I usually serve these with bacon. It’s sweet n salty amazing. This scotch bonnet salsa is also lovely, but there’s a clear lack of pork in the picture and for that I apologise.

Corn is dirt cheap right now and I constantly hear it begging me to shear it from the cob and fritter the living daylights out of it. The fresh stuff really keeps its succulence but canned and frozen will also work. There are all sorts of things you could add to the mix; Simon suggested cockles, which I’m dying to try. Salt fish is a favourite, if a little more effort. Often though I prefer a simple recipe – a touch of spice, a little spring onion and fresh herbs; it’s all about the corn.

Fiona Beckett asked me to contribute a recipe to her student cooking site, Beyond Baked Beans and so this is it. The recipe is easy, fun to make and when served with bacon and perhaps an egg, one of the best hangover cures known to woman. What more could a student want from a meal? If you can stomach it though, there’s literally no better accompaniment than an ice cold beer.

Corn Fritters

140g plain flour
1/4 teaspoon baking powder
1 egg, lightly beaten with a fork
220ml milk
3 large corn cobs
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon ground coriander
3 spring onions, finely sliced
A small handful of fresh herbs, such as mint, coriander or parsley
If you’re not serving this with a hot sauce, try adding a finely chopped red chilli in the batter
Salt and pepper

Vegetable or groundnut oil, for frying

Sift the flour into a large bowl with the baking powder. Pour in the milk and mix well to make a smooth batter.

Remove any outer papery husk and strings from the corn cobs then stand one on its end on a chopping board and carefully run your knife down one side to remove the kernels. Repeat this until all the kernels are stripped off and then add them to the batter. Add the egg, spices and spring onion and season with two large pinches each of salt and pepper.

Heat a 1cm depth of oil in a heavy based frying pan or skillet and wait until it starts shimmering, but not smoking. Turn the heat to medium-high. Drop a tablespoon of the batter into the oil at a time and immediately flatten it out into a round fritter shape. It will take a few minutes to turn golden on the underneath – you can then flip it over and brown the other side. Be wary as the oil will spit a little and splash as you turn them. Set aside to drain of excess oil on kitchen paper then keep warm in an oven on its lowest setting while you make the rest. Don’t be tempted to try and put too many in the pan at once.

Serve with bacon. And perhaps egg. Or anything else you fancy.

The way to get good at cooking is to go at recipes over and over, not flit around from one place to another and never look back.

I ate a stunning baba ganoush at Maramia Cafe recently as part of a ‘lamb banquet’ organised by Carla. The meat was soft and tasty as hell,  but the baba was what really blew people’s minds. It was thicker than mine; I wondered how they’d achieved the consistency and considered straining the yoghurt. I’m a serial strainer – you end up with something almost cream cheese-y but way more refreshing. I tried using it in the baba and the result was of course, richer. I’ve also started using smaller aubergines, which means that the smoke can penetrate all the flesh, rather than just the outer layer.

That’s it really – makes all the difference.

Baba Ganoush

8 small aubergines
2 cloves garlic, crushed
2 lemons (juice)
1 handful mint leaves, chopped
1 handful coriander or parsley leaves (or a little of both), chopped
6-8 tablespoons tahini (I like a good whack but you may want less)
1-2 tablespoons pomegranate molasses
Salt and pepper
4 tablespoons olive oil (not extra virgin)
4 tablespoons strained yoghurt (see below)

First, strain the yoghurt. If you don’t remember to do this the night before it doesn’t matter, even a couple of hours will make a big difference and the process itself takes seconds of preparation. Take a 500g tub of decent Greek-style yoghurt such as Total. Full-fat will obviously taste better than low fat but the latter does work okay. You’ll need some butter muslin, which is available from hardware stores easily. Cut a square of the muslin and line a bowl with it. Mix the yoghurt with a scant teaspoon of salt, mix well, then dollop it all into the middle of the muslin in the bowl. Gather it up, tie string around the top then tie the other end to something (I use a kitchen cupboard handle). Leave it for a few hours or ideally, overnight with the bowl underneath.

Pierce the aubergines with a fork and place directly on the gas rings of a hob (1 per ring) on a low flame, or put them under the grill, turning occasionally until blackened all over and collapsed. They will burst but this is fine, it just requires a bit of attention so you don’t lose the flesh. Remove to a plate and let cool slightly, then scrape the flesh from inside, leaving any bits of blackened skin and liquid on the plate behind.

Blend with all the other ingredients and season and adjust as necessary. You may want to add more lemon, yoghurt or salt for example.

Allow to sit for a few hours before serving with hot flat breads or pitta for scooping.

[IMPORTANT EDIT DECEMBER 2011: Caribbean Spice Jerk Centre has now been taken over by new management and I'm sorry to say, is no longer worth visiting. They once served the best jerk in South East London but it's now dry, lacking in heat, flavour and all around love. I couldn't be more sad/angry!]

I’ve been working my way around the jerk shops of Peckham. Some have been soul destroyingly pants. Spice and Nice Bakery, I’m looking at you. Gabby’s takeaway, you made me sad. It has not been a good couple of weeks on the SE London jerk scene and then, to top it all, I received the earth-shattering news from a friend that the chef at my favourite place, Smokey Jerkey in New Cross, doesn’t use scotch bonnets in his jerk marinade. I mean, what?! I’m still reeling.

It’s enough to plunge a woman into dark mental places but I’ve found salvation in Caribbean Spice, which has sprung up all happy and yellow under an arch near Peckham Rye station. As with most jerk shops and to be fair, most places in Peckham, it’s a no-frills outfit. There’s a kitchen where they cook stuff, a counter for serving it on and a few stools should you wish to hang about to eat it. No messing.

I was down there the day after they opened, default-ordering jerk chicken. It was very good indeed. Wet marinated and suitably sticky with sugar, it necessitated a good bout of finger-licking afterwards. The chilli heat made me sniffle. I wondered if it needed more allspice but when I looked down for my next bite to make sure, it was all gone. Caribbean Spice, welcome to Peckham. You’ll do a roaring trade in such a perfect location. So many times, I’ve come out of that station and before I know it, I’m standing in front of the counter placing an order. At this rate, I’ll need to start taking a different route home.

Caribbean Spice Jerk Centre
Station Arcade, Rye Lane
Peckham
(It’s in the alleyway that is the side entrance to the station)
Tel: 0207 358 8491

Apparently they have another place around Bellenden somewhere but I’ve not seen it.

School. Of. Wine. I don’t think I’ve ever been more eager to learn. At real school, the one where you need to be an actual child, I was a terror. When I was in attendance that is, because if I could help it, I wasn’t. I turned bunking-off into an art form; me and my bezzie mate and partner in crime, Leah. I remember our classmates reporting back a quote from our French teacher who, frustrated at our continued absence burst out, “sod this kids, let’s all bog off down the pub with Helen and Leah.” My parents actually live opposite one of my old teachers, and one day he dared to ask them what I do now. My mum said his face was a picture when she told him about my career in psychology. I can’t say I blame him. Must have been quite the shock.

So I was clearly more interested in boozing than studying, but my oh my, how things change when the two are combined. School of Wine is a once a week, 13 week course, starting out with the basics of tasting and winding on through viticulture, vinification and various wine producing countries; France; Italy; Germany and Austria; Spain and Portugal; Australia and New Zealand; the USA; South Africa and South America. The course finishes with fortified and sweet wines, followed by the grand finale – sparklers and champers, with CHIPS.

Every Monday night, our group gathered around a long, candlelit wooden table in the back of Green and Blue, an award winning wine shop in East Dulwich, specialising in natural wines. You gather and chat and drink and try to stop yourself from slumping under the table by munching on hunks of bread from the local German bakery.

Kate Thal is the wonder-woman running the show. She delivers most of the sessions herself and the depth and breadth of her knowledge is staggering. I can completely relate to her, because we both hate any kind of pretension or snobbery when it comes to food and drink. This anti-elitism is the absolute foundation of School of Wine. You can always tell the difference between someone who really knows their stuff and someone with their head stuck up their own arse because the former will tell you that there are no right or wrong answers when it comes to tasting.

I’ve been through a couple of phases with wine. At first, it was just the complete and utter unknown, I didn’t know where to start. I learned a little bit, met a few unhelpful people, felt silly and overwhelmed. And then I went to wine school.

I learned about the horrors of mass produced wines; the way the grapes are so immature and badly grown that they have literally no character of their own and are ‘flavoured’ with dirty little teabags of artificial nasties. I learned about my favourite grapes and regions; the former are Riesling and Gewürztraminer, the latter Alsace and anywhere that grows Riesling and Gewürztraminer. Extensive notes back up the classes which steer you and your buds up and down rambling hillsides and through lazy 4-hour fantasy dinners of cassoulet, confit and smoky, iron-rich reds. It was a genuinely emotional journey. A grown man and I nearly shed a tear over a Loire Chenin Blanc and I drunkenly agreed to join the Women’s Institute.

If you have an interest in wine, then go go go. This is not your regular selection, but carefully chosen and genuinely interesting. You’ll taste an average of 11 each week and share out the leftovers between you. Some were cloudy, some keenly crisp; there were chilled reds, vegetal, raw, slightly dirty whites and stickies like distilled raisins. What really elevates this course though, is Kate. She is eloquent, witty and engaging. More than one of the boys had a crush on her. Hell, I almost had a crush on her. I dare you to go these classes and not come away with the utmost respect, not just for Kate but for her entire philosophy. She does it for the love, as do the producers she sources from. Some are so small that they are barely making any money from the backbreaking work that is the reality of making decent wine.

There cannot be a wine course in London that is better than this one. You can enter it at literally any level and mine Kate’s brain as little or as much as you want. You will feel inspired and if you’re anything like us, you will gush about it for months afterwards. The classes run on Monday nights, which I suppose is my only criticism. Still, it does ensure that most people are available and I still don’t feel right on a Tuesday morning unless I’ve got a sniff of a hangover. So much so in fact, that I’m going right back to school. Secondary School of Wine is nearly upon us, and I’ve got my brand new pencil case.

Do read fellow student Graeme’s post, which is brilliantly written and much better than this one.
Thanks to Ewan-M for the photo of the shop front.

Green and Blue’s School of Wine costs £325 for 13 weeks of tasting, teaching and learning. I was invited to try it free of charge.

Green and Blue Wines
38 Lordship Lane
East Dulwich
London
SE22 8HJ
T: 0208 693 9250
School of Wine

Apparently there is a place in San Francisco that serves a chicken and bread salad and is famous for it. I dunno, I’ve never been to America but that’s what I found when I googled the recipe to see if anyone else had got there first.

Original or not, it’s definitely one of the most delicious salads I’ve ever made. I love how it’s not really in any way healthy. There are two important things to remember when making it, and that is to buy good chicken (free-range, doesn’t have to be organic) and really good bread. With a recipe this simple, the ingredients need to shine, cliché or not. Burnished, crackling chicken skin is glazed with lemon and honey and seasoned a little bit too much. Bread from St. John is robust and when torn into pieces, drizzled with the chicken drippings and lightly toasted, turns into chewy half-croutons; crisp in some places, moist with meaty juices in others. Cue that noise that Homer Simpson would make if he were daydreaming about a heap of doughnuts, skewered with fried chicken wings, stacked on a giant table made from icy Duff.

Watercress is just the right leaf for the salad I think, not too bolshy. Curly endive also works. For the dressing, it’s mild mustard, a touch more honey to sweeten and then let yourself go with the lemon. That rush of acidity really makes it work.

There are various bits and pieces you could add I suppose but personally, the furthest I’ll go is a few barely-existent slithers of spring onion. It’s all about the flavour of that bird.

Oh, and there’s a matching wine. Yeah, you heard me. Ben asked me to come up with a dish to match a Raimat Vina 27 Chardonnay. I was worried it wouldn’t have enough acidity to cut the richness of chicken skin but it stepped up well. Apple and citrus were predominant flavours and I’m pleased I didn’t go with the obvious choice of fish. Having to plan a dish before you’ve tasted a wine is a challenge, particularly for a novice like me. It’s all about reigning yourself in I suppose and not over-complicating flavours. Start out modest and work your way up, and then when you get a bit good, you can pare it all back down again because at the end of the day, the simplest pleasures are often the best.

Roast Chicken and Bread Salad

1 x 2kg  free range chicken
200g really good, dense bread (I used St. John’s white loaf which has the texture of sourdough but without the sourness)
A couple of handfuls of watercress
1 large lemon and possibly another
1 generous tablespoon honey
A few cloves of garlic, unpeeled
1/2 spring onion, sliced very thinly

For the dressing

Juice of half a large lemon
1 tablespoon olive oil (not extra virgin)
1 teaspoon mild mustard
1 teaspoon honey
Salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 220C/Gas 6

Put your bird in a roasting tin and scatter the garlic cloves around it. Peel the zest from half the lemon then scatter this around the bird too and squeeze the juice into a bowl. Warm the honey gently to make it runny then mix this with the lemon juice and brush the mixture all over the bird. Season it heavily, all over and then roast for 30 minutes. Turn the heat down to 160C/gas 3 and roast for another 20-30 minutes. The bird is cooked when the juices run clear when you insert a skewer sideways into the thickest part of the leg.

Remove the bird from the tray and allow to cool. Remove the majority of the crust from the bread and tear it into bite sized pieces. Put the pieces in a bowl and spoon over about 3 tablespoons of the chicken drippings. use your hands to give it a good mix about then pop them into the oven for a few minutes until lightly toasted, but not too crisp – you still want a good bit of chew.

To make the dressing, mix the lemon juice, olive oil, mustard and honey together and season with salt and pepper. Give it a good whisking to emulsify the mixture.

Arrange the watercress on a plate, then arrange some of the bread pieces and chicken on top. Make sure to get plenty of crisp skin. Scatter over a few spring onion pieces if you fancy then drizzle with the dressing and serve. I’m jealous.