We sat down to supper, the children just having gone to bed. They were supposed to be asleep, yet by the volume of giggling wafting downstairs were still wide awake. Perhaps we could finish our meal in peace before resorting to investigation followed by threats.
I'd spent about half an hour in the afternoon making wild garlic butter from scratch. About 600ml of double cream into the churning jar was enough for a large pat and the buttermilk left over will go very well in some scones or to marinate some chicken.
A few handfuls of the garlic leaves and flowers, dug from the garden and cleaned of soil were wilted in a pan and squeezed dry. Salt and a pinch of turmeric went in to the blender with the butter until it became a vivid green, then I poured it, still fairly liquid, into a dish in the fridge to firm.
Making your own butter means you can choose cream that you know comes from well looked after cows. Grass-fed and allowed to live as they should: on pasture and well treated, contributing to and being part of the wider healthy biosphere. There is also a freshness to homemade, as well as a the excitement of seeing the simple magic of separating whey from fat. And once you've rinsed and squeezed it through muslin you can flavour it as you like.
When the children help, we wrap and label theirs with their names so they have personalised butter pats. They usually stick to plain butter, but you could spice it with garam masala or a tablespoon of harissa, rosemary or tarragon. You could even go sweet with ground cinnamon and sugar.
When you make a batch, roll each into a cylinder and wrap well in paper. You can freeze for later use or keep in the fridge for about a week if salted.
I used the wild garlic butter last night with chorizo scrambled eggs. The spices from the meat mingling with the deep green butter as the cubes sizzled and crisped. On the side were garlic-laden sautéed courgettes and a green salad lightly dressed with a punchy mustard vinaigrette. As if it wasn't rich enough, I had some very creamy goats cheese on my eggs. Maybe I'm calcium deficient at the moment and my body is trying to tell me something. If that meal was the result of subliminal dairy messaging, then I'm all ears.
The roads winding through the countryside, some tree-sheltered and some opening onto wide rolling fields belie how close we are to London and the grey January concrete I've just left behind.
Although the weather is downcast and gloomy, the skies heavy with cloud and light drizzle, the journey out of my corner of South East London quickly and always surprisingly opens out into fresh air and the wide landcapes of West, then East Sussex.
Most of the fields I pass are brown, the work happening underground. The quiet surface appears asleep with no visible sign of life. Most of the winter produce is cropped now and all that remains is either stumpy and scrubby or muddy and lumpy.
I wonder if this is the best time to visit a fruit farm. But I wanted to see where the work of growing began. Normally all you see in your fruit bowl is the gloriously ephemeral end result. You give it little thought as the juice from the berries runs down your arm and chin, but here, on a cold and muddy morning, you can see the long journey from it's soily and unglamorous beginnings.
Brambletye biodynamic fruit farm near the small town of Forest Row, is down a long and bumpy road that after a few twists and turns becomes little more than two muddy ruts. I drove past the ruins of the 17th century Brambletye manor, of which there are only separated halves of the facade remaining, and knocked on the door of what I took to be the farm house. Two large dogs (I'm not good with breed names) galloped around me, and the lady of the house, aproned and with flour covered hands like the country version of a seaside postcard told me I was in the wrong place. A great shame, as the smells from the kitchen wafted out the door like siren song.
A few minutes later and slightly further along the road, I stepped from the car into the mud of the farm then got immediately back in and changed out of my towny white trainers into wellies.
Greeting me were Ellie and her two year old daughter who was well wrapped up with a wooly hat pulled down over her ears, and coat and scarf drawn up around her, but not quite able to prevent a little cold red nose poking out.
Crates of bottled apple juice were stacked high all around ready to be sent out, and the big barn behind was being swept out by Stein Leenders, clad in dark blue overalls and dusty boots. He and Ellie have been farming on this land for 10 years now after he moved over from Holland along with 15,000 apple trees to what was then a rented field.
The first thing Ellie took me to see were the mushrooms, growing in an old shipping container. Rows of plastic barrel-like sacks, packed tightly with mushroom spores and wood chippings from the hazel trees in the neighbouring woods were sat neatly on shelves. The damp air and low hum of the artificial lights casting a Bladerunner like glow gave the impression of a strange tunnel, lined with embryonic alien life. Here and there, out of the plastic where holes had appeared, sprouted little mushrooms. Pink, yellow, and blue winter oyster mushrooms were vivid in the half-light, slowly growing larger until harvesting. Growing this way recreates the exact conditions all year round as if they were growing in the forest. This was very different to the mushroom farm's long stacked beds I spent weekend mornings picking in as a teenager to earn money to buy the latest A-ha album.
A few minutes walk from the mushrooms and we were on the crest of a hill, the highest point of the farm overlooking the sweeping High Weald. Rows of stunted apple trees, Evita, Santana and Red Topaz varieties, lined the field, sounding like a musical revue. Leafless and jagged, it seemed as if a fierce wind had blown through, stripping everything. On this exposed hillside, it probably had.
Chickens, lots of them, run freely and curiously among the slim tree trunks, the grass growing happily under their feet. "You don't see this very often," says Ellie, picking up her daughter, who was starting to get cold and a little hungry, as was I. She tells me the chickens are owned by a neighbouring farmer and share, and therefore fertilise, the land. We walk along to their coop, a long, movable shed where in the porch-like entrance is a window through which a conveyor belt's end pokes through. One egg sits proudly on it.
Behind this, through another door is the main room where the chickens can sleep, lay eggs and hang out, possibly watching telly, or whatever it is chickens do on their days off. Fifteen or so are clucking around happily and when we step out the door we are greeted by a large crowd of them, gathered like fans at the stage door of the Palladium.
We head back toward the main apple shed, past rows of gooseberry bushes, the green and the sweeter purple types. Past cherry trees, blackberry bushes and then the pear trees, of which there are a few varieties such as Wildeman and Concorde. Every tenth pear tree is a pollinator, that is to say, a different variety. They are grafted onto quince roots and you can see the quince trying to fight it's way up through the soil around the base of the trees.
Red and blackcurrant bushes are being pruned and a few cabbages, kale, cavolo nero remain, the end of the season approaching. As spring arrives, so will 'the hungry gap', the space between the hardy winter root vegetables and brassicas growing and the fruit season starting. This is when the farm maintenance and planting happens.
The longer storing varieties of apples, held back for this lull -- some in low oxygen storage -- can be pressed for juice, ensuring a constant year round supply. Vats of cider vinegar are in the background too; the raw, unpasteurised stuff, full of good bacteria and culture, just like my French family. These are sold along with the juices, purées and fruit and veg at the farmers markets and shops the farm supply.
The apple pulp and waste gets fed to the two pigs, which, as it comes out of the pigs, feeds the land on which the apples grow, just like with the chickens eating the plants in the orchard.
It's an inspiring sight to see, and the work and dedication they put into their farm is uplifting in these strange times. I tentatively ask about what 'Brexit' may mean to them, and Ellie tells me they use mainly local pickers in season, and plenty of restaurants and suppliers have already been in touch to see what they can use on a local produce level. So perhaps, if there is anything good to come out of this whole farce, it may be that we become much more connected to the seasons and to shopping locally rather than relying on imports.
Ellie and Stein care about their farm, the land and their products and we as consumers should be grateful for such dedication. We are able to get real food grown with care and respect and not covered with 'Roundup' or picked before being ripe and cold-transported thousands of miles. Perhaps it's time we toned down our sense of entitlement to all year round asparagus and enjoyed things as they appear from the land before us. It certainly leaves a better taste in the mouth.
Switchel Raw, unpasteurised cider vinegar, as produced on Brambletye farm has many supposed health benefits, not least I suppose because it's all natural. It's not just something to make a salad dressing or vin d'alho with, either. People have been drinking it for centuries. There are so many varieties, but if you taste proper vinegar you'll never go back. As well as apple, there are many raspberry vinegars, parsnip ones, red and white wine, obviously, Banyuls vinegar, which is like having a glass of port, aged vinegars, young ones, all kinds.
I use the cider vinegar to make 'switchel,' a centuries old drink that deserves a revival. It's refreshing and interesting and you can make it as sweet or sharp as you like. I prefer sharp to add some zing, there are already to many sweet drinks around. For a non-drinker it's something that tastes a little more grown up than the seemingly thoughtless offerings of children's fizzy squash packaged in adult designs and it's not based around sugar. It's important to also use raw honey here to get the full healthiness.
Make a bottle, keep it in the fridge and swig merrily away, knowing it's all pure.
Ingredients 1tbsp raw honey Juice and zest of a lime 4tbsp raw cider vinegar A thumb of ginger, grated Water to top up (or leave it neat and dilute with sparkling water)
Method Dissolve the honey in a few tablespoons of hot water then top up with the lime juice, vinegar and grated ginger. Funnel into a 500ml sterilised glass bottle and add fresh, filtered water to the top. Seal and leave to infuse for a day. Keep in the fridge, serve with ice or just straight in short glasses.
It changes your attitude, somewhat, to the fish you're eating when you know the name of the fisherman who caught it. Joe caught my bass, out on the stormy seas while I was pottering around my warm kitchen with a cup of tea that didn't throw itself across the room every ten seconds as the house hit a wave That adds a whole new level of respect as I place the fish in the hot pan.
The crew of the day boat 'Le Belhara', owned by Chris Veasey, fish out of Eastbourne, and the catch makes its way to Veasey and Sons Fishmonger, in Forest Row, East Sussex, about 30 miles from the coast. Chris opened the shop, housed in a former butcher's, with son-in-law Dan Howes eight years ago after success at the East Grinstead Farmers' Market.
While the day boat sails from Eastbourne, Dan and his colleagues staff the bright, yet cosy feeling shop on the narrow road that leads out of the village to Hartfield. An elderly man and lady whom I assume to be his wife by the way they argue, looks at me standing over the mussels and says "We're very fortunate to have this fishmongers in the village." I nod back and mumble something about my good luck that they are at the market every Saturday where I live.
I first discovered them when they started their crushed ice-laden fish stall at the Crystal Palace food market four years ago and finally got round to visiting them last week. They now have ten market stalls every week as well as the shop and are spreading their passion for quality fish wherever they go.
It's a privilege to be able to buy such good fresh fish minutes from my house in London on a Saturday morning. One of my great disappointments in life is how much of our amazing seafood gets exported. But that's because The Europeans seem to respect fish more, it's more part of their daily diet than here, where we stretch mainly to cod and chips on a Friday or fish fingers for the children. Fish and chips is all very well, but the chips must be hot, salty and spiky with vinegar, the sea should be no more than 15 metres away while you eat them and the weather should be blustery.
But it's more a state of mind than a meal. In reality that state of mind often becomes a state of disappointment, apart from the very occasional highlight at places such as Lewis' fish shop in very fishy town of Newlyn where it was so good we went a few times on our summer holidays last year.
Sadly, the price of fish is often serious injury or lives lost at sea, Dan explains as he shows me an x-ray from one of the fishermen's hands after an accident with a winch. Bones crushed and crunched out of shape, finger joints at right-angles, like a particularly gruesome skeleton pianist from a travelling horror show.
The cod is particularly good at the moment, Dan tells me as I eye what to buy. Bass, sitting firm on it's bed of sparkling ice crystals as if in a giant jewellery box has to come home with me, it looks too good to resist. I also take a meaty cod loin which a day later is shared with the family in a fish molee, rich with coconut sauce, onion and the hint of cinnamon, cardamon and clove. I'm generous like that. Home made fish cakes also fall into my bag, a quick supper for when we've been out all day.
And last, I also ask for a bag of mussels, which, coincidentally, was the nickname I always wanted. A few large handfuls go in, they clack and knock together as they slip into the bag, looking like shiny black pebbles on the beach as the waves ebb away.
The bass will be dusted in flour and cooked in darkening butter. A squeeze of lemon may be enough, but I'm always a fan of salsa verde or a herb-laced olive oil. One of the best things about fish is that you can have supper on the table in about ten minutes if you get yourself together. The molee I made was ready in the time it took for the rice to cook, and the mussels, which I had for lunch today were ready in less than five. You can't even get fast food that fast. Just remember where it came from as you enjoy it.
Mussels with miso and n'duja broth Ingredients for two people A bag of spanking fresh mussels (these keep in the fridge for up to a week if looked after) 2tbsp white miso paste 2tbsp n'duja 500ml hot water 1 shallot or small onion, very finely diced 1 clove of garlic, grated or crushed A large splash of verjus to steam the mussels (white wine or water as an alternative; I prefer verjus which keeps better and is more interesting than the leftovers of some bad supermarket wine) Olive oil Salt to season
Method Heat a heavy, lidded saucepan and add the verjus followed by the mussels. Put the lid on and steam until they have opened, this should only take a couple of minutes. Remove from the heat. Meanwhile, sauté the shallots and garlic in a little olive oil until soft, season well. Add the miso and n'duja and a splash of hot water and mix well to a creamy paste. Add the rest of the water, mix well and bring to just below the boil. Remove from the heat and pour into the mussel pan. Stir gently and serve straight away. Possibly with some crusty baguette if you fancy.
I'm a busy man, I don't have time to separate my free-range, organic araucana eggs for homemade mayonnaise. In the cut and thrust world I live in I barely have time to put clothes on before I leave the house and take the children to school.*Why not just buy a jar of mayonnaise I hear you ask? To be honest, it's been a quiet couple of weeks here, so I blatantly have more time usual, hence the fresh bread issuing forth from the oven and the children eating proper food on the weekends and after school.The reason I didn't separate the eggs was to see what whole egg mayonnaise was like. And it's pretty good, hardly different to the usual method. It's just a little more liquid to begin with so emulsifying the oil takes a little more time, but in a food processor it's easy. And it tastes so much better than a middle-class posh jar with French words and has the added benefit of having no stuff in it for a year on the shop shelf.I found the remains of some wild garlic, flowers and all, in a still fairly good state in a bag in the fridge. They were starting to become slightly frilly and not quite as fresh as when I picked them. They were certainly good enough, however, for a pesto, sauce or in this case accompaniment to plump and juicy prawns on hot toasted sourdough. If I'm lucky, there may still be some lurking in the garden for the risotto I'd originally planned, but for now, this is a delicious use for them.As far as the monk's beard goes, the season for that is even shorter. If you've missed it, although I suspect it's still available (Natoora and Ocado stock it), samphire works perfectly in it's place. And failing that, some tender British asparagus tips, halved lengthways and lightly steamed will also work.*I do get dressed. And it's mainly because the alarm is such shock to the system I snooze it until the last minute. I'm not a morning person. Getting up earlier is not an option with my lack of discipline.Ingredients, lunch for two8 large tiger prawns, shell and head on2 free-range organic eggs1tbsp Dijon mustardA pinch of saltRapeseed oilA tablespoon or two of olive oil to finishA splash of water to loosenA small bunch of wild garlic, flowers too if you have any (they're peppery)A small bunch of monk's beard or a couple of handfuls of samphireJuice and zest of half a lemonSourdough bread to toastMethodMake the mayonnaise. You can do this in the mini bowl of the food processor or by hand with a whisk.Stir the mustard and a pinch of salt into the eggs. With the motor or your whisk hand running, pour in the rapeseed oil at first slowly drop by drop until it starts to thicken and emulsify. You can then speed up the pour, spinning all the time until thick and 'mayonnaise-y'. Now continue with the olive oil. Add a splash of water to loosen a little. If you're doing this in the processor, throw in the garlic now and blitz until completely shredded to pieces in the mayo. If doing it by hand, slice, slice and slice again then chop. Now stir it in well. This keeps in the fridge for a few days in a sealed jar so make it ahead if you fancy.Sauté the prawns with the shell on in some olive oil and chopped garlic until cooked, then remove from the pan and leave to cool a little.Remove the tough stalks from the monk's beard. These make good, if temporary weaponsQuickly sauté the leaves in the pan the prawns were cooked in and add the lemon juice and a pinch of salt at the end.Toast the bread, dollop a spoon of mayonnaise on top and spread it around.I shelled the prawns over the toast and mayo, squeezing the heads as I did so to get more of the juices out, giving it an even bigger punch of flavour.A sprinkle of salt and pepper, the still warm monk's beard leaves and perhaps a few chilli flakes and lunch is ready.
I'm a busy man, I don't have time to separate my free-range, organic araucana eggs for homemade mayonnaise. In the cut and thrust world I live in I barely have time to put clothes on before I leave the house and take the children to school.*Why not just buy a jar of mayonnaise I hear you ask? To be honest, it's been a quiet couple of weeks here, so I blatantly have more time usual, hence the fresh bread issuing forth from the oven and the children eating proper food on the weekends and after school.The reason I didn't separate the eggs was to see what whole egg mayonnaise was like. And it's pretty good, hardly different to the usual method. It's just a little more liquid to begin with so emulsifying the oil takes a little more time, but in a food processor it's easy. And it tastes so much better than a middle-class posh jar with French words and has the added benefit of having no stuff in it for a year on the shop shelf.I found the remains of some wild garlic, flowers and all, in a still fairly good state in a bag in the fridge. They were starting to become slightly frilly and not quite as fresh as when I picked them. They were certainly good enough, however, for a pesto, sauce or in this case accompaniment to plump and juicy prawns on hot toasted sourdough. If I'm lucky, there may still be some lurking in the garden for the risotto I'd originally planned, but for now, this is a delicious use for them.As far as the monk's beard goes, the season for that is even shorter. If you've missed it, although I suspect it's still available (