Vegetables

Carrots

I like carrots. You like carrots. Everyone likes carrots. No point analysing their success – we know that they do a brilliant job bobbing up time and again on plates the world over. Naturally, there are carrots and then there are carrots. And by that I mean that some carrots have the most exquisite sweet carroty flavour, so good you should really just gobble them up raw, and then sadly, other carrots are dull and lacklustre, providing, one hopes, vitamins and other good-health requirements, if not a great deal in realms of pleasure.

There is no telling before the first bite, which makes buying carrots the tamest form of Russian roulette going. There are people who swear blind that organic carrots taste better than non-organic, and often they do. But no one has yet managed to convince me that it is their organicness that makes the difference. No, I reckon that it’s a lot more to do with variety, conditions in the field, freshness and luck, as well as good husbandry.

You may also not be aware that the orange carrot is a comparatively modern phenomenon, and not one that occurs in the wild. The true colour of the carrot is off-white in the case of the Mediterranean native, or purple or red when growing in more exotic places like Afghanistan, though one imagines that there aren’t many left growing in the wild there. You can, however, find purple carrots closer to home in more hospitable surroundings. They are still eaten on the island of Mallorca – a trip to the excellent covered market in the heart of Palma is all it takes to track them down. The difference in taste is minimal but the colour is sheer drama.

Practicalities

BUYING

A happy carrot is firm from tip to stem, no bruising or discoloration, with a pleasing light carroty smell. The slightest hint of flabbiness spells disaster, and slimy ends or rotting soft spots are to be avoided like the plague.

Buying carrots in bunches, with a duster of fluffy green leaves, is the only way you can be sure that they are newly tugged from the earth, but since they store rather well (especially with a dusting of soil still protecting them) freshness is not the critical issue it is with so many other vegetables. Take advantage of it when bunched carrots are on offer, and for the rest of the year pick out carrots of similar size to each other so that they cook evenly. Really small mini carrots, cute though they are, often taste of very little. Costwise it makes sense to go for larger carrots, which should have developed more depth of flavour. The swelling of ginormous carrots, on the other hand, may be partially due to too much water, so they have a tendency to dullness. These are crude generalisations, so there will always be exceptions, but they are the best I can offer as guidelines.

Store carrots either in an airy, dry, cool spot, or in the vegetable drawer of the fridge.

COOKING

Peeling or scraping or just a quick scrub? All three have their supporters, but personally I go for the peeling unless my carrots are pristine organic roots of impeccable freshness. Scraping is a messy business, I find, and slower than peeling. I know that peeling is wasteful, but you could save the peelings for the stockpot, or the compost, or even get yourself a backyard pig to feed them to. There is no doubt that commercially grown carrots must be either peeled or scraped in order to eliminate pesticide residues. When it comes to organic carrots, by definition free from pesticides, you might well consider that a good wash is sufficient.

Raw carrots are under-used. I love them in salads, coarsely grated and dressed perhaps with a mustardy vinaigrette, studded with raisins or currants and toasted pine nuts or walnuts. Or to give a more exotic air, try tossing them with lemon juice, rosewater, a little sugar, salt and a touch of sunflower oil, Moroccan-style. Grated carrots make a handsome addition to a sandwich, too, especially with cheese or hummus.

There are times when ‘over’-cooked carrots are wonderful – in a stew, say, where they’ve donated some of their sweet flavour to the other ingredients in exchange for some of theirs. However, carrots that have been left to boil in plain water for too long have received nothing in compensation but water, ergo they taste of very little. Simmered or boiled or steamed carrots do not take long to cook – the thickness of the pieces dictates exactly how long, but think in terms of 4–6 minutes. That should be long enough for the heat to have developed the flavour, but not so long that it all leaches out. If you know that the carrots you are about to cook are not very sweet, try adding a teaspoonful or two of sugar to the cooking water.

Boiled perfectly, a good carrot retaining just the right degree of firmness is a pleasure to eat plain, but even nicer with a gloss of melted butter, or fragrant lemon olive oil. In the summer I add a speckling of chopped lemon balm or mint; in the winter thyme or savory enhances the flavour.

Although boiling or steaming will always remain the principal way we cook carrots, once in a while have a go at frying (see the salad recipe overleaf) or stir-frying them, cut into slender batons. Roasted carrots should become part of your regular repertoire, if they aren’t already. They taste divine, and are sooo very easy. Just peel the carrots and halve or quarter lengthways if they are huge, then toss them into a roasting tin with a little extra virgin olive oil, a handful of garlic cloves (no need to peel), a few chunky sprigs of thyme or rosemary and a scattering of coarse salt. Roast in a hot oven (200–220°C/400–425°F/Gas 6–7) for around 40–45 minutes, stirring once or twice, until patched with brown and extremely tender.

PARTNERS

Since carrots are so amiable, there are few tastes that don’t marry well with them. I don’t much like the idea of canned anchovies or chocolate with carrots, but I’m hard pressed to think of much else to avoid. Carrots love to be cooked with spices, with herbs, with garlic and chilli, in sweet dishes (such as carrot cake), in pickles, with meat or fish, with cheeses, and of course with other vegetables. This, I imagine, is one of the reasons that you bump up against carrots wherever you eat in the world. And this is also why we should value them more than we do.

Fried carrot salad with mint and lemon

I’ve been making this salad for years and years and it still seems just as fabulous as it did way back in the mists of time. It comes down to taking a bit of time over the frying, so that the carrots soften as their inner sugars caramelise and every mite of flavour in them concentrates itself. Add plenty of fresh lemon and lots of breathy mint and you have a small miracle of a salad on your hands. If you don’t believe me, have a go.

Incidentally, if you prefer, you can roast the carrots in a hot oven (around 220°C/425°F/Gas 7) with a generous dousing of good olive oil for some 30–40 minutes, until browned and tender.

Serves 4

450g (1 lb) carrots (smaller rather than larger)

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

juice of 1/2 lemon

2 tablespoons chopped mint

salt and pepper

If using small carrots, top and tail them, then halve lengthways and cut each piece in half. Treat medium-sized carrots in much the same way, but quarter them lengthways.

Heat the oil in a wide, heavy frying pan and add the carrots. Fry slowly, shaking and turning every now and then, until the carrots are patched with brown and tender. This should take about 15 minutes. Tip into a bowl and mix with the lemon juice, mint, salt and pepper. Leave to cool and serve at room temperature.

Carrot and pickled pepper soup

For this soup I use small, round, sweet-sharp pickled red peppers with a bit of a kick to them, to throw a shot of excitement into a comforting carrot soup. If you can’t find any good red pickled peppers, then you could replace them with pickled jalapeño peppers – but go gently, as the heat can be more intense and the colour is less attractive.

Serves 4–6

1 onion, chopped

500g (1 lb 2 oz) carrots, sliced

1 bouquet garni (3 sprigs lemon thyme, 1 sprig tarragon, 2 sprigs parsley, 1 bay leaf), tied together with string

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

2 tablespoons pudding rice

4 hot or 6 mild pickled red peppers, roughly chopped

1.5 litres (23/4 pints) light chicken or vegetable stock

lemon juice

salt and pepper

To serve

a little soured cream (optional, but good)

roughly torn coriander or parsley leaves

4–6 pickled red peppers, sliced

Sweat the onion and carrots with the bouquet garni and oil for 10 minutes in a covered saucepan over a gentle heat. Now add the pudding rice and the peppers and stir until the rice is glistening with the oily juices. Add the stock, salt and pepper and bring up to the boil, then reduce the heat and simmer for 10–15 minutes, until the rice and carrots are tender. Draw off the heat and cool slightly, then liquidise in several batches. Add a little more stock or water if the soup is too thick for your taste, and stir in a couple of squeezes of lemon juice. Taste and adjust seasoning. Reheat when required.

To serve, ladle into soup bowls, add a few small dollops of soured cream and then top with the coriander or parsley and sliced peppers.

Carrot falafel with tomato and carrot salad

The best falafel I’ve eaten over the decades have almost invariably been bought from street stalls and eaten on the hoof, jostling for space with tomato, cucumber and lettuce in the cavity of a warm pitta bread.

Back at home, lacking the ambience of the bustling street, I resort to making my own falafel, lightened with the natural sweetness of grated carrot, and served as a first course with a fresh and invigorating salad. They’ve not got the street–stall shimmer, but the taste is terrific, nonetheless.

In terms of culinary notes, the most important is that you should never ever even think of using tinned chickpeas for making falafel. They have to be made with dried chickpeas, soaked overnight, to get the right texture and firmness. No debate on this one. The second, a follow-on from the first, is that you mustn’t rush the cooking. If the temperature of the oil is too high, the falafel will never cook through to the centre.

Serves 4–6

125 g (41/2 oz) dried chickpeas, soaked overnight

6 spring onions, trimmed and roughly chopped

1 large clove garlic, chopped

2 carrots, grated (about 200g/7 oz)

30g (1oz) parsley leaves, roughly chopped

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

sunflower and olive oil for frying

salt and pepper

To serve

leaves from a small bunch of coriander

18 mini plum tomatoes, halved

1 shallot, halved and thinly sliced

1 carrot, coarsely grated

juice of 1/2 lemon

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

3–4 tablespoons thick Greek-style yoghurt

To make the falafel, drain the chickpeas and place in the bowl of a food processor with the spring onions, garlic, carrots, parsley, cumin, baking powder, salt and pepper. Process to a smooth paste. You should be able to roll it into balls that hold together nicely – not too soft and soggy, nor irritatingly crumbly.

Take a little of the mixture and fry in a little oil. Bite into it and consider whether the seasoning needs to be beefed up. Act upon your thoughts immediately. Now, scoop out dessertspoonfuls of the mixture and roll into balls, then flatten gently to a thickness of around 1.5 cm (5/8 in). Cover and set aside until needed.

Shortly before serving, heat up a 1cm (1/2 in) depth of sunflower oil, or mixed sunflower and olive oils, in a saucepan. When good and hot, add a few of the falafel and fry for some 3 minutes on each side, until crustily browned and cooked through. You may have to try one to check that you’re getting the timing just right. What a pity – just don’t try too many.

While they are in the pan, mix the salad ingredients – coriander, tomatoes, shallot, carrot, lemon juice and oil – and divide among plates (or pile into one big bowl). Serve the hot falafel with the salad and a dollop of thick yoghurt on the side.

Braised pheasant (or guinea fowl) with carrots, Riesling and tarragon

This is, in essence, a smart pot-roast, with the carrots and Riesling flavouring the natural cooking juices of the birds. If you have a brace of pheasants, there should be enough to feed six comfortably, but a guinea fowl will probably not satisfy more than four. Either way, the finished result is smart enough to grace a dinner party, but easy enough to serve as a good supper dish when you need something of a boost.

Serve the birds and their sauce with steamed or boiled new potatoes and some sort of green vegetable, to counterpoint the tender sweetness of the carrots.

Serves 4–6

15g (1/2 oz) butter

1 tablespoon sunflower oil

2 pheasants or 1 plump guinea fowl

1 onion, chopped

3 cloves garlic, sliced

500g (1lb 2oz) carrots, cut into batons

4 sprigs tarragon

150 ml (5 floz) dry Riesling

100 ml (3 1/2 floz) double cream

salt and pepper

Heat the butter with the oil in a flameproof casserole large enough to take the birds and all the carrots. Brown the pheasants or guinea fowl in the fat, then remove from the casserole. Reduce the heat, then stir the onion and garlic into the fat and fry gently until tender. Add the carrots and tarragon and stir around for a few minutes, then return the pheasants or guinea fowl to the pot, nestling them breast-side down in amongst the carrots. Pour over the Riesling and season with salt and pepper. Bring up to the boil, then cover with a close-fitting lid. Turn the heat down low and leave to cook gently for 1 hour, or a little longer if necessary, turning the pheasants or guinea fowl over after about half an hour.

Once the birds and carrots are tender, lift the birds out on to a serving plate and keep warm. Stir the cream into the carrots and juices and simmer for 2 minutes or so, then taste and adjust seasoning. Spoon around the birds and serve immediately.

Carrot cake

Everyone knows that carrot cake is a very good thing, indeed. What a cheery thought it is that you can have your cake and eat vegetables at the same time.

This is the recipe I return to regularly, after playing away with less successful variations. I’m not usually a big fan of baking cakes or pastry with wholemeal flour, but for once it makes absolute sense, absorbing some of the moisture that the carrot provides, and giving the substance the cake needs.

Serves 8–12

250g (9oz) light muscovado sugar

250ml (9floz) light olive oil or sunflower oil

4 large eggs

2 tablespoons milk

250g (9oz) wholemeal flour

2 rounded teaspoons baking powder

60g (2 oz) ground almonds

2 tablespoons poppy seeds

125g (41/2 oz) shelled walnuts, roughly chopped

250g (9 oz) carrots, grated

Frosting

200g (7oz) cream cheese

200g (7oz) butter, softened

250g (9oz) icing sugar, sifted

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

12 walnut halves to decorate

Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/Gas 4. Base-line two 20cm (8in) round cake tins with baking parchment and grease the sides. Whisk the sugar with the oil, eggs and milk. Mix the flour with the baking powder, ground almonds, poppy seeds, walnuts and carrots. Make a well in the centre and add the sugary liquids, scraping the last of the sugar from the bowl. Mix the ingredients thoroughly.

Scrape into the two prepared cake tins and bake for 40–45 minutes until firm to the touch – check by plunging a skewer into the centre. If it comes out clean, then the cake is cooked. While the cake is baking, beat the cream cheese with the softened butter, icing sugar and vanilla extract to make the frosting.

Let the cakes cool in their tins for 5 minutes, then turn them out on to a wire rack. Leave to cool completely, then sandwich together with about one-third of the frosting. Spread the remaining frosting over the top and down the sides, then decorate with the walnut halves.

Celeriac

Perhaps the most brutish-looking of vegetables (swede competes for the title, and it’s hard to decide which merits the crown most), celeriac is a form of celery with an absurdly swollen rootstock, known technically as a corm. Both celeriac and celery share the Latin name Apium graveolens, even though they look so very different. When the stems are left on celeriac, sticking up like a brush, the connection is more obvious. The stems are slender, but topped with the same leaves, as if someone had squeezed hard on the broad succulent stems of a head of celery, forcing all the liquid back down into the root to puff it up like a balloon. The odd thing is that celeriac doesn’t taste at all like celery. Celeriac tastes of nothing but itself. Most people love it, and many people find it infinitely preferable to celery.

So, discount the exterior and concentrate on the firm, cream-hued interior. Solid and dense and generously proportioned, it is a remarkably delicious vegetable. I’ve never really understood why we don’t use it more: over in France it is the substance of one of their favourite mainstream salads, sold in every charcuterie and supermarket, as popular as and infinitely better than, most of the coleslaw consumed here. Yet here it is still considered something of an outsider, idly hovering on the fringes of popularity. How much longer before it breaks through to become a household name?

Oddly enough, celeriac sales were boosted by the vogue for the Atkins diet. Celeriac is, apparently, very low in carbohydrate. What a godsend for those who missed potatoes. Here was a great substitute, particularly when mashed with shedloads of cream and butter. Now that the Atkins diet is no longer as fashionable as it once was, I hope that the celeriac habit endures – it is far too engaging a vegetable to drop the minute the diet is over.

Practicalities

BUYING

Celeriac is always big, but don’t buy the most colossal ones, as these may have swelled up so far that the centre has become spongy or hollow. Be satisfied with plain big. Choose celeriac that is firm and heavy with no soft, bruised spots. Store it in the vegetable drawer of the fridge, where it will keep happily for a week or more.

COOKING

Celeriac can be cooked in a number of ways, but before that you have to take off the outer layer and the gnarled tangle of roots at the base. I usually slice the celeriac thickly then discard the roots and cut away the skin around the edge of each disc. If I’m boiling the celeriac, I then hack it into big chunks, ready to drop into the pan. If not used immediately, celeriac discolours, so once cut drop it into a bowl of water acidulated with the juice of 1/2 lemon or a dash of wine vinegar.

The most cherished way to serve celeriac is mashed, either à la Atkins, in other words pure celeriac and lots of rich cream and butter, or – rather nicer, both in texture and flavour – mashed with equal quantities of potato, a large knob or two of butter and some milk. Either way it begs for plenty of salt and a good scraping of nutmeg. Another fine variation that I make occasionally, especially as Christmas approaches, is a mash of celeriac and chestnuts – true, the colour is muddy, but the taste is divine. Unless you are saintly, use vacuum-packed cooked chestnuts, and mash with double the quantity of celeriac, butter and cream. Nutmeg is essential. Distract from the colour with a sprinkling of chopped chives and a knob of melting butter in the centre of the hot mash.