You’ve probably heard that it is really easy to make good hummus at home and that, once you’ve tried it, you’ll ‘never go back’ to the shop-bought stuff. This is rubbish. I’ve rarely met anyone in real life who hasn’t told me that their experiences of making this classic Middle Eastern chickpea slurry at home were wildly disappointing. Recipes say things like, “for a super simple, healthy supper, just whizz two tins chickpeas with 1 clove garlic, 2 tablespoons tahini, juice of 1 lemon and a glug of olive oil.” It absolutely never comes out right. It’s never smooth enough and the flavours always seem out of kilter.

I’ve been trying to make a decent version myself for years because, once I fail at something in the kitchen, I’m like a dog with a bone; Steingarten-esque in my persistence of perfection. I think I’ve cracked it but let me warn you now, you’ve got to put a little work in to get the results.

I’d been approaching the task in entirely the wrong way, viewing it as a five minute job – whack it all in the blender and hope for the best. Really good hummus though, is actually a labour of love.

It is essential to cook your own chickpeas. Tinned ones pong, their flesh weak and pallid. Soak the dried ones overnight in cold water with bicarbonate of soda then cook the next day; a 10-minute rapid boil and skimming plus an hours simmer should do it. If you think that’s a lot of effort then brace yourself for the next step. The creamiest texture comes from individually popping each chickpea from its papery skin; it is these tough coatings which make the hummus coarse. We’re talking one episode (new format) of Come Dine with Me to skin those suckers.

Another tip is to use the smallest chickpeas you can find. I’ve taken to these brown ones recently; they’re small and nutty, although the end result is never quite as smooth as with white peas. When it comes to blending, I do the tahini and lemon juice first, otherwise the tahini can clump and never distribute properly and then add the chickpeas in batches with a splash of water each time. Again, it all helps to make a smooth paste. The rest is down to personal taste although of course it’s better to add a little at a time rather than try to counteract a dominant flavour later.

Buoyed by my success with the hummus, I decided to have a go at making pitta bread. They only needed an hour to rise and puffed up really well. Unlike the hummus, very easy to get right first time and honestly, so much better than shop-bought. Really.

Hummus

This makes a big batch but let’s face it, if you’re going to faff about skinning chickpeas then you may as well make it worth your while.

325g dried chickpeas (they will double in weight once cooked)
1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
5-6 tablespoons tahini
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
Juice of 1 lemon and possibly the juice of another (at least half)
2 fat cloves of garlic
1 heaped teaspoon fine salt
Olive oil

Parsley and paprika to garnish (optional). Toasted pine nuts or whole chickpeas are also good on top.

Begin the day before, by soaking your chickpeas in cold water with the bicarbonate of soda and leaving them overnight. The next day, rinse them, cover with cold water (no salt) and bring to a rapid boil and leave for 10 minutes, skimming off the scum that rises to the top. Drain then re-cover with water and simmer for an hour – 90 minutes, until they are soft and squish easily between your fingers.

Once cool, pop each one from its skin. It takes a while but I found plonking myself in front of the telly eased the pain.

Whizz the tahini and juice of 1 lemon together in a blender until well combined, then blend the garlic and salt into the mix before adding the chickpeas, a handful plus a splash of water each time. When all your chickpeas are blended in, add a good glug of olive oil (hold the bottle over the blender for a couple of seconds), turn the blender on and leave it for a few minutes. Adjust the flavours to your taste. I find it always needs more lemon juice.

Garnish with more olive oil, parsley and paprika.

Pitta Bread (makes eight)

I used part wholemeal flour, firstly because I had some hanging around and secondly for a bit more of a robust flavour. I think it works well but you can use entirely strong white bread flour if you prefer.

220g strong white bread flour
150g whole wheat flour
1 heaped teaspoon fine salt
1 tablespoon caster sugar
1 x 7g sachet fast action dried yeast
300ml warm (not hot) water
2 tablespoons olive oil

Add the yeast to the water and leave in a warm place for about 10 minutes until frothy. This means that the yeast is activated.

In a large bowl combine the flours, salt, sugar and oil and then add the yeasty water. If you have an electric mixer with a dough hook then simply set the lot on the lowest speed for 10 minutes, adding more water if necessary, until smooth and elastic. If you don’t have a mixer, combine the mix until it comes together into a ball of dough. Again, add a little more water if necessary to bring it together. Knead on a lightly floured surface for 10 minutes until smooth and elastic.

Rest the dough in a lightly oiled bowl (so that it doesn’t stick) and cover with clingfilm or a damp tea towel and leave in a warm place until doubled in size – mine only took an hour.

After this time, knock the dough back a little by punching it a few times then divide it up into 8 pieces. Roll each into a ball, then recover for another 15-20 minutes. Preheat the oven to 200C and preheat a baking stone or baking tray (turned upside down).

On a lightly floured surface, roll out each dough ball into a pitta shape – each should be about 0.5 cm thick. Bake them on the stone or baking tray for about 5 minutes, or until golden and puffy. They are best eaten warm from the oven and they re-heat well.

If I’m not stressed out of my mind that is. I was going to show you what I’ve been doing the past few days, including a little demo, if you could call it that, of how to make the feta and spinach spanakopita thingies you see below but seriously, I am cursed in the ‘vlogging’ department. Somehow, between us, Chris and I managed to repeatedly fail to press the record button properly and I’ve wound up with four very short clips of footage which bear pretty much no relation to each other. I’ve stuck them together into one big fail. I do hope you didn’t expect any improvement in the quality of this video compared to the last one. You did? Oh.

Yep. Sorry.

So here’s the recipe I was talking about. Warning: very addictive. It’s hard enough to stop yourself eating the filling while making them, let alone once you’ve crammed all that healthy spinach up against some cheese and wrapped it in pastry.

Mini Spanakopita (makes about 20)

1 pack filo pastry or 1 ‘samosa pad’, which you can buy in Asian grocers. They usually come frozen and are exactly the right width.
Olive oil
3 large bunches of spinach (see vid)
1 pack feta cheese (200g)
1 large onion, finely chopped
Seeds for the edges (optional). I’ve used sesame seeds, poppy seeds or sometimes I add some onion seeds inside the parcels themselves.

Preheat your oven to 200C

Gently soften the onion in a little olive oil until translucent (sometimes I add a few onion seeds). Set aside in a bowl.

Meanwhile, trim any tough stalks from the spinach and wash in several changes of cold water. Plunge the spinach into boiling water for 3 minutes, then drain and refresh under cold water until it is cool. Pick up the spinach in your hands and squeeze as much water as possible out of it, then chop it roughly and add to the onion. Crumble the feta into the bowl too and season with black pepper. Taste the mixture – it may not need any salt because of the cheese.

Take either your filo or your samosa pad and lay on a flat surface. If you are using filo, trim the sheets lengthways into 3 then begin each samosa with 1 sheet, brush it with oil and lay another sheet on top, then brush again and add another. If you are using a samosa pad, the sheets are generally thick enough already and you will only need to brush once around the edges.

Take a tablespoon of the spinach feta mix and put it on one corner of the pastry, then carefully fold over into a triangle, pressing down the seams and brushing as you go. Keep folding over into triangles until there is no pastry left. Brush the outside with olive oil. You can now dip the edges into seeds if you wish. Just scatter them on a plate and dip the edges in.

Bake for 10-15 minutes, until golden brown.

Boys, eh? They just love cooking outdoors. Man make fire blah blah blah. HE always takes charge of the BBQ, apparently. What a load of old twaddle. If I’m having a BBQ, there’s only one person brandishing the tongs and unsurprisingly, that’s me. It’s one of those infuriating and pointless distinctions like the one between ‘man food’ and ‘woman food’. Yes, that’s right dear, you chow down on that juicy hunk of cow flesh while I nibble at a few lettuce leaves and remember to look pretty.

I’ve come across this idiotic stereotypical bullshit in relation to the book (Gastronaut by Stefan Gates) that inspired Danny a.k.a The Food Urchin to cook a whole lamb in a pit in the ground. The book is a bible for the adventurous cook; you’ll find methods for making your own biltong, instructions for fashioning a smoker from a biscuit tin and of course how to cook salmon in your bathtub. It’s the kind of book that some men like to think women won’t get involved with.

Danny, by the way, is not guilty of making any such ridiculous assumptions, he’s a bloody nice bloke and I’m not just saying that because he invited me and about 30 other people round to share the lamb, all because we once cooked for him as part of this project.  Myfanwy was her name and eating her was our tasty game.

The ‘pit’, called an ‘Imu’, is apparently popular in Polynesia, where people traditionally filled the pit with hot volcanic rocks which stored the heat nicely. Stefan recommends using bits of iron as a replacement but Danny used some of the bricks you find inside storage heaters – a stroke of genius I think you’ll agree. She cooked for 9 hours in that pit; not a peep from her. Not a teasing waft of smoke or indeed any heat – apparently the ideal situation. And when it was finally time, the raising up was quite a spectacle; not unlike raising a corpse I thought to myself, before realising that was exactly what was happening. Myfanwy, God rest her soul, nestled firmly into the shell of a shopping trolley, was shovelled, huffed and lifted out by five capable and excitable men. Us women just stood by and looked pretty.

What emerged was the most incredibly fragrant and tender meat. Nine hours hunkered down in close quarters with a gang of root vegetables and a bushel of rosemary gave Myfanwy the sweet perfume she deserved and the totally confined cooking method rendered the meat the texture of pulled pork. We fought the cats for falling scraps.

My contribution to the meal was some baba ganoush, which went down really rather well hence me deciding to share the recipe. The key to a gorgeous baba is to blacken those aubergines as much as possible; you want them collapsed, wheezing,  juicing and charred all over. The best way to achieve this, I think, is to stick them directly onto the gas flame on a cooker; it’s much quicker than grilling and never fails to achieve the desired effect. It makes a right mess of course but you’re rewarded with a super smoky baba. Priorities, priorities.

If you want to cook your own lamb in a pit, or indeed a goat, pig or deer, then I suggest you contact Danny. He’s the man who’s done it after all and he can warn you about any pitfalls (sorry). Gastronaut is also one for the wish list. Don’t be daunted, you can start with the small challenges and work your way up to your own Welsh beauty; why not consider a spot of home made cheese making? A bash at creating some biltong? Or perhaps you’d like to fashion a smoker from a biscuit tin.

Hats off to Danny though, he is now, in my eyes, the Bear Grylls of the culinary world. I’ll have to delve into that book sharpish and redress the balance for the sisterhood. The bit where Stefan travels around the human body though, giving pointers on the best way to ingest the fluids and scrapings from almost every orifice, is strictly the territory of the man folk. I mean, seriously ladies, some things really are a man’s job.

Baba Ganoush

6 large aubergines
3 cloves garlic, crushed
2 lemons
1 handful mint leaves, chopped
1 handful parsley leaves, chopped
4 tablespoons yoghurt (or more to taste)
6 tablespoons tahini (I like a good whack but you may want less)
1 tablespoon pomegranate molasses
Salt and pepper
A slug of olive oil

Pierce the aubergines with a fork and place directly on the gas rings of a hob (1 per ring), or put them under a grill, turning occasionally until blackened all over and collapsed. 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 pittas and ideally, a pit-roasted lamb.

The tava is still my favourite new toy. For a while, I didn’t even put it away but just let it sit on the worktop so I could look at it more, like a new pair of shoes that you just can’t put in the cupboard. I started basic with chapatis and then felt ready to move on to parathas. It was supposed to be a gentle learning curve until I spotted this gorgeous stuffed version; it had to be done.

This is from the brilliant ‘Indian’ by Das Sreedharan; hopefully I won’t get into trouble for publishing another of his recipes. I can’t understand why the book isn’t more popular to be honest. I found mine for a stupidly low price and quite a few others have told me how they found it in a bargain bin. Das is from Kerala and it’s packed full of South Indian recipes; coconut, curry leaves and mustard seeds are predominant flavours throughout.

Apparently, this recipe is based on “the popular Ceylonese tradition of flat, thin bread dough stuffed with…seafood masala.” You make the paratha dough (wholemeal flour and oil) and then slap it on the hot tava before smearing with the mix of  prawns, egg, onion, chilli and spices. This cooks briefly and then you flip so that the coating sears and sizzles instantly on the tava. You flip again and then roll it all up.

They are dangerously moreish. Crisp paratha and soft, spiced stuffing, fragrant with the essential curry leaf; every now and then a succulent prawn. It’s really tempting to re-make and pack ‘em to bursting but this is one of those times to resist – knowing when to stop and all that. They look weird while you’re cooking them (a bit like someone sicked up on a paratha – there’s no denying it), but once rolled, we’re talking high quality stuffed carb here – we ate four each in one sitting and yearned for more.

I suggest you make a steaming great heap of them. There’s nothing else for it. You won’t need any accompaniments except perhaps something to dunk them into – they’re a meal in themselves.

Adipoli Parathas (from Indian by Das Sreedharan)
(makes eight)

225g wholemeal flour
4 tablespoons vegetable oil, plus extra for brushing

For the filling

8 tablespoons vegetable oil
1/2 teaspoon mustard seeds
2.5 cm piece ginger, peeled and grated
2 onions, peeled and finely chopped
1 green chilli, chopped
10 curry leaves
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
150g raw prawns, peeled
2 eggs, beaten (I used 3)
salt

To make the paratha dough, put the flour in a bowl and gradually stir in the oil and about 150ml water to make a soft, pliable dough. Knead for 3-4 minutes, then return to the bowl, cover and set aside for an hour.

To make the filling, heat the oil in a frying pan. Add the mustard seeds and when the start to pop, add the ginger, onions, chilli and curry leaves. Cook over medium to low heat for 5 minutes, stirring every now and then until soft. Add turmeric and salt and cook for 1 minute then add the prawns until pink and cooked through. Remove the mix from the pan and set aside.

Divide the dough into 8 equal portions. Roll one into a ball before rolling out into a circle as thinly as possible. It should be paper thin and about 8-9 inches in diameter.

Heat a tava, griddle or frying pan and brush with oil. When hot, slap on a circle of dough (the heat should be medium). Cook until it starts to turn golden. Stir the eggs into the prawn mix, lower the heat and then spread 3 scant tablespoons onto the paratha. Leave until the egg is pretty much cooked and then flip, searing the mix onto the paratha. Wait until it is stuck well on there before you flip again and cook briefly. You want it nicely golden underneath.

You now just roll it up. I kept mine warm in a very low oven while I made the rest. I served them cut into two or three pieces each with a yoghurty dipping sauce which had some coriander, chilli and lemon juice stirred through (I think). A dusting of chilli powder on the parathas is really good.

The Jamaican name for this dish, ‘Stamp ‘n Go’ is said to come from the behaviour of impatient, fritter-hungry customers who would stamp their feet for attention and then simply leave the shop if they didn’t get it. Leave without the fritters? Eh? There must be another part to that story; I’ve only eaten them once and I’m hooked. This is the kind of recipe you know you’re going to love but just never get around to making and then you kick yourself repeatedly once you do. Piping hot, fresh golden batter bombs explode with poofs of salty, spiced steam ready for the mighty plunge into bud-tingling chilli sauce.

With a big bag of fillets left over from the okazi soup and a trick up my sleeve for preparing it quickly, these were a doddle to knock up on a school night. I gave the fillets just two boils in fresh changes of water this time to keep a chewier texture and slightly more salt, before adding the flakes to a batter along with spring onions, chilli, garlic and parsley. Tablespoon by tablespoon they dropped into a skillet of shimmering oil, spreading out just enough before crisping quickly to ‘eat-me-now-dammit’ brown. Inside, the salt fish brings an insanely satisfying toothsome chew, surrounded by the fluffy flavour sponge of batter. We inhaled the lot in minutes and not many of them.

I took the simplest approach possible when it came to the sauce and lobbed a can of chopped tomatoes, about 5 regular red chillies, a few cloves of garlic, some salt, some vinegar and some sugar into a pot and cooked it down on the tame side of furiously for about 20 minutes, before half heartedly stabbing at it with a stick blender; it repaid me way too generously for my meagre efforts.

That said, as soon as the first fritter began its inevitable and rapid journey towards my belly, there was talk of spicy sweetcorn relish. I honestly cannot think of any better accompaniment; I kicked myself once more. In my future right now, I see fritters: great towering piles of steaming fritters accompanied by bowls, no, vats, of hot sweetcorn relish. I won’t hesitate to stamp until I get them.

Salt Fish Fritters

350g salt fish fillets, boiled in two changes of water for five minutes each time and then flaked (removing skin and bones)
1 small white onion, finely chopped
3 spring onions, white and green parts finely chopped
1/2 – 1 scotch bonnet chilli, de-seeded and finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, crushed (to be honest, I’m not sure I actually used this in the end so it’s up to you)
A small handful of parsley leaves, finely chopped
115g plain flour
2 eggs
120ml milk
Groundnut oil, for frying

Soften the spring onions, onion, garlic (?) and chilli in a little oil until soft but not coloured. Add to a bowl with the salt fish and parsley. Beat the flour, milk and eggs together in a separate bowl until smooth then combine with the fish mixture. Season with black pepper (no salt).

Heat a 2cm depth groundnut oil in a skillet or frying pan and drop tablespoons of batter in, turning once, until golden brown on both sides. Drain on kitchen paper and serve.

As much as I love a good stew, soup, pie etc, there is something about summer food – vibrant colours, fresh flavours, prettiness on a plate. Food is relaxed in an elegant way, something that cannot be easily achieved with stew and dumplings (although, YUM). As soon as the days start getting warmer, my appetite for carbs starts diminishing and I crave something a bit lighter for my belly. These crab rolls are perfect, like sushi rolls but without the rice. The two knobbly cukes turned up in the box – I pared thin strips with a vegetable peeler and used them as the wrappings for some crunchy ‘sushi’ rolls.

I got to thinking about seafood with fruit after Chris’ brother told me of a lobster and mango salad he ate recently in Dubai. In the UK, Alphonso mangoes are available right now. You buy them by the box and can find them in Indian grocers, which means just about anywhere in London (I can’t be sure of their availability elsewhere, although I used to find them with no problems in Oxford).

The flesh of the Alphonso is considered unsurpassed in terms of sweetness, juiciness and flavour and they are smaller than your average specimen. The fact that you buy them by the box coupled with an incredibly short shelf life is no issue as you will gobble them up quickly. The flavour is like a super enhanced mango.

The crabs landed at Whitby Bay which you can see on this webcam . You could even watch the catch come in, if you like that kind of thing… I bet they eat the freshest crab in Whitby Bay. I remember very clearly some crab eaten while holidaying in Cornwall with my family – spanking fresh, caught that morning and landed literally feet away from the shop/front of someone’s house. We ate it with brown toast, a squeeze of lemon and a green salad – I remember thinking I’d died and gone to heaven.

So for the rolls, we have a strip of mango, a pocket of succulent crab meat, a thin strip each of red chilli and spring onion and finally a leaf of young coriander. All of these I picked up from my favourite local shop which I am lucky to have, as the shopkeeper really cares about great produce and his finger is completely on the pulse without being pretentious. I am hoping my preference for shopping locally might offset my carbon footprint a little considering that the Alphonsos came from Mumbai… Look, I don’t even drive ok?

In the same shop I also discovered some wet garlic – fresh, paperless and an absolute dream to use. The shopkeeper was happy we bought it, peeling back the skin slightly and inviting us to smell it’s pungency. It’s beautiful. You know how that paper can sometimes drive you crazy? No problem with wet garlic, the skin in still fresh and the cloves pop right out. They are crisp, crush like a dream and the whole bulb is a bloomin’ revelation. I want all my garlic like this. The cucumber acted as a perfect container for the fillings – you get crunchy cuke, soft crab, fruity mango, a hint of chilli and fragrant herbage.

This you dunk into the dipping sauce of finely chopped kaffir lime leaves, wet garlic, galangal, rice wine vingear, fish sauce and a touch of honey and oil. Great finger food and perfect for sharing. We ate them on our balcony which is fast becoming a mini jungle, listening to sounds of people in the park and the London traffic which I now find strangely comforting. I love sitting in our little oasis with the chaos of the city below.

Cucumber Rolls with Crab, Alphonso Mango and Chilli

- I don’t think this really needs a recipe does it? Pare thin strips (lengthways) from a cucumber with a vegetable peeler, fill with white crab meat, mango strips, chilli strips and a coriander leaf. Roll them up. Voila! Dip in your sauce of choice.