I divided it between two pans and added to one of them half a teaspoon each of turmeric, cumin and chilli flakes. The cauliflower was destined for this spiced-up pickling-liquor, which would give it a little kick, stain it neon-yellow and instil a piccalilli vibe. I brought it to the boil and removed the cauli when it was just about al dente. I simmered the peeled and halved baby shallots in the 'straight' pickling liquor until just cooked but still firm. While the cauliflower and shallots cooled on a plate I added the beetroot (peeled and quartered) to the shallot pickling liquor, topped it up with water (as it'd need a lot of cooking), brought it to the boil and simmered it for about forty-five minutes. While removing the beets I observed the sweet, purple pickling liquor, and, feeling playful, reduced it down to a syrup, mixed it with extra virgin olive oil et voila: I had my salad dressing.

I took the pumpkin, scooped out its seeds, and trimmed and discarded the drier bits of flesh before removing the skin. I cut and trimmed four even slices which I pan-fried (to take colour) and finished in the oven. I finely sliced the trimmings, coloured them in a little oil, covered them with water and when cooked blitzed them with a little S&P to make a purée on which the rest of the salad could sit.

By this point I realised the dish was getting out of control so quinoa was out, couscous was a definite no-no and Gem had arrived with goat's cheese and pine nuts. What started as pure rustic thrift was becoming a rather refined vegetarian dish and I cursed myself for not taking any pictures of the process (having had no plans to blog it).

I toasted the pine nuts, sautéed the chard in a little oil, gently reheated the pumpkin purée and began to build up the dish. It looked pretty and ate really well. The indulgent goat's cheese a fitting foil for the austere pumpkin. The individually pickled vegetables giving a zing here, a crunch there. Toasted pine nuts...

I loved it, and will definitely be trying it again in some form or other, with quick-pickled vegetables returning in many guises. And more pictures, less breathless verbosity.

This is now the third year in a row in which I've made a big batch of piccalilli just before Christmas. Divided and sealed in unmatching, idiosyncratic jars hoarded throughout the year it makes an ideal gift for friends and family and, being perhaps the most visually striking of preserves, perfectly suits the festive season. It livens up drab kitchen cabinets, emanating luminosity from amongst the Bovril and the beans.

It was only when making it on a whim the first time around having not tasted the freaky dayglo preserve since childhood that I remembered I only ever really liked the tangy viscous sauce in which the 'horrid vegetables' were bound and that when my Grandma offered me a ham and piccalilli sandwich (as she often did) I would always insist on it containing 'no bits'. Which is precisely the wrong thing to pop into your head when you're twenty minutes into a mountain of veg prep with no clear end in sight. Fortunately my tastes have matured somewhat since then and I'm no longer completely averse to the idea of 'bits'. In fact I actively welcome them, especially in orange juice. And, latterly, piccalilli. Not big bits though. I'm not at all a fan of the overly rustic piccalilli that's so often served in mid-tier gastropubs alongside a scotch egg. A chunk of cauliflower, a whole baby onion and a green bean chopped in half sitting in an under-spiced, over-seasoned, pissy puddle of liquid? No thanks. Piccalilli should be spreadable. Piccalilli should fit snugly in a sandwich. Piccalilli should sit safely atop a chunk of cheese on a cracker. Piccalilli SHOULD NOT contain elements that are liable to roll across the table if you don't keep your eye on them.

The vegetables used in piccalilli can vary according to seasonality. Here I used cauliflower (that old piccalilli stalwart), romanesco (because it looks cool), carrots, green beans and brown onions. Courgettes, cucumbers, green tomatoes, broccoli and baby onions (a nightmare to peel) are all welcome but not essential. Feel free to pick and mix as you choose, should you choose to have a crack at it.

I work from a rough recipe of 1K vegetables / 500ml cider vinegar / 250g sugar / 50g salt. Which I doubled up on. 

This is a two day process as the vegetables need salting and leaving overnight. As well as seasoning the vegetables the salt draws out a lot of excess water - which firms them up, concentrates their respective flavours and ensures they stay crisp and crunchy. 

First is the seemingly sisyphean task of prepping the vegetables. The carrot and onion should be diced really small, the beans sliced thin, and the cauliflower and romanesco broken down into infinitesimal florets. Think dainty. It takes time, so a glass bottle of wine really helps. Combine the prepped vegetables, sprinkle over the salt, mix really well and leave in a bowl in the fridge (or outside if there's no room in the fridge) overnight. Drain the excess water (of which there'll be a lot) and rinse the vegetables really well before draining and drying thoroughly. 

Use a teaspoon each of turmeric, cumin, ground ginger and mustard seeds, three teaspoons of English mustard powder, and as much cayenne and dried chilli flakes as you dare. I went for about half a teaspoon of each as I like my piccalilli fairly mild.

In a large pan gently heat the sugar, vinegar and spices, stirring frequently, to ensure the sugar is completely dissolved. Bring to the boil, add the vegetables, and simmer for five minutes before taking off the heat. 

Remove a ladle of the liquid and combine with two tablespoons of cornflour until completely smooth (this is the thickening agent and without it you'll end up with something akin to the gastropub effort mentioned above). Pour it back into the pan, and bring everything up to a boil, stirring constantly. Simmer until the vegetables are the required doneness - it'll take around five minutes - remove from the heat and allow to sit for a few minutes before pouring into sterilised jars.

Give it a couple of months to develop in the jars before eating. It's great with cheese and crackers but even better in a ham sandwich - bits and all.

I was first struck by this idea a couple of months ago when out for Sunday lunch at the Galvin brothers' restaurant - Windows - which, while renowned for its Michelin-starred modern French cuisine is perhaps more famous for its panoramic views of London, plonked as it is on the 28th floor of the Park Lane Hilton. It makes for quite the vertiginous dining experience so to settle our stomaches and kick off the meal we needed a drink; Gem opted for a Bloody Mary and I ordered a gin and tonic. As Bloody Marys go it was ridiculously over the top, served in a kind of knickerbocker glory glass-cum-vase - all sticks of celery, windmills and fireworks. I'm pretty sure I saw a live parrot in there somewhere. I might be exaggerating. Anyway, it was in stark contrast to the first course that arrived at our table - a shot of tomato water. An ice-cold, crystal-clear tomato consomme bursting with the finest vegetal flavours of high summer.

It only took a couple of sips to put two and two together and realise that perhaps tomato water would make a fitting base for a kind of Bloody Mary short. It would be relatively easy to get all the flavours associated with the drink (celery, horseradish, salt, pepper, tabasco etc…) into the tomato water, which could then be mixed with as little or as much vodka as necessary. It'd look innocent enough - all dainty poured over ice with a curl of lemon zest and a slim stick of celery - but take a sip and it'd blow your mind. A seriously powerful pick-me-up of a drink.

There are two main ways to make tomato water. You can cook and blitz the ingredients, clarifying the resulting consomme with a 'raft' or you can extract the natural juices from the tomatoes using salt and acid with no cooking required. I prefer the latter as it results in a fresher, purer flavour.

I chopped up around two kilos of tomatoes and a couple of sticks of celery and put them in a bowl. I added the juice of two lemons, a sprinkling of Maldon salt, a few cracks of black pepper and some freshly grated horseradish followed by a glug of Lea & Perrin's and a shake of tabasco. All the key Bloody Mary flavourings: check. I gave everything a mix and let it sit for half an hour before hanging it in a muslin cloth over a large bowl. The salt got to work almost immediately; a very naughty-looking liquid began to slowly drip, drip, drip into the bowl. It hung there for 24 hours until the dripping had ceased and the tomatoes had given up almost all of their fluids. It is imperative to fight the temptation of giving the sack a squeeze, as it will make the precious liquid cloudy. Let gravity do the work.

Into the fridge it went, to be chilled down and saved for the following day when we would be heading out to the UK's first chilli competition with Matt - our old housemate and bona fide cockney Lothario. We quaffed the drinks and while marvelling at the intensity of the flavour (it really did taste like a Bloody Mary - albeit highly-concentrated, distilled and infinitely more boozy) thought that perhaps it was a tad risky to start on them at 11am. After sampling ten or eleven different chillis and a heroic amount of rum we were proven right. I was at home, and not at all well, by 5pm. But we had a heck of a time…

Yes, it's not technically a Martini. It's not even served in a Martini glass, which seems to be the mimimum requirement for a drink to qualify as a Martini. But I couldn't think of a better name and Bloody Mary Martini has a nice ring to it so no complaints from drinks pedants please. 

This is a super-quick, super-simple way of turning that horseradish root that'd been languishing in the bottom of your fridge since you bought it last week (for that one recipe that required one tenth of an ounce of freshly grated horseradish) into an essential kitchen condiment to keep in your culinary arsenal, to be deployed as necessary - with extreme prejudice - to soups, stews and salad dressings throughout the winter months.

Peel the horseradish root so it resembles an elephant's tusk. DO NOT THINK ABOUT ELEPHANTS as you finely grate the tusk root. Blitz the grated horseradish with just enough white wine vinegar to make a fairly loose, fairly course purée - it doesn't need to be super smooth. Pop it in a sterilised jar, et voila: it'll keep in the fridge for months.

To make an amazingly luxurious horseradish sauce to serve with roast beef and impress your friends and family simply fold a couple of spoonfuls of this bad boy into some lightly whipped cream. Salt, pepper - you know the drill. Amazing.

Two strikingly idiosyncratic vegetables landed in the box last week, of the kind seldom seen in supermarkets. Romanesco, that psychedelic Italian brassica that's all neon green and spirals - think broccoli on acid; and rainbow chard, which with its technicolour stalks is quite possibly the only vegetable that you'd be forgiven for confusing with Brighton rock.

I'd been wanting to make a gnocchi dish at home for quite some time and this particular pair of vegetables provided the perfect opportunity. The chard leaves, wilted like spinach, would make an excellent base on which to sit soft pillows of gnocchi and firm florets of romanesco. A contrast of colours and textures in need only of a sauce to unite them.

Originally I was thinking along the lines of a cream sauce, a beurre blanc perhaps, but as the sun was shining and we had a couple of not overly ripe tomatoes in the fridge I decided to go with a kind of sauce vierge. It would be prettier, healthier, and hopefully tastier. I was already picturing how great it would look with the little gems of diced tomato scattered about the plate.

I went to work on the vegetables. I broke the romanesco into florets, removed the chard leaves from the stalks and trimmed the stalks into even pieces. I peeled, deseeded and quartered the tomatoes before cutting the flesh into even pieces. I finely diced a small shallot.

I made the gnocchi. I baked 500g of potatoes (it's best to bake the potatoes in their skin rather than boil them in water as it allows you to control water content - here we want the spuds dry) and when cooked passed them through a ricer into a large bowl. After a couple of cooling minutes I added 60g flour, 30g grated parmesan, 2 egg yolks, a glug of olive oil and plenty of seasoning. I mixed the contents of the bowl together using my hands until it formed a soft, pliable and not-too-sticky dough.

I tore off a tennis ball-sized piece of dough and on a floured surface rolled out a long, even 'worm'. This is the fun bit, the part that brings back memories of being a kid and messing around with Play-Dough - only here you actually get to eat your creation. (Though lets face it, if you didn't try to eat Play-Dough as a child then you either a) didn't play with Play-Dough as a child or are b) lying.) I cut the worms into 'pillows' and blanched them in batches in boiling salted water for around 30 seconds before placing them on oiled baking trays. This ensured they didn't stick as they cooled.

I made the dressing. I combined the diced shallot and tomato in a small jar, seasoned heavily with Maldon salt and black pepper, doused with sherry vinegar (though white, cider or even balsamic would be fine) and added about three times as much extra virgin olive oil as acid. Just before serving I mixed in finely chopped parsley (which if added too early would lose its intense green colour).

Once all the prep was done it only took five minutes to complete the dish. I cooked the romanesco in boiling salted water for around three minutes until nice and al dente. I cooked the chard stalks gently in a little olive oil for a couple of minutes before adding the leaves to wilt. I pan-fried the gnocchi in a little butter and oil until they took on that gorgeous golden-brown colour. Remember, colour = flavour. I built up the dish and drizzled over the tomato dressing. I was really pleased with it.

Having checked the weather forecast for next week it seems an Indian summer is on the cards so my planned preamble about the season being over, the nights getting colder, the days shorter, about winter hiding ominously around the corner will have to be put on hold. No, there'll be no preamble today, we'll just get straight to the meat of the matter:

There's still lots of great summer produce in the greengrocers, and our chilli plants in the garden are refusing to shrivel up and die. In fact, we went for so long without picking any chillis (mainly out of idleness) that over the past couple of weeks they've changed colour, morphing from deep green to bright red. A feat I didn't think possible in this climate, especially without the aid of a greenhouse.

This dramatic change in colour gave me the kick up the backside needed to stop being lazy and neglectful, pick the chillis, and turn them into something wonderful. It had to be something special, I didn't want to blow them all in one meal, I wanted to preserve them in a way that would allow us to enjoy them throughout the winter months. I wanted to capture summer in a jar.

The thing is, I had nowhere near enough to make a purely chilli-based preserve. They needed a partner, a sidekick, something with heft and bulk that would take well to the chilli's zing, something with a similarly short summer season, something worth preserving. I opted for sweetcorn, which I'm beginning to think is my favourite vegetable. So tasty, so much fun to prepare, its allure in no doubt partly due to the season's breviloquence.

I was lucky enough to find some fantastic British corn at the local grocers for 30p a cob - a bargain - so I filled my boots while cursing the evil supermarkets and their unreasonable pricing-structures*. I also picked up a couple of attractive British peppers, who's addition to the relish I felt could only be a good thing.

We had onions, celery, garlic and ginger in the fridge, which, along with the chillis and peppers, I chopped and sweat-down in a large, heavy-bottomed saucepan. When soft, I added a teaspoon each of turmeric, mustard powder and black mustard seeds - to boost colour and heat - followed after a couple of minutes by the corn, sheared from the cobs.

Working from an admittedly imprecise method for relish-making I added an amount of white wine vinegar equal to that of the principal ingredient, the corn (750g), into which I had dissolved half as much sugar (375g). I brought to the boil then simmered everything for about fifteen minutes, until the corn was just about tender but still retaining some bite. I worried about the consistency being a little loose so I pulled the ol' piccalilli trick out the bag: took a ladle of the liquid, whisked in some cornflour, then stirred it back into the pan. I adjusted the seasoning, let it sit for a few minutes, then spooned it in to sterilised jars.

The next day I cracked open a jar, fried a chicken breast and made a wicked sandwich. It also went great with a TRANSCENDENT cheese and onion pie that Gem rustled up yesterday. Sweet yet mildly acidic, with the deep flavour of corn and a welcome chilli kick it turned out just as I wanted, and will surely get better over time as the flavours develop. If only I made more than four jars (we've polished one off already)...

*FULL DISCLOSURE: This all took place a couple of weeks ago but due to ridiculous work commitments I've only just found a spare minute to write it up. Chances are there is now no corn available anywhere, making this babble redundant for any budding sweetcorn & chilli relish re-creators out there. Oh well, there's always next year.

It started with an idle thought. Faced with a whole day off and having no particular plans (other than to cook something nice for dinner) my mind began to wander. Sweetcorn had landed in the veg box, our first cobs of the year, and I was planning on folding the cooked corn into a simple risotto - a great way to showcase the ingredient. But I wanted to elevate the dish, to have a bit of fun, to tinker around in the kitchen for a couple of hours. I often scatter nuts or seeds over my risottos to add a bit of crunch, a contrasting texture to break up what can sometimes be a monotony of forkful after forkful of soft - albeit well flavoured - rice. How about popcorn? It would offer a contrasting texture but also echo the sweetcorn's delicate flavour while adding a toasty, roasted quality of its own. My mind then strayed even further when, thick with the thoughts of creamy-rich rice - bound with Parmesan and marscapone, pearls of sweetcorn dotted within, salty popcorn without - I started thinking about bacon.

Thin strips of crisp, grilled streaky bacon, scattered amongst the popcorn. I could sneak it onto my dish at the end without having to worry about my pescetarian partner. Perfect.

And then I had a major lightbulb, leap-out-the-bath-run-down-the-street-nude moment (sorry, neighbours) - BACON POPCORN. A quick Google search told me it wasn't an entirely original idea (so I calmed down a little, dried myself off and put on some clothes) but most of the recipes on there were rubbish - all unnecessary additives and bacon grease. I wanted to get the genuine flavour of bacon in there, not just that of its fat. Luckily, we'd recently been making bacon-powder at work (in which we roll a chicken ballotine) so, with that technique fresh in my mind, I was able to apply it here.

Decent dry-cured back bacon is an absolute necessity here; wan, watery supermarket slices simply will not do. The idea is to dry out the meat completely so it can be blended to a powder. Use the cheap stuff and it just might be about dry enough to blend this time next year. Or, alternatively, remove the fat from some top-notch premium pig, cut the flesh into smallish slices, scatter on a baking tray and put in an 80C oven and it should be blendable after an hour or so.

While the flesh was drying I rendered down the fat. I cooked the kernels in the bacon fat rather than the 'recommended' vegetable oil. After a couple of minutes the popping started. When it was over I sprinkled the popcorn with the bacon powder. I popped one in my mouth and hoped for the best...

People often use the phrase 'the best thing since sliced bread'. Well, sliced bread can F off. Bacon Popcorn is the Best Thing Ever. A revelation. It's sheer awesomeness actually overshadowed the risotto it was designed to accompany. Still, the risotto was great in its own right and certainly bears a mention. It was, after all, partly responsible for the genesis of Bacon Popcorn.

I peeled away the husks to reveal the cobs and cooked them for ten minutes in just enough boiling salted water to cover them. I plunged them into ice cold water to stop the cooking then sheared off the corn. I chopped up the cobs, put them back in the water and simmered them for half an hour to extract as much flavour as possible. This was to be my stock with which to cook the risotto.

I started with a finely chopped onion then proceeded as normal - see this for the process in more detail. When the rice was just cooked I folded in the corn along with a handful of Parmesan, a few spoons of marscapone and some chopped chives. I topped my dish with Bacon Popcorn, streaky bacon and slices of Parmesan. I made a small batch of beurre noisette popcorn for Gem, so she didn't feel left out. We were both very happy.