Vegetables

Swede

Swede is an unattractive vegetable. Lumpish, large and arrayed in dull colours, it does little to endear itself to a potential buyer. Beauty, we are told, lies beneath the skin and somewhat reluctantly I have now come to the conclusion that there is a dash of truth to this here. In the case of swede, it is not a startling beauty, but rather a quiet comforting comeliness.

It took a minor spot of focus-grouping amongst friends (thank you, Jess, Jennine et al) to draw me to this conclusion, having successfully ignored the swede for several decades. Now, I realise that, if it is cooked congenially and adequately buttered up (literally), lowly swede is actually rather good. And cheap. Not a bad thing, either. As a new convert, I even found myself defending it when a young friend of my son described it as the vegetable from hell. Which it can be when tarnished with age and presented watery and dull. Such is the stuff of criminal cooking, probably institutional.

Swede-novice that I am, the recipes I’ve chosen for this section are basic and straightforward. I’ve not yet got to the stage where I get inventive with swede, and besides I’m not entirely sure that it would be a good idea. There’s an underlying whiff of sulphur even in the freshest cannonball swede and it needs to be handled cautiously. Instead of treading roads previously unexplored, I’m playing safe, looking north to Scotland, where swedes are known as turnips or ‘neeps’, and south to Cornwall. And should you ever come across references to ‘rutabaga’ in American cookbooks, I hope you won’t be too disappointed to be told that this, too, is swede.

Practicalities

BUYING

Swede keeps very well without rotting, but I would suggest that you do not attempt to mature your swedes for any length of time. Age brings out the sulphur bitterness, which stops being pleasant the second it is clearly detectable. So, pick out healthy-looking, firm and smooth-skinned spheres and cook them within a week at most.

The ideal storage place, as for most vegetables, is a cool, dry, airy spot, but failing that, the fridge will do nicely. A half-used swede should be covered in clingfilm before returning to the fridge and then used up within a day or two, before it starts tainting milk and butter.

COOKING

Boiling and mashing tend to be the preferred methods of cooking swede. Together they work fine, but if there’s one thing to be avoided it is serving great big lumps of watery swede all on their own. The only times whole chunks of simmered swede are even remotely acceptable are when they’ve been cooked in a flavourful broth (as in Scotch broth) or beef stew. Swede is too doughty for more delicate chicken stews. Friends recommend roasting wedges of swede, or braising wedges in olive oil (as for Phil Vickery’s salsify on page 83), but these are cooking methods for the swede aficionado, not for nervous beginners like me.

Peppery mashed swede and carrot

This is the dish that my guides Jess and Jennine insisted that I should include. They were not in total agreement as to the details, but the main theme was much the same. It is good, I have to admit, as long as there is plenty of butter mashed roughly into the swede, along with terrific quantities of freshly ground black pepper.

Although it goes against my every instinct, I followed Jess’s instructions to cook swede and carrot for an extraordinary 40–60 minutes. It turns out that she is right, as it gives a rough mash that is tender but still not totally devoid of texture. The ratio of carrot to swede is another personal foible. You might like to increase the carrot to 50 per cent of the total.

Incidentally, if you replace the carrot with potato (roughly equal quantities with the swede) and add a quartered onion to the pan too, what you end up with is Orkney clapshot.

Serves 6

1 swede, weighing about 675 g (11/2 lb), peeled and cut into 2 cm cubes

about 250g (8 oz) carrots, thickly sliced

60 g (2 oz) butter

salt and ginormous amounts of freshly ground black pepper

Bring a pan of unsalted water to the boil and add the swede and carrots. Turn down the heat to give a pleasantly slow simmer, then walk away and forget about the vegetables for at least 40 minutes, and up to an hour. Actually, don’t ignore them totally – you’ll need to check every now and then that the water level hasn’t dropped down too low. If it is disarmingly low, top up with more boiling water.

When both vegetables are terrifically soft, drain them well and return to the pan along with the butter, salt and lots and lots and lots of freshly ground black pepper. Mash the whole lot together, taste and adjust seasoning, and serve swiftly

Bashed neeps

Bashed neeps is a variable dish. On an average day it is just mashed ‘neeps’ with butter and pepper, and is what posher people might once have called ‘turnip purry’. On high days and holidays, however, cream comes into play along with a generous slug of whisky for those who fancy it.

Serves 6–8

2 swedes, peeled, cubed and boiled until tender

30g (1 oz) butter

80 ml (3 floz) double cream

2 tablespoons whisky

3 tablespoons chopped chives

salt and pepper

Drain the swedes thoroughly, then return to the pan with the butter, cream and generous quantities of seasoning. Mash together roughly over a gentle heat until piping hot. Stir in the whisky and most of the chives. Taste and adjust seasoning, then serve with the remaining chives sprinkled over the top.

Cornish pasties

From the south of the country comes one of the finest of recipes embracing swede. I’m not for one moment saying that this is a definitive recipe for a Cornish pasty, but it is something close, with fine steak baked slowly on top of a thin layer of swede and potato. This vegetable layer is essential to soak up the juices from the meat, keeping the pastry crisp on the bottom.

Makes 4

Pastry

500g (1 lb 2oz) plain flour

a pinch of salt

160 g (51/2 oz) butter

60g (2oz) lard

icy water

1 egg yolk, beaten, to glaze

Filling

500g (1 lb 2oz) rump steak, cut into small cubes

1 onion, chopped

1 large potato, peeled and very thinly sliced

1 small swede, peeled and very thinly sliced

salt and pepper

To make the pastry, mix the flour with the salt. Rub in the butter and lard, then add just enough water to mix to a soft but not sticky dough. Wrap in foil or clingfilm and chill for at least half an hour. Bring back to just under room temperature before rolling out.

Mix the steak with the onion and plenty of seasoning. Line a baking sheet with non-stick baking parchment. Divide the pastry into four, and roll out each piece large enough to cut out a 20cm (8in) circle (use a side plate as a template).

Arrange one-quarter of the potato in the centre of each pastry circle in an oval shape and season. Lay one-quarter of the swede over that, then mound a quarter of the steak mixture over that, moulding it to cover the potato. Dampen the edges around one half of each pastry circle with a little of the egg glaze, then bring both sides up over the filling, crimping the edges firmly together to form the characteristic pasty shape. Rest in the fridge for half an hour.

Preheat the oven to 220°C/425°F/Gas 7. Brush the pasties with egg glaze, then bake for 15 minutes. Reduce the heat to a lowly 170°C/325°F/Gas 3 and leave the pasties to bake for a further hour. Check regularly and cover with foil if the pastry is browning too rapidly. Serve hot, warm or cold.

Sweet potatoes

It’s the colour that does it for me, every time. It’s so damn cheery. Brighter than even a carrot; it’s that orange. Not on the outside, of course. No, the skin of a sweet potato is a muted, more sophisticated wine-dregs rose. Remarkably similar, if not identical, to the skin of a kumara (see page 46), the white-fleshed form of the sweet potato, which would be confusing if kumara were more commonly available.

The vibrant orange of the flesh of the sweet potato only develops as the tuber cooks. Raw, the colour of the flesh sends me back to a time when junior aspirins were coloured just that attractive shade of faded, pinky orange. You can, I am assured, eat sweet potatoes raw – grated perhaps into a salad – but I’ve tried it and I don’t think I’ll bother again. The moistness of the sweet cooked flesh, with its psychedelic-sweetie hue, is what appeals.

Despite the obvious allure of the sweet potato, it has taken an awfully long time to make headway on this side of the Atlantic. It came back from the Americas with the Spanish Conquistadors, and indeed the very first potato of any kind to be planted on our shores is rumoured to have been an Ipomoea batatas, not a true potato (Solanum tuberosum) at all. They are not, incidentally, even vaguely related, belonging to different botanical families. Unlike real potatoes, sweet potatoes crave warmth and without it they won’t thrive; England’s climate is hardly sub-tropical, and the crop was a miserable failure.

Now we’ve given up growing them in the great outdoors, and finally are importing them in increasing numbers. Sales are swelling, we are slowly taking them to our hearts, and they look like becoming a permanent fixture in the British diet. Hurrah. It’s only taken 500 years.

Practicalities

BUYING

Taut skin and firm bodies – that’s what you’re looking for, just like on the

beach. At the risk of sounding ageist, wrinkles are to be rejected, and there’s no point at all in handing over your cash for a sweet potato that has soft patches. The tips may be slightly discoloured but this is only to be expected – those sweet potatoes have travelled a long way. If I have a choice I pick larger tubers, merely because they are less fiddly to handle.

Stored in a cool place they will last for several weeks, but like most vegetables the sooner you cook them the better they will taste.

COOKING

I’ll bet you a tenner that most of the sweet potatoes eaten here are baked in their jackets. It’s the obvious way to cook a sweet potato. None of that sweetness leaching out, and no extra damp creeping in. It makes sense. Treat them just like ordinary potatoes – prick the skin, rub in a little salt if you wish, then bake at around 190°C/375°F/Gas 5 until tender. Time will depend on the size of the potatoes, but we’re talking in terms of 45–60 minutes, give or take. Or microwave them, again just as you would an ordinary potato.

Baked sweet potatoes are just great served instead of ordinary potatoes, split open and buttered, or topped with grated Parmesan or mature Cheddar, or soured cream and chives. I love them with bacon, with tzatziki, Greek yoghurt, and even tapenade. You might like to run up a snappy chilli and coriander butter for them (blend butter, fresh red chilli, coriander leaves and a shot or two of lime juice) or a classic French beurre maître d’hôtel (butter, parsley, garlic and lemon juice).

Sweet potatoes make a stunning mash – run the American route with this one, flavouring the mash with grated nutmeg and cinnamon, to highlight the warmth. Add a big knob of butter, plenty of salt and freshly squeezed orange juice which matches not only the colour but also the flavour. Don’t use milk in sweet potato mash – it just feels plain wrong.

Americans consider sweet potatoes (which they often call yams to confuse everyone else) an essential part of the Thanksgiving meal, served with the turkey and all the trimmings. Candied yams is a dish of sweet potatoes cooked with sugar and other flavourings (often orange juice and spices) to accompany the main course. Adding sugar to sweet potatoes? Overkill, unless we’re talking pudding. It’s certainly not an idea that appeals to me.

I’d far rather sauté cubes of sweet potato, finishing them with salt and ground cumin and coriander just before they emerge from the pan, or perhaps grate them raw to make a sweet-salt version of rösti, so good with game or white fish. You can use all sweet potato, or mix it with equal quantities of ordinary potato, or grate in raw carrot, or beetroot for something altogether more fancy. How about sweet potato and beetroot rösti, topped with a little soured cream and herring roe caviar (or the real thing when you are feeling extravagant) to serve as a chic starter to a dinner party? Put me on the guest list right now.

Using vegetables in puddings is not a natural activity. We’ve all grown used to carrot cake, but that’s cake, not dessert. Put aside any reservations you may have in the case of sweet potatoes. They mash down to such a moist smoothness that they work brilliantly in all kinds of recipes. Be bold and try the meringue-topped sweet potato pie below, and you’ll see what I mean. You could also enrich the mashed sweet potato with cream, butter and a little extra sugar to use as the filling for a two-crust pie, or to make a fool. I don’t see why you couldn’t concoct a superb sweet potato ice-cream if you fancied – then keep all your guests guessing the nature of your mystery pudding.

SEE ALSO KUMARA (PAGE 46).

Stir-fried sweet potato with lamb and green beans

Baking and boiling are all very well, but if you want to retain a degree of firmness to your sweet potato, then stir-frying is the natural choice. Stir-fry it on its own to serve as a side dish, but better still stir-fry it with lamb and salty Chinese black bean sauce for a quick feast, guaranteed to rev up the spirits, as it works the taste-buds.

For stir-frying I use either lamb leg steaks or chump chops, cut into thin slivers. The number of chillies is entirely at your discretion. I use medium-sized, medium-heat chillies here, to maximise the flashes of red in amongst the vegetables and meat, without totally blowing the roof out of my mouth. Tiny bird chillies are so ferocious that it would be wise to restrict yourself to one, foregoing the visuals in order to survive the heat. Unless, that is, you are a chilli fiend.

Serves 2–3

2 tablespoons sunflower or vegetable oil

2 cm (3/4 in) piece fresh root ginger, peeled and chopped

2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

1 or 2 red chillies, deseeded and cut into strips

1 sweet potato, weighing around 400g (14oz), peeled, thinly sliced and then quartered

125g (41/2 oz) green beans, topped and tailed and cut in half

225g (8oz) tender boneless lamb, cut into thin slivers

3 tablespoons black bean sauce

1 teaspoon toasted sesame oil

Get all the ingredients fully prepared and measured out, and set them out close to the hob. Put your wok (which should be a good roomy one) over a high heat. Once it starts to smoke, add the sunflower or vegetable oil, then add the ginger, garlic and chillies and stir-fry for 20 seconds or so.

Next add the sweet potato and stir-fry briskly for 3 minutes. Add the green beans and stir-fry for 4–5 minutes, until the sweet potato is tender and the beans are patched with brown. Tip all the vegetables out on to a plate and return the wok to the heat. When it is back up to prime heat, add the lamb and stir-fry for about 1 minute, until just barely cooked through. Return the vegetables to the wok and mix them well with the lamb. Add the black bean sauce and stir-fry for a final couple of minutes. Stir in the sesame oil. Taste and add a little more black bean sauce if you think it needs it.

Sweet potato and red lentil soup with mint

What a splendid soup this is! Perfect stuff for a spot of cold weather (I’d be tempted to bring it out on Bonfire Night), with just enough lift from the lime and mint to stop it being dull. A whole star anise, by the way, has seven or eight ‘petals’ – useful to know if yours have collapsed in their jar.

Serves 6

1 onion, chopped

550g (11/4 lb) sweet potato, peeled and cut into chunks

3 cloves garlic, chopped

4 cm (11/2 in) piece fresh root ginger, peeled and chopped

1 whole star anise

2 tablespoons sunflower oil

1 tablespoon tomato purée

1 heaped teaspoon ground cinnamon

150g (5 oz) red lentils

1.5 litres (23/4 pints) water or vegetable stock

juice of 1–2 limes

150ml (5 floz) soured cream

leaves from a small bunch of mint

salt and pepper

Put the onion, sweet potato, ginger, garlic, star anise and sunflower oil into a roomy pan and stir around. Place over a low heat, cover tightly and leave to sweat for 10 minutes, then add the tomato purée, cinnamon, lentils and water. Bring up to the boil, then reduce the heat and leave to simmer until the lentils and sweet potato are very tender. Season with salt and pepper.

Remove the star anise, then liquidise the soup or pass through a mouli-légumes. Stir in as much lime juice as you like. Taste and adjust seasoning.

Reheat when needed, and spoon into bowls. Finish each one with a little soured cream and a small handful of mint leaves on top.

Southern sweet potato pie

This is far better than pumpkin pie. Don’t be scared to line the pastry case with clingfilm – it’s a pastry chef’s trick and it works brilliantly, lifting out perfectly every time. And no, it won’t melt either.

Serves 8

3 large sweet potatoes, about 1.5 kg (31/4lb) in total

300 g (11 oz) sweet shortcrust pastry

30g (1 oz) softened butter

100 g (31/2 oz) caster sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

a generous grating of nutmeg

4 tablespoons double cream

1 egg

3 egg yolks

Meringue topping

3 egg whites

150g (5oz) caster sugar

Preheat the oven to 190°C/375°F/Gas 5. Put the sweet potatoes in to bake.