For those, like me, who can’t rely on being given a home smoker this Christmas, you can build your own approximation with just a roll of tin foil and a big wok or pan for which you have a lid.
Tiny quails may not seem as impressive as a mammoth turkey, but there is something refreshing about a spread of individual birds on the Christmas table.
Apart from its famous healing properties, manuka has a strong, woody flavour.
I have a terrible tendency to lick my fingers when I cook. So much so that I got a telling off from my pastry teacher years ago, who said it would hinder my prospects.
For me, the end of childhood came when the number of candles on my birthday cake no longer reflected my age, around 19 or 20. From then on, each candle came to represent an entire decade.
Braising eggs in a flavoursome, aromatic sauce is all the rage. It is warming and comforting, ideal for the morning when you are not normally up for a great culinary challenge.
Way back when I was a junior pastry chef, I’d bake loads of muffins every morning, as many as 120 or so, while operating on autopilot.
Food that’s served at the table in a paper parcel always creates a remarkable culinary moment when opened, because the package is full of aromatic steam from the lightly cooked ingredients inside.
One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, and the by-product from one food can be perfect for making another.
The smells of slow cooking spread around the house and impart a unique warmth matched only by the flavour of the food.
I always preferred my father’s pasta the next day, when he’d put it in a hot oven with heaps of extra cheese. It would emerge slightly burned and very crisp on top.
The teaching thing, the one where I have to impart my knowledge, is probably what comes the least naturally to me because I’m an absorber of things.
My dad makes food with very few delicate flavours.
Dad likes my food, but he probably thinks it’s too busy. He is a wonderful cook but only uses three ingredients. My mum rips out my articles and makes my recipes.