Nduja is a spicy, spreadable, Calabrian sausage up there with the trendiest of ingredients. For months I’ve resisted its porky charms, the only reason being that my only other experience with a (different) spreadable sausage (at a very popular East London restaurant) ended in 3 days of food poisoning hell. The very idea of spreadable meat made me queasy, until I came across a nduja stall in Borough Market last week. The giant red lobes glistened seductively in the sunlight, I approached cautiously for a taste, then promptly kicked myself for being such a wuss and missing out on what is one of the most delicious pork products I’ve tasted in a very long time.

It is made mostly from bits of the head, super-charged with outrageous quantities of fiery red Calabrian chilli pepper (at least 60% according to some websites) which gives it the most intensely savoury umami addictive quality. You can just taste the sun in the bitter-sweet intensity of those red peppers. I can’t get enough.

It’s wonderful melted and scrambled into eggs, or used as a dip for bread (as the Calabrians apparently eat it). Tim Hayward likes it with crab. My favourite way to eat it is melted into pasta sauce, with or without tomato. Its power to enrich a basic tomato pasta sauce is second to none but now I prefer it stirred into just a little onion and butter; the sausage melts away to a hundred flecks of scarlet pepper swirling in heavenly porcine oil. Mixed through spaghetti, with just a squeeze of lemon, this may be one of the most perfect pasta sauces of all time.

Spaghetti with Nduja (some people say this amount of pasta should serve 2 people; I can eat the lot no problem)

200g spaghetti
1 generous heaped tablespoon nduja sausage (it will keep for months in the fridge, too)
Half a small white onion, finely chopped
A knob of butter
A squeeze of lemon juice
A few leaves of parsley, chopped
Salt and pepper

Cook the spaghetti in plenty of boiling salted water. Meanwhile, melt the butter and soften the onions it. When they are translucent, melt in the nduja. Add a squeeze of lemon and some salt and pepper.

When the spaghetti is cooked, spoon 2 tablespoons of the cooking water into the sauce, then drain the pasta. Mix the sauce with the spaghetti and serve, scattered with the parsley.

Yeah, quite chuffed with these. I thought it sounded near impossible to slip an egg yolk into the centre of a ravioli and cook it without it either busting out into the water or completely over-cooking and to be honest the latter worried me more; the idea of hard-boiled yolk encased in pasta is just really, really grim.

Anyway they are actually quite easy. You have to make your own pasta of course, so it depends how you feel about that and you really will need a machine because the pasta needs to be as thin as you can possibly get it. That would be a long hard slog with a rolling pin and I ain’t no Nonna. It’s easy when you make pasta at home to be fooled into thinking you have it thin enough when you don’t, which is exactly what happened to me the first time I made these. They cooked perfectly, but the pasta was just too fat and gluey.

The next time I pushed right through to the heady heights of setting number 9 on the machine and was rewarded with papery pasta sheets. I made a spinach and ricotta mixture which doubled up as a stand to keep the yolk in place (an idea I tea-leafed from Nicky who used a ricotta and herb mix and took some incredibly good pictures). It’s important to have a large pan so you don’t overcrowd it with ravioli and to have the water at an enthusiastic simmer rather than a boil (to avoid eggy bursts). A mere 2-3 minutes will cook the pasta through (remember it’s very thin, and fresh) and the yolk will remain gooey and ooze out onto the plate creating a rich sauce.

I bathed them simply with melted butter, crushed pink peppercorns, lemon zest and some of the purple basil that my mum grew and I have somehow managed to keep alive. I love how they look all pretty and delicate but are actually packing the punches with pasta, egg and butter. They’re deceptively light in the eating too, dangerously so in fact. You’ll only want one or two per person but there’s no need to worry about not being full; it would be a crime not to mop up all those golden buttery juices with a slice or two of good bread.

Egg yolk ravioli (serves 4)

200g 00 flour (strong white flour)
2 eggs
A pinch of salt

For the filling

8 small eggs
200g spinach leaves
100g ricotta
1 tablespoon grated Parmesan
Black pepper

Sift the flour into a large bowl. Make a well in the centre and crack the eggs into it. Add the salt. Bring the pasta mix together until you have a rough dough. Knead it on a lightly floured surface until smooth and silky. Wrap in clingfilm and leave to rest for half an hour.

Meanwhile, wash the spinach and without drying it put it straight into a small saucepan on a low heat and put a lid on. Steam until wilted down. Drain, then when it is cool enough to handle, squeeze as much water from it as possible and chop finely. Add to a bowl with the ricotta and Parmesan. Add some black pepper. Taste and add some salt if you like.

Roll out the pasta to the thinnest setting using a pasta machine. Cut into 16 large squares on a well floured surface (you want to leave enough room to cut around the ravioli easily without the stuffing coming out of the sides). In the middle of every other square, put a blob of ricotta mixture, then make a dimple in the centre large enough to hold an egg yolk. Make sure the sides are high enough so that the yolk won’t spill over. Crack an egg over a bowl into your hands so that you are left holding the yolk and the white drains into the bowl through your fingers. Carefully slip each yolk into the middle of the ricotta mixture.

Bring a large pan of salted water to the boil and then reduce it to a simmer. Brush some of the leftover egg whites around the edges of each ravioli and place another pasta square on top. Seal the ravioli carefully easing out any air bubbles towards the edges. Use a glass or teacup to cut each ravioli into a circular shape.

Use a fish slice to pick up each ravioli and place gently into the water. Cook for 2 minutes until the pasta is just cooked and the yolk still runny. Serve with melted butter mixed with crushed pink peppercorns and chopped lemon zest. Garnish with basil.

Here’s a way to sneak up on your next pasta binge from a different angle. Cooking the pasta for a second time in the oven gives you a bit of textural contrast from the lovely crisp edge bits, the soft inside stuffed with your weapons of choice. I’ve heard this recipe touted as a ‘good use for leftover pasta’ but really, who ever has 500g of leftover pasta? Perhaps an army chef.

What it is good for though, is using up the odds and sods in the fridge. I slung in some softened onions and garlic, black olives, jarred artichoke hearts, grilled bacon, most of a tub of ricotta and the juice and zest of two lemons. A waif end of cheese and stray stalk of parsley went on top. The secret to a good spaghetti cake is to keep it well oiled; they have a tendency to come out dry otherwise. As an alternative, try using a double cream and egg yolk mix stirred through the pasta  – the end result will be denser and richer.

So there we have it, a way to make pasta even more unhealthy than it was before; where there’s a will there’s a way.

Sicilian Spaghetti Cake

500g spaghetti
1 large onion, finely chopped
5 cloves of garlic, finely chopped
150g jarred artichoke hearts in oil (reserve the oil), chopped roughly
150g black olives, pitted and chopped roughly
250g ricotta cheese
A generous handful of parsley
The juice and zest of two lemons
6 rashers of bacon
Olive oil and plenty of it
A splash of white wine if you have it

Preheat your oven to 180C

Begin by cooking your spaghetti until almost al dente. While this is happening, grill the bacon until crisp then chop roughly and set aside.

Soften the onion and garlic gently in a little olive oil (then add the splash of wine if you have it allowing a minute or two to cook out), then add the artichoke hearts, olives and bacon to warm everything through. When your pasta is ready, stir through the oil from the jar of artichokes plus your artichoke mixture, the lemon juice and zest and a really generous seasoning of salt and pepper. Stir through the ricotta and most of the parsley. The mix will probably need another generous slug of oil at this point. Don’t be shy – that’s a lot of spaghetti.

Brush an oven proof skillet or similarly shaped pan with a little more oil or butter and pour in your spaghetti, flattening it down to a cake shape. Bake for about 30 minutes, until golden and crispy at the edges. Garnish with more parsley. Slice and serve warm, with salad for a bit of psychological self trickery.

Few things wrap themselves around pasta quite like the ragu. Three and a half hours of gentle simmering and that meat is ready to embrace every fold, nook and cranny of carbohydrate. You wait a long time for it to collapse, reduce and intensify and so a generous portion is essential as a reward. When you’ve finished devouring, it is perfectly possible that you may need a lie down and then, probably, a nap.

I managed to stick out three and a half hours cooking this ragu. At one point I thought it might need four, and in my delicate mental state owing purely to the anguish of delayed gratification I almost shed a little tear. I’m sure none of you lot would be so fragile and unreasonable in the face of a half cooked stew though, so don’t let that put you off.

While the persona of the ragu is like that of a mature and erudite gentleman, the gremolata zips in with the energy of a three year old given free reign with the sherbet dip dabs. The chipper mix of lemon zest, parsley and garlic is, for me, the perfect condiment, skipping around those wintry depths with perky high notes.

This is solid Sunday food. It’s indulgent, comforting and takes a long time to cook. It also gives you time to get into character with it; I pretended I was Keith Floyd in his heyday as I poured an entire bottle of gutsy red over some large pieces of meat and then settled down with a glass of my own.

Beef Ragu Papardelle with Gremolata

800g beef shin
2 large carrots, finely diced
2 large sticks celery, lightly peeled and finely diced
2 onions, finely diced
2 bay leaves, slightly torn
1 tin good quality chopped tomatoes
1 bottle red wine (not crap)
2 large cloves garlic, very finely chopped
A large sprig of thyme, leaves only
Pasta, to serve

For the gremolata

Handful parsley leaves, very finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, very finely chopped
Zest of 2 unwaxed lemons, finely chopped or grated (if you can only get waxed lemons, give them a good scrub under a hot tap)

Add some olive oil to a large, heavy based pan and add the onions, celery, carrots, bay leaves and garlic and sweat gently, with the lid on, for 10-15 minutes until they softened. Season the beef shin well all over and add it, plus everything else. Bring to the boil then turn down very low, put the lid on and simmer gently for 3-4 hours, until the sauce is thick and the meat is falling off the bone. Remove all the pieces of bone and discard. Flake up the meat if it hasn’t done so by itself and add back to the sauce. Adjust the seasoning and serve mixed through pasta of your choice (papardelle is good as it is quite big and robust).

For the gremolata, just mix everything together and sprinkle over your pasta.

Fiona Beckett recently threw down the challenge to produce the ‘ultimate’ macaroni cheese. I think it’s fair to say I was up for that with bells on. My enthusiasm escalated to such lofty heights that I ended up producing a cheesy carbilicious beast of mammoth proportions; a behemoth capable of providing an extra  insulating layer around my ribs that would keep out the winter chills and probably stay put well into spring. It fed two of us twice a day for two days plus three men for dinner on a third.

Before Creation of course, there was only me. Me and my hungry brain trying to figure out what would make my ‘ultimate’ mac ‘n cheese. I dipped my toe into the idea of going down the purist route (read ‘no pork’), but I’ve learned not to try and trick my tastebuds for the sake of principle. Usually I use bacon, but this time I wanted to somehow gently infuse the porky flavour throughout the dish and hit on the idea of simmering a small ham hock to make stock before cooking the macaroni in the golden swiney liquor. Pasta cooked in ham stock. Yes. The meat I teased from the bone into silky pink nuggets; every now and then a porcine treasure bobbed up from the bubbling cheesy depths.

When it comes to the cheese, I’m a cheddar girl. Extra mature, naturally. A mac needs guts and only x-rated quantities of a well ripened cheddar can produce the tang I crave; melted into silky bechamel with a smidge of the Montgomery smoked to play off the pork, finished with a good shake of white pepper. I often prefer its sharp, ripe intensity over the black stuff; hugely underrated.

And finally to the crust. For me, it must be crisper than a  winter morning in Siberia and for this I could think of nothing more suitable than Japanese panko crumbs, mixed with yet more CHEESE.

Shattering crust, cheesy steam, rich, gooey pasta; sauce oozing through every tube. Crispy burnt edge bits tumble into soft, unctuous, silken stodge. How could I forget such a classic? The divine chorus of carb and dairy, singing to the tune of winter weight gain.

Mac ‘n Cheese for an Army

The quantities here got a bit out of hand so you might want to halve it! This filled a  14 x 12 x 3 inch dish if you want to feed your entire neighbourhood. Do the hock first, then while the pasta is cooking, make your cheesy sauce. If the pasta is done before the sauce, add a few drops of oil and stir to stop it sticking together.

For the hock

1 small ham hock
1 bay leaf
Six black peppercorns
A few parsley stalks
1 carrot, halved
1 stick celery, halved
1 onion, halved and stuck with a couple of cloves

Place the hock in a large pan and cover with water. Simmer for a few hours then strain into a bowl and reserve the stock for cooking the pasta. Flake the meat from the bone, taking care to avoid any bits of skin or sinew, chop into bite size chunks and reserve for mixing into the mac.

For the sauce

Triple this bechamel recipe, adding about 500g cheddar of your choice plus 150g smoked cheddar melted in at the end. Season with plenty of white pepper but no salt (the hock and cheese are both salty).

425ml milk
40g butter
20g plain flour
A swift grating of nutmeg (optional)
White pepper to taste

Melt the butter over a gentle heat and add the flour, stirring quite vigorously to make a paste. Let this cook for a few minutes, stirring vigorously the whole time. Begin adding the milk a little at a time, making sure each bit is incorporated fully before adding the next. Towards the end you can start pouring larger amounts in there. Add the nutmeg and cook over a low heat, stirring, for about 10-15 minutes. When it starts to thicken, add the cheese and allow it to melt. Season with the white pepper to taste. If you need to keep it to one side, cover with some greaseproof paper to stop a skin forming.

For the macaroni

700g dried macaroni

Cook the macaroni in the reserved ham stock, topping up with a little water if necessary.

For the topping

Panko breadcrumbs (enough to cover), mixed with a good couple of handfuls of grated cheddar. I grated a bit more on top and added a bit of parmesan too simply because I had it lying around but that’s optional.

Assembling and cooking the mac

Mix the sauce with the macaroni and ham hock pieces then check the seasoning before piling into a well buttered baking dish. Sprinkle on the crumb topping, grating on more cheese if desired. Bake at 200C until golden brown and crisp. Allow to cool a little before serving and serve with a salad of bitter winter leaves or a summer salad with a sharp dressing.

On our way back from Brightwell vineyard a couple of weeks ago, we stopped off at a local deli in Wallingford. As I gazed longingly at the cheeses behind the glass counter (what’s with the glass anyway? they could learn a thing or two from La Cave à Fromage), I heard a shriek of excitement from Niamh as she spotted this rainbow striped pasta.

It was pricey but sometimes a girl just can’t resist a gimmick – we both bought some and then pondered how best to eat it. I have two favourite pasta dishes – the first is simply coated in butter, garlic and chilli, (probably the best way to show off the colours) and the other a punchy combination of anchovies, garlic, chilli, lemon, broccoli and breadcrumbs, which is what I was craving and is therefore what you see below.

I have been making this dish for many, many years, and I rather enjoy the method used by Judith Wills in her book The Food Bible, which is not the sort of book I actually use anymore, but a leftover from a bizarre healthy eating phase I went through about 6 years ago. Still, her method of pounding together the garlic, chilli, lemon and anchovy oil in a pestle and mortar pleased me then and I still use it to this day. The recipe for me is not complete without crispy breadcrumbs sprinkled on top.

Sadly, when cooked, the pasta predictably loses its vibrant colours and takes on this orangey hue. Still, it cheered me by injecting some carnival flair into an otherwise dreary interlude in what now appears to be summer in London – huzzah!

Pasta with Broccoli, Anchovy and Chilli

Approx 300g pasta
A couple of handfuls of broccoli florets
1 large red chilli
1 handful crispy breadcrumbs (whizz up 1 thick slice of stale bread, crusts removed, and fry in 1 tbsp olive oil until golden and crisp)
Approx 10 anchovy fillets packed in oil, drained (reserve the oil).
Juice of 1 large lemon and zest of half
3 cloves garlic
Salt and pepper
Olive oil

- Cook the pasta according to packet instructions
- Meanwhile, blanch the broccoli florets in boiling water for 2 minutes, drain and refresh under cold water
- Pound the garlic and chilli together with a small pinch of salt in a pestle and mortar then add the lemon juice and zest and the reserved oil from the anchovy tin with some black pepper and mix well
- Heat 2 tbsp olive oil in a frying pan or skillet and add the brocolli (it will spit), stir frying for a few minutes before adding the mixture from the pestle and mortar and stir frying a few minutes more. Then add the anchovy fillets and stir, allowing them to melt
- When the pasta is ready, drain and combine with the broccoli mixture. Serve in warmed dishes with the breadcrumbs on top

Yesterday I made my 7th notch on the 2009 BBQ bedpost. Not too shoddy considering it’s only spring. Every Brit knows you need to make the most of each glimpse of sunshine – case in point being this very next day as we are dealt a dose of predictable bank holiday gloom. Cloud and drizzle hangs over London, no doubt putting paid to plans of picnics, walks and BBQ’s everywhere. By the end of the summer though, I will have grilled, smoked and charred every ingredient I can think of over a hot kettle of coals. There will be memories of beers that flowed, fingers that got burned and I will probably have gained half a stone.

Our most major BBQ achievement this year has been actually bothering to find out how to use the thing properly. I always wondered why slow cooking joints just didn’t happen until I consulted google when making this lamb. Still, mustn’t get too cocky – there are always lessons to be learned. The moral of the story this week? Don’t forget your drip tray.

You see, this salad was actually just an afterthought addition to the BBQ, the leftovers from the previous night’s dinner, out of place with the rest of the menu but delicious nonetheless. The main event was supposed to be these jerk pork ribs, big meaty beasts that had been sucking up that spicy sweet seasoning all night long.

The butcher had sold out of regular ribs so I opted for strips of pork belly with the ribs still attached, figuring that more meat is clearly a good thing. Knowing they would need long cooking I started them in the oven with the intention of finishing them on the BBQ. In my excitement however, I forgot to position the drip tray to catch all the fat and just slapped them right on.

I wandered off for literally a minute before I heard screams from outside and turned to see 2 foot high flames leaping from the Weber. The ribs were sticks of charcoal within 30 seconds. Ruined. In true carnivore fashion though, we picked through the burnt remains for nuggets of meat in the kind of frenzied, primal display that can only take place among good friends. That is why I bring you pasta.

The Fregola Sarda is a toasted Sardinian pasta with an earthy, nutty flavour, made by rubbing with the hands to form crumbs (‘fregare’ apparently means ‘to rub’). It is immensely toothsome and satisfying – a pure carb hit to help me on my way to that extra half stone. I mixed it with some roasted aubergines, peppers and a few stray spears of aspargus.

For the wild garlic, a big thank you must go to The Food Urchin, who has been kindly supplying the food blogging community with a seemingly endless supply of plants from the bottom of his garden. A handful of leaves make fantastic pesto, with none of that raw garlic edge you get when using more than half a clove in the regular variety.

Determined not to let the rib fail get us down, we took inspiration from the flames for dessert – bananas flambéd in rum with vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce. Classic hot and cold and sweet caramelised goodness. The remaining rum went into mojitos, which we enjoyed while sprawled on sofas, cradling our over-stuffed bellies and bickering over a board game. There may even have been dozing at some point. Someone bring me a pipe and slippers.

Fregola Sarda with Roasted Vegetables and Wild Garlic Pesto

1 packet fregola sarda
3 bell peppers (I used two red, 1 yellow)
1 large aubergine
4 spring onions, just the green parts really, sliced
Olive oil
Salt and pepper

Wild Garlic Pesto

1 handful wild garlic leaves, well washed
50g pine nuts
50g parmesan
Olive oil (about 100ml)
Salt and pepper
1 tablespoon lemon juice

- Preheat the oven to Gas 6/200C
- Cut the peppers into wedges and the aubergine into inch cubes. Spread the peppers and aubergines out on different oven trays then drizzle each with olive oil and season. Roast them for about 30 minutes or until soft and slightly charred. Allow to cool then chop to desired size.
- Cook the fregola sarda according to packet instructions (about 15 minutes in boiling salted water)
- When the pasta is done, drain and mix with the vegetables then add the sliced spring onions.
- Make the pesto by either putting the wild garlic leaves in a blender with the pine nuts or crushing them together in a pestle and mortar (good for stress relief). Then stir through the grated parmesan, lemon juice and some salt and pepper. Taste and adjust as necessary (add more cheese, seasoning, whatever). Stir the pesto through the pasta and serve.