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I’m Hugo, a cook and writer who adores cooking with the rhythm of the year. Every week as the sun glows, wind wanders and rain seems to spill from the sky everything around us is changing. We are on a planet that spins and, as our own lives rotate from day to day, the world around us is gently moving, too. This movement isn’t always reflected in the spaces we buy food, but it’s always present in the spaces where its grown. Strawberries are but a flower one week and many rotations of day and night later are a deep red and sugar-sweet fruit that just beams with ‘SPRING!’.

The four seasons are pillars of the year but in reality there are dozens more - each producing ingredients in varying degrees of maturity and youth. I write about some of those seasons within seasons here but realise that, unless you have access to a local farm or are growing your own food, some of the ingredients that these micro-seasons boast are very hard to come by.

I want to remedy that - with Farm Post.

Farm Post is a physical version of this newsletter, arriving to your door, rather than your inbox. Over the year I want to ship a collection of incredibly seasonal ingredients to you, along with a recipe for each and thoughts on how to put it all to use at home, in your kitchen.

Order Farm Post

The first edition contains one of my favourite spring ingredients - green garlic. This is garlic in a spring onion-like state, before it has formed a real bulb and it’s trademark papery cloves. It’s not often sold at this stage in the UK, with growers usually opting to leave it in the ground until later in summer before tying bunches of bulbs and hanging them to fully dry.

Green garlic is sweet, fragrant, a little fiery and entirely edible - but more on that in Farm Post.

You can order your garlic and accompanying newsletter here - available until 12:00 on Monday 18th May and shipping later that week. This is a not-for-profit project and is being sold at cost price, with the aim of connecting as many kitchens as possible in the British Isles with these glorious seasonal flavours, all while supporting small-scale growers and their families. Huge thanks to Stonelynk Organics in East Sussex for their beautiful garlic, via Harry and Sam at Shrub.

Until the next one,

Hugo x

Welcome to Salt and the Earth, a newsletter that brings you a little closer to where your food comes from, every time you cook. Today’s edition takes a slightly different shape; a diary entry of sorts from a day that I had been working toward for years but truly dreaded the arrival of. It was probably the biggest step I ever took in terms of getting closer to where my food came from. A warning - there is a little graphic detail and a description of an abattoir.

If there’s something you’d like to see here - perhaps a vegetable seed gift guide, a recipe deep-dive or a list of what’s in season right now - please do get in touch. Normal recipe service will resume next week, a mighty pie for spring!

Hugo xx

There is only so far along a path a book can lead you. Some years ago I spent a week in the kitchen at Coombeshead Farm in the South Western reaches of England and fell in love with pigs. It was there that I fell in love with much of what I hold dear in the kitchen, actually; choux buns, wild mint, the act of eating a quarter loaf of bread in the opening minutes of dinner, cooking in a smoking hearth and homemade vermouth. I learnt a language I’d been wanting to speak all of my adult life and at the unmistakable centre of it all was the pig.

Four years came and went and in that time I’d spent most moments following the ethos of this newsletter - getting closer to where my food came from, every time I cooked. It was 2023 and I found myself cooking on a farm, spending the first half hour of each day - in those moments when neither dark nor light seems brightest - tending to a drove of woodland pigs.

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The pages I religiously leafed-through had told me that at six months old they’d likely be ready for slaughter. Six months came and it seemed unbelievable to me that the beasts that scratched their collars on my boots each morning were ready to die. They hadn’t even seen an autumn yet. How could an animal born in the final days of December not even make it to midsummer? Above all it looked as though what returned from the abattoir wouldn’t make for much of a feast. We were rearing pigs in a provincial way and thanks to their milled ration of peas, oats and beans and their adventures on pasture and in woodland - they were growing slowly.

In the weeks that followed the restaurant on the farm opened and the dining room was filling twice a day. With our animals some weeks off being ready, and our stubborn desire to only cook meat we’d received as a whole carcass, our hand was forced to another course of action. We ordered (through Instagram of all places) a whole pig from a beautiful neighbouring farm. It arrived as head and body, both of which were split down the middle.

None of us in the kitchen had butchered a whole animal before, and each half weighed almost 60kg. The ten metre journey from the fridge to the butcher’s block was a strained one of blood, sweat and tears - much of which continued well into the afternoon. Later when one of the cooks was removing the eyeballs from the head with a teaspoon in order to make brawn we realised we’d been delivered two left sides of the head - a rather sudden change from the rose-tinted lens we’d been shooting through all day and an insight into the complex realities of the meat industry.

It comes to pass that the first set of pigs are ready to leave the farm. In darkness the two boars quietly make their way into the creaking trailer and as I watch them settle next to one another in the corner it occurs to me that most books on the subject of dispatching pigs are written by men and are titles from decades past. Such creatures from such times can only write in practical terms - how many hours before slaughter you should stop feeding an animal, different ways it might be processed and the weight of a carcass when all that made it grunt and grin has gone. Nowhere details the weight of a man’s heart after parting with an animal he’s raised since their first moments in this world. There is no recipe for how to roast remorse.

We arrive early on an autumn morning and join the queue of smallholders with their trailers all sounding varying scales of scuffling hooves. I long to give the boars the bag of apples that sit on the backseat, always a sure-fired way to get them giddy. They can’t eat now though, one final comfort taken from us both. A bell sounds, a herdsman calls and there’s a repeating thud as a pair of cattle struggle out of their trailer. A door slams, an engine starts and the queue steadies forward a few metres.

There’s a long and thin passage which everyone must reverse along. At the very end of it the doors of each trailer swing down or open onto a raised bed of concrete. Animals are jeered out of their transport and onto the wide grey slab. For many of them this is the first time they’ve walked on concrete and that alone is enough to spook some. A vet watches on behind their clipboard as the herdsman calls again, bundling the beasts along into their holding pen where they rumble into the irreversible rhythms of the building. Like a ticking clock the trailers come and go, doors close, animals shuffle, gates open and shut and at last it’s our turn.

It’s here my heart is heaviest. I creak the trailer door open, push through straw and scratch the boar’s ears. Both of them follow me out in single file without a word. The herdsman stays silent. The vet looks up from their board. The two pigs find their place in the holding pen and I wordlessly say goodbye. The trailer goes, doors close, animals shuffle, gates open and shut and I find myself back at farm and in the kitchen. I’m tying my apron, holding my spoon and standing at the stove - where we’re in the business of cooking pigs, not mourning them.

There’s only so far along a path a book can lead you. Having now found a new twisting corner of the aforementioned trail I fall in love with Coombeshead Farm all over again - a newfound respect for that language of food they speak and the fluency with which they do so. True magic indeed.

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For my 21st birthday present my Dad gave me his shortbread recipe. Having myself succumbed just a year earlier to the pull of the kitchen, and now that I was a man, I like to think he finally considered me ready to receive it. The recipe arrived late one evening by text to my phone as a ratio of three ingredients (he specified later that I had been nagging him for the recipe and at no point mentioned wanting the method); flour, butter and sugar. There it stayed in my inbox, this recipe useless to my inexperienced hands, for many years to come.

When I was eight my parents had a restaurant in rural Suffolk and, as the nature of the industry tends to dictate, we saw very little of my Dad. The school bell would usually coincide with the dwindling hum of lunch service. Through the back door beside the towering extractor fans we would wave at Dad as he paused and asked us about our day. Before the kitchen beckoned him back for dinner’s preparations he’d reach up to one of the shelves and lower a pale plastic tub down to us. Inside, under the pop of the lid, were dozens of round biscuits - pale as cotton and shimmering with sugar.

They were immediately sweet (an essential characteristic of any treat at eight years old), they crumbled and snapped at the same time and - as is the case with all of the kitchen’s most magical things - both smelt and tasted of butter in the same moment. One shortbread was dispensed on a good day. Two were handed out when days were greyer for either of us, our visible and instant joy at a second biscuit an obvious balm to a tired and homesick chef. On all occasions, with a lap full of custardy crumbs we’d drive home, leaving Dad at the restaurant with many hours of work still ahead of him.

Shortbread were my first and for many years only memory of my Dad’s cooking. Just weeks ago I made his recipe (the one you’ll find below) for the first time and found myself almost giddy with how absurdly simple and delicious a shortbread biscuit is. In my kitchen today they can not only transport me to those after school visits at the kitchen door, but they strike me as a wonderful companion to the last of winter’s fruits.

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Below is a recipe for a fool of sorts - a kumquat, date and fino sherry compote folded through lightly whipped cream. An excellent make-ahead pudding that can be pulled together in moments. Should you struggle to find kumquats, try folding a rhubarb compote through a little sweetened cream - particularly special with a few leaves of magnolia added, too.

Shortbread
Makes 24 biscuits

375g soft/plain flour (stoneground where possible)
250g unsalted butter, very cold
125g golden caster sugar, plus a little extra for scattering

1. Add the flour to a large bowl and season with a pinch of fine salt. Cut the butter into cubes and toss into the flour then, using your thumb and forefingers, begin to rub the butter and flour together until you have fine crumbs - no larger than a peppercorn.

2. Add the sugar and mix well with your hands for a moment, then set aside. Lay out a sheet of greaseproof paper, roughly 35cm by 50cm. Scrunch the shortbread mixture together, pushing it into one mass without over working it - mixing it for longer in this moment means it’ll shift from a short and crumbly biscuit to a chewy one. Press into the greaseproof paper, roughly forming the shape of a log as you go.

3. Starting from the side of the shortbread closest to you, roll the greaseproof paper into a tight roll around the shortbread, creating a log and scrunching the ends together as you do so. Pinching the ends of the greaseproof paper on each side, continue to roll the log away from you, twisting each end in opposite directions to tighten the paper. This will build tension in the shortbread log, removing any air gaps and ensuring you can cut neat little biscuits when you come to bake them.

4. Place the wrapped shortbread into the fridge to chill and rest, for at least two hours or ideally overnight. When you’re ready for baking, preheat the oven to 160c and line two baking sheets with greaseproof paper.

5. Using a sharp knife, cut the chilled log of shortbread into 1cm thick discs, gently laying the biscuits onto the baking tray as you go. They won’t expand a great deal in the oven so can be positioned relatively snuggly on the tray. Bake for 12-14 minutes, or until just starting to turn golden at the very edges. Allow to cool completely on the tray and then dust with scatterings of caster sugar, if you like.

Kumquat, date and sherry cream
Serves four

200g kumquats
100g golden caster sugar
70g Medjool dates
50ml fino or oloroso sherry
300ml double cream

1. Wash and then finely slice kumquats, removing the seeds with the tip of your knife as you go. Add the sliced fruit (and any leaves they may have, too - this amplifies their flavour somewhat) to a small saucepan with 100ml water and the caster sugar. Bring to the boil, turn down to a medium simmer and cook for 10 minutes, or until the kumquats are soft and syrupy.

2. Remove the pits from the dates and then break into a bowl - finely chopping some and ripping others in half, so you have a nice variety of shapes and sizes. Cover with the sherry and set aside to soak while the kumquats are cooking.

3. When the kumquats are finished, remove from the heat and add the boozy dates, stir to mix well and then set aside to cool completely.

4. Add the cream to a large bowl and beat into very soft peaks. Add the date and kumquat mixture and fold through a few times before dividing between bowls or glasses. Serve with stacks of shortbread.

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Welcome to Salt and the Earth, a newsletter that brings you a little closer to where your food comes from, every time you cook. In this edition of the newsletter we take a scrupulous look at true seasonality, mostly through the lens of herbs. I list the herbs I think money can’t buy (but you can grow), and there’s a playlist for late summer; one for balmy gatherings as day slips into night. It’s one I used to listen to when feeding the pigs pre-bed and post-dinner service, in the last few moments of the day’s light.

Hugo xx

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In 2023 I helped open a restaurant on a farm. The mission of our small kitchen and 40 seat dining room was to explore what truly seasonal food, cooked in a restaurant on the British Isles, looked like. For the first three months of opening we had no garlic (that spring was excruciating), few vegetables and little fruit. We rolled fresh pasta daily using locally grown stoneground flour, adding splashes of acidity to sauces using whey (leftover from our modest cheese making) rather than lemon juice. We wanted every dish to reflect our surroundings, a real representation of time and place.

I’d come from kitchens in London where the last ten minutes of my shift would usually be spent placing orders with an answer machine. Now they were spent in the market garden at first light in a seemingly constant battle of having too much or too little produce to hand. I’ll forever remember the horror of the herb bed. We opened in mid-May when the days had grown warm and golden but the ground was someway behind. For the most part it was cool and wet and the herbs had many weeks of waking to do before even the most timid of harvests could be made. There was nothing, not even flat leaf parsley.

As the months trundled on I learnt that herbs, too, follow the rhythm of the year. I found that lovage was the first to appear, vivid green and the most welcome companion to spring’s protagonists - tender and young peas and beans. We refrained from using woody herbs in the warmer months so that great harvests could be made in autumn, hung and dried for use in the year’s coldest moments. Dried summer savory would be crushed into braises and sage bunches thrown onto the hearth when grilling pork or simmering beans. Each time a herb was untied from the shelves and used at the stove it connected us to the seasons past and made us long for the seasons to come.

Here are the herbs I longed for most and the seasons in which their character is most charming in the kitchen.

Lovage

Spring’s first herb to wake is lovage. It’s flavour is distinct and vivid - tasting of green itself. It can survive a frost and so, when those first few shoots appear, it’s a sign for cooks that the growing season is soon to start in earnest. The flavour of lovage can be tamed slightly by oil and vinegar. It makes an incredible herb oil (my favourite way to dress spring leaves) and a wonderfully fragrant vinegar. For the latter simply scrunch a bundle of lovage into a jar and cover with apple cider vinegar, leaving to macerate in a cool dark place for four weeks or so before using. A more self-aware herb you’re unlikely to find - it bolts when the months warm and its most delicious companions recede for another year, namely peas, asparagus, green garlic and broad beans. Once it’s gone to seed in midsummer it becomes a little bitter. If cut back then a second flurry can be enjoyed in autumn.

Myrtle

This relative of bay is found all over the Mediterranean. It sends forth bright and vivid new growth in the spring but is best enjoyed as summer’s heat heightens and the branches set their size for another year. Myrtle is tender enough to be stripped from it’s stalks and pounded into a pesto, but also holds its own when tied and dropped into a pot of bubbling broth. In Campania fresh cheese is often stored wrapped in myrtle, it’s essential oils housing a host of anti-bacterial qualities that slow the spoiling of foods. The digestif Mirto is enjoyed in parts of Italy and made using the leaves, and sometimes berries, of the myrtle plant. It’s a beautiful evergreen shrub and makes an excellent wind-breaking border in the garden, protecting more delicate plants like beans, peas or climbing kales.

Summer savory

Basil may be the most common companion, but I think there’s little better to garnish a tomato than a few flakes of salt and a scrunch of summer savory, It’s the only herb on this list that isn’t a perennial, meaning it needs to be newly planted each year. It’s fragrant, peppery and sweet at the same time - like a far-flung relative of thyme or marjoram. It’s as dear a friend in the garden as it is in the kitchen, often found to prevent blackly if planted near beans or fruit trees. I believe summer savory is best planted in spring and allowed to grow full and mighty, then cut in its entirety come autumn time. It dries very well if tied and hung upside down. Much like a bunch of dried oregano, it can simply be held over a pot and dispatched with a light clasp of the hand.

Sweet mace

Sweet mace, also known as Mexican Marigold or Texas Tarragon, is a plant made for the dwindling months of the year. As summer rolls into autumn sweet mace sends forth its yellow and golden flowers. The flowers are almost as fragrant as the leaves, holding a gentle aniseed and tarragon-like flavour. It’s wonderful with all that is ripe and good in those cooling months; plums, damsons, quince, pears, apples and medlars. It doesn’t dry too well and is best used with abandon while at its peak. One of my favourite recipes for September is plum and sweet mace jam (in a newsletter over the coming months) - unbeatable in the heart of a Victoria sponge or spooned over pots of baked rice pudding. I cannot recommend this one enough.

And so I urge you to reconsider your herbs; speak to growers nearby about what is at its best right now. Use that herb as the starting point of your meal, allowing it to carry you into the kitchen. Better yet, grow your own! Whether you’re spending time in the kitchen or the garden over the coming week, take this playlist with you. It’s a collection of my favourite records for these gentle summer evenings.

Thank you so much for reading this edition of Salt and the Earth. Next week I share a recipe for broth-y courgettes cooked with dried chilli, oregano and chard. It’s a mighty bowl that’s perfect when you’re craving comfort on those random rain-filled days that summer can throw your way. To get the recipe straight to your inbox, subscribe below.

Hugo x

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My name is Hugo and, until last year, I was the Chef at a small restaurant on a farm in the South of England. We grew the majority of what we cooked with, made (almost) everything in-house and even butchered whole animals - ones we had reared ourselves or sourced from friends nearby.

My favourite things to cook are dishes that capture a moment. Something you can bring together that represents that specific time and place. In my mind, nothing ever did this better than serving toasted hay cream and roasted strawberries in midsummer. It was the dessert on our opening menu and the recipe I was asked for most. I’m so happy to share it below.

If you’ve found yourself here by accident or perhaps on the recommendation of a friend, you’re most welcome. Please consider subscribing (it’s free!) for a whole host of seasonal recipes and writing that’ll bring you closer to where your food comes from, every time you cook. Hugo x

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I have always found the way ingredients carry us through the year quite astonishing. The sweetness of a strawberry arrives when we need sweetness most; the brightness of citrus has long since left and summer feels a far-flung thought. It’s just a few weeks, but that gap between spring and summer would seem a mighty stretch in time were it not for the hope-filled rouge of a strawberry. It allludes to things to come.

A little over two years ago, as the first few strawberries were delivered to the kitchen door, I helped open a restaurant. The days were long and brutal but produce kept arriving that even my exhausted features couldn’t help but beam at. The strawberries from Myatts were unbelievable - full of brightness and fragrant sugar. Never before had I needed to taste hope so deeply.

As summer’s tune played on the sweetness dwindled and the lip-smacking tartness of the raspberry, tayberry, loganberry and currants arrived. The year’s heat heightened and these berries provided a balm from the warmth - deep crimsons of every kind best enjoyed cold from the fridge. That summer, however, it was the strawberries we kept returning to.

As the season for strawberries comes to a close their sweetness can lessen somewhat and, when it does, a little sugar and some time spent in the oven deepens the character they may be lacking. They release the most vibrant letterbox red (as so perfectly describes it) liquor. If you find yourself with any of this liquid left then I implore you to freeze it. It makes a jammy and vibrant granita with a pitch-perfect strawberry flavour.

Notes on the recipe

I’ve been very fortunate to use cream from Ivy House Farm in Somerset and Heckfield Home Farm in Berkshire. Both are marvellous and if you have access to them, they are worth every penny. There are only five ingredients in this recipe and it pays to invest in each one. The latter farm pasteurises their cream using the holding method whereby cream is held at 63c for 30 minutes, rather than the HTST (high temperature short time) method which operates at 72c for 15 seconds.

This longer holding method is thought to preserve more of the cream’s natural flavour and character. As such, when using cream sourced from a small herd of cows I try to never raise the temperature of it above 63c when using it in the kitchen. It seems a shame to undo the glorious work of the farm, cows and pasture at the last minute. Try to keep this in mind when warming and infusing the cream.

The cutting of hay often aligns with the end of strawberry season and this is yet another reason for them to be natural bedfellows. The smell of toasted hay is deeply malted and reminiscent of summer’s characteristic dry grass. The flavour is somehow nostalgic and eye-wideningly new at the same time. If you don’t have access to organic hay from a farm nearby, you can source it from a pet shop.

This is panna cotta-esque but at the same time feels deeply British and is without the addition of milk, so I love simply calling it a cream. I always prefer to set it in a large bowl. It omits the stress of removing individual portions from moulds and creates the most glorious shapes when each spoonful is tipped into a bowl. Strawberries, or whatever accompanying fruit you may have, are an ideal accompaniment for covering the spoons marks. Immediately it seems the cream has simply appeared in the bowl in one smooth and inviting dome. I love it.

Toasted hay cream and roasted strawberries
Serves 6-8, depending on appetite

This is my favourite closing act of a dinner in midsummer. It’s made entirely ahead of time and awaiting you in the restorative chill of the fridge. All that’s needed are bowls and spoons. The balmy scent of a summer’s evening, full of dry grass and settling dew, can be found rippling through the infused cream. It’s a pudding that feels entirely apt as the heat of summer grows and the gluts of strawberries dwindle.

600g strawberries
135g golden caster sugar, plus a little extra for macerating
100g organic hay
1.2 litres double cream
4 leaves platinum grade gelatine
Flaky salt

1. Preheat the oven to 180c/160c fan. Hull the strawberries and halve any large ones so that, on the whole, they’re all a similar size. Weigh the prepared strawberries and calculate 10% of their weight - this is the amount of sugar you’ll need to macerate them. You can do this by ‘weight of prepared strawberries x 0.1’. It should be somewhere in the region of 55 = 55g. Add the strawberries to a roasting tray and then scatter over the weighed sugar and a pinch of salt. Shake them a little so they’re all evenly coated and then set aside.

2. Add the hay onto a roasting tray in as even a layer as possible, and then bake in the oven for 15 minutes, until dark brown and smelling fragrant.

3. Meanwhile add 900ml of the double cream to a medium saucepan and warm over a medium heat. You don’t want the cream to boil, but to just begin steaming, with a few bashful bubbles at the edge of the pan. Once hot, take the pan off the heat. When the hay is toasted, remove from the oven and carefully transfer the hay into a large mixing bowl. Pour over the warm cream, pushing the hay down so that it’s (for the most part) submerged. Set aside to infuse for 30 minutes.

4. Put the tray of strawberries into the oven and roast for 5 minutes, until just softening at the edges and beginning to release a little red liquid. It’s better to remove these a little early if you aren’t sure, as they’ll continue softening in the residual heat of the roasting tray. Set aside to cool completely, then cover and store in the fridge until needed. Submerge the leaves of gelatine in a bowl of ice cold water to soften.

5. Place the saucepan you used to warm the cream onto a set of scales. Tare the weight and then place a sieve over the top of it. Strain the hay infused cream through the sieve into the pan, squeezing out every last drop from the hay that you can. Remove the sieve and the hay and use your remaining cream to top-up the cream in the pan to 900ml again. Add 135g golden caster sugar to the cream along with a pinch of salt.

6. Warm the infused cream and sugar over a medium heat, stirring from time to time to dissolve the sugar. Once hot and beginning to steam again, remove from the heat. Squeeze out any excess water from the gelatine leaves and whisk them, one by one, into the pan of warm and sweetened cream. Continue whisking for a moment to dissolve all of the gelatine, and then strain through a sieve once more into your chosen bowl or container. I like to pick something with a rounded bottom if possible as it gives each spoonful a beautiful shape when serving. Allow to cool and then cover and set aside in the fridge to chill for at least 4 hours, or ideally overnight.

7. To serve, gather a large serving spoon and a mug full of warm water. Assemble your bowls and, dipping the spoon in the warm water each time, place spoonfuls in each one, being sure to tip the spoonful upside down. This gives you a rounded and unique shape to each serving. Tumble over the roasted strawberries and a little of their cooking liquor.

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Next week I share a recipe for gooseberry mustard and a simple and satisfying pork burger to enjoy it with. It’s a magical way to bottle-up the last of this year’s crop to enjoy throughout the rest of the year. To get the recipe straight to your inbox, subscribe below. Hugo x

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My name is Hugo and, until last year, I was the Chef at a small restaurant on a farm in the South of England. We grew the majority of what we cooked with, made (almost) everything in-house and even butchered whole animals - ones we had reared ourselves or sourced from friends nearby.

This way of cooking taught me so much about food; from deeply understanding every cut of beef and how to cook it to what to do with gluts and gluts of fruit and how to prepare (and grow) the ultimate green salad. I’d never felt more in-line with the seasons and the ingredients I was using.

I’ve now returned to my previous job in Jamie Oliver’s Food Team, writing and testing recipes, working on TV shows and everything food related in-between.

This newsletter is a culmination of those two worlds - full of recipes that are reliable, full of flavour, and give you a deeper connection to and understanding of where your food comes from, every time you cook.

If there’s a particular season, ingredient, technique or recipe you’d like to see here - please let me know. This newsletter will be guided by the seasons but I’d love it to be shaped by you. Hugo x

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In the beginning none of us really know how to cook. How we hold a knife, the number of fingers we use to fumble for salt or the shapes we make with spoons when stirring pots - these movements have all been taught to us, whether we quite realise it or not, by someone else.

One of the many great joys of working in kitchens is following the hands of those you share the stove with. Every movement, decision and thought is shaped by the kitchens that have come before. I used to religiously play The War on Drugs in the moments before dinner service, while hurriedly gathering spoons, tasting sauces and labelling pans of prep - a ritual borrowed from one of the restaurants I’ve worked at over the years. Somehow it helped me focus, with a small but comforting piece of that formative kitchen floating through my surroundings.

These formative kitchens are of the literal kind of course, but they are on pages, too; I always hear the voice of Fergus Henderson when dealing with braises, looking for the ‘alligators in a swamp’ effect when deciding on volumes of stock. Nigella Lawson is there with me whenever my oven is warming and a cake is on the horizon. Her encouragement to deal with the mixture with gusto - on the basis that cake batters, like children, can pick-up on any lack of confidence - never fails to make me smile in those final spoon-licking moments of a recipe.

I recently shared the five cookbooks, and consequently authors - their voices and their kitchens that I turn to most when seeking inspiration for seasonal cooking. As I flicked through their pages I couldn’t help but wonder who these authors look to for inspiration. Who’re the voices they share the kitchen with when gathering ingredients or tying their apron? This entry is the first in a series where I hope to find out just that.

In today’s newsletter we uncover the five books that London pastry chef, baker and Quince Bakery proprietor Anna Higham holds dear. The titles make a list that is both familiar and new - a wonderful excuse to expand your library and dive into a new book or two. I visited Anna a few weeks ago, just as the first fragrant strawberries were arriving in her kitchen. She had just brewed a pot of coffee and pulled down her favourite five titles from the bakery bookcase when I arrived on a Monday morning.

To hear Anna’s choices, her thoughts on the magic of cooking and what each of the titles means to her, you can listen to our conversation below. You can also jump straight ahead to the list.

1. The Last Course by Claudia Fleming.

2. Fruit Book by Jane Grigson

3. Chez Panisse Fruit and Chez Panisse Desserts by Lindsay Shere and Alice Waters

4. The Kitchen Diaries by Nigel Slater

5. An Everlasting Meal by Tamar Adler

For more podcast entries, recipes and ingredient deep-dives, subscribe to Salt and the Earth. If you’ve enjoyed this newsletter at all, please consider passing it on to a friend, too.

Next week I share the summer recipe I think everyone should make at least once - roasted strawberries and toasted hay cream. It's unbelievably delicious, impressive and couldn’t be easier to make. Each time I eat it I feel completely absorbed by the magic of summer. There’ll also be some pointers on how to buy amazing dairy, and keep the wonderful and delicate flavour of it when using it in the kitchen. To get the recipe straight to your inbox, subscribe below. Hugo x

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I’m part of a small and wonderful team that help cook the ‘here’s one I made earlier’ dishes for segments of live TV, hand-pick ingredients for video and photo shoots and have oven thermometers, kitchen timers, tea spoons and washing-up apparatus on hand at all times.

We cook a lot of food in a week. While very little of it is wasted, this is the only part of my job that doesn’t always sit quite right with me. We use a very popular, large scale London wholesaler who can, more often than not, source you any fruit or vegetable you can think of and at any time. There are no seasons - an ‘it’s 5 o’clock somewhere’ of the food world.

This is handy as content schedules usually work many months in advance (Christmas in July, anyone?), but after spending more and more time with small-scale British growers outside of my working week, having ‘country of origin’ as the only details of the hands that have grown what I’m cooking with feels… not good enough.

The problem is, especially when ordering for delivery and in such large quantities, there is very little alternative. Our leader (and one of my biggest inspirations) Ginny Rolfe often talks of the first heady days of Jamie’s career over 25 years ago when it could take someone a whole day in grocers and supermarkets to source all of the ingredients for the following day’s shoot. From a business sense, it’s not sustainable.

Four years ago I met Sam and Harry from SHRUB. Greeting them in our office and shaking their hands I couldn’t help but notice they were both at least 20 years younger than any greengrocer I had dealt with before. They had a little dirt on their boots and beneath their finger nails.

They proceeded to talk me through a box of produce they had brought to show me, not only naming the varieties of each fruit and vegetable but the first name of the person that had grown them. There were nearly a dozen different varieties of potato, as well as gooseberries, broad bean flowers, nasturtium leaves, field rhubarb and some of the most incredible strawberries I had ever had. They had access to items I had only ever either picked in my garden or heard about from growers themselves.

Harry and Sam could not only discuss in detail what tasted delicious, but why it tasted delicious - how considered land management, a focussed approach to soil health and a drive for a rich and biodiverse growing environment from their growers was fundamental to flavour.

I feel very lucky indeed to now call them both friends and, after countless deliveries from them and many visits to farms and their warehouse in Sussex, truly consider them to be the world’s best greengrocers. In this week’s newsletter Harry and Sam explain a little more about the work they do and, fresh from the fields, share a note or two about the produce they’re most looking forward to in the coming weeks.

From Harry and Sam…

We’re no strangers to stringing a few sentences together, but when Hugo asked us to contribute a newsletter special, we found ourselves sentence-less, such was the flattery. Nonetheless, we shall persevere.

To introduce ourselves, we’re Shrub. Over the years, we’ve been called “greener grocers”, “enlightened middlemen”, or even “Covid cowboys”. Five years on from our genesis, we’re a fruit and veg wholesaler with a big, integrity-driven twist.

Shrub works directly with farms, sourcing exclusively within the UK seasons (the only exceptions being citrus from the Todolí Citrus Foundation and Two Fields Olive Oil), and providing a completely transparent supply chain. We do not buy from bigger wholesalers. Full stop. The farms we’re best known for working with range between 1 and 60 acres, and are hyper-soil-focused. They are some of the last true remaining artisans and market gardeners.

Some of the restaurants we work with include The Ledbury, Manteca, Mountain, Café Deco, Silo, Plates and AngloThai, Spring, Lyle’s, Oma, Ottolenghi, Noble Rot, and many more. They come to us for the nearest experience possible to farm gate sales. As traceability and provenance become more central to the ethos of any business worth its salt, we’re able not just to supply, but to educate, and to bridge the gap between farmers and chefs.

What this business is not built for is soundbites. We can’t reduce what we do to a one-liner or strap line. Food, farming and sustainability are serious subjects: complex, important, and tangled up with politics, history, globalism and capitalism.

What thrives in these circumstances is the opportunity for deceit in pursuit of profit. That’s why we have to be vigilant. We believe in educating and energising the consumer — they are the ultimate gatekeepers of what gets sold to us as “food”. For that, we rely on great food ambassadors, on farms and in kitchens alike, to keep it real.

When people ask us, “What can I do to eat more sustainably?”, we always start with seasonality. It’s the basis of what can grow and when, at the best time of year. Like tides, the seasons cannot be negotiated with. Buying seasonally reduces transport miles and pollution, and helps you find your bearings in the world. You start to notice why classic dishes from around the globe use the ingredients they do; because if it grows together, it goes together. Think ratatouille, Caprese salad, game stew, or omelette aux fines herbes.

Late May is the real turning point of the UK season. Spring produce now includes asparagus, Jersey Royal potatoes, radishes, violet artichokes, broad beans, spring greens, tender garlic, wild garlic, spring onions and fresh salad leaves. More arrives by the day.

After the season, what matters to us most is who grows it, and how. Our Jersey Royals come from one of the only organic growers of the famed, trade-marked variety, which, in its alter ego, is known as an “international kidney”. The Le Maistre family have been farming on the island since 1841. They’re known for tatties and organic veg, grown with manure compost from their own Jersey herd. Their south-facing cotils (steep, small fields) receive significantly more UV light than the mainland, and their crops are enriched by nutrient-rich sea air. They genuinely are better

Radishes, thanks to their popularity, come from several small organic farms, including Knepp, Clearwater and Borde Hill, all in Sussex. They’re a fantastic crop, ready to harvest in four weeks. Spicy, crunchy, with herbaceous tops: nature’s ready-to-go crudités. Smear them with butter and salt, Caesar dressing, or whipped cod’s roe.

Violette artichokes are a recent arrival to the UK. They’re grown organically by Clive and Tobias Martin at Bedlam Farm in the Cambridgeshire Fens. Perennial crops are a win for soil health and labour. These are smaller, earlier and easier to prep than the globe artichokes of old (which we still love), by the way. Turned, topped and halved, they’re perfect for barigoule or crisped in oil, twice-fried.

Broad beans are one of our favourites for snacking. Sutton Community Farm and Laines Organics grow the best in the country. Don’t bother peeling them. The skins are full of fibre and nutrients. They go beautifully with hogget, which is what we should (and do) eat at this time of year, instead of lamb. The plant’s leaf tips are delicious in salads or pestos. And, as a legume, it’s a brilliant nitrogen fixer.

Spring garlic, sometimes called “wet” garlic, deserves more attention. It’s a bold, generous ingredient, and far milder than its dried, cured cousin. It’s only six weeks younger, but has a completely different temperament. It can be confited, braised whole with beans, smashed onto toast, or used in ferments.

There is so much knowledge that used to be as second nature to us as time-tables, passed down from generation to generation, learned over hundreds of years. That knowledge bank protected us from industrial subjection. It’s time we got it back.

Right now, the fields are changing fast. Each week brings something new, fleeting and exciting. It’s our job to catch it, honour it, and pass it on to those who’ll do it justice. The chefs and restaurants we work with aren’t just buying produce. They’re investing in a better system, plate by plate.

At Shrub, we’re not interested in greenwashing, or polished narratives. We care about the real stuff: the field conversations, the last-minute harvest calls, the moment the crop hits peak flavour. We follow that, not the marketing calendar. For us, eating well and eating sustainably isn’t about sacrifice. It’s about alignment. With land. With growers. With the seasons.

So, if there’s one thing to take away from this summer special, it’s this: trust the seasons. They know more than we do. Learn them, lean into them, and let them lead.

Thank you for reading — and thank you, Hugo, for giving us the space.

Follow SHRUB. To buy some of their grower’s wonderful produce, check them out at the Toklas Summer Fruits Market on Saturday 7th June.

A reliable, delicious and buttery pastry recipe is one of the greatest tools the seasonal cook can have up their sleeve. It’s a golden and flaky blank canvas that allows you to concentrate on those fleeting flavours that have just arrived in your kitchen. Whether it be for a sun-kissed strawberry galette on a golden spring day, a peach and fig leaf turnover in the height of summer or a prune and beef shin pie in the depths of winter - I turn to this recipe, for sweet and savoury uses, throughout the year.

This was the first coming-together of ingredients I ever felt truly protective over, my hand just gripping the paper a second too long whenever passing on the recipe to other cooks in the kitchen. After making it a hundred times or more, in restaurants and at home, I feel I really understand its workings - why it behaves in the way it does and how.

Pastry needn’t be something approached with timid thoughts and a lightness of touch. I hope that this recipe and the guidance therein will steady your hand and beckon you into the kitchen.

The method

The methods for all crisp and crumbly pastry have one simple aim in common - limiting the formation of gluten. Approached simply, gluten is a bond that is formed between proteins present in wheat flour (and others) and consequently creates a chewy texture. A little is needed to give structure to the task at hand, but the more gluten there is in something, the chewier it’ll be - a Neapolitan-style pizza being the greatest example. A bag of flour isn’t inherently full of gluten, it’s full of proteins with gluten-forming potential.

Gluten formation thrives in certain environments - it’s partly why we’re always told to make bread in a warm place - and conversely it’s hindered in others. Fat, temperature, water and movement are all key factors.

Fat

Fat coats proteins in flour, slowing but not entirely preventing the formation of gluten. It’s why brioche - oftentimes a third to half butter and eggs by weight - takes longer to prove and has a tighter, fluffier texture than say a fat-less country loaf or ciabatta. Egg yolks added to a batch of shortcrust pastry have the same effect, although adding flavour, too.

In this recipe, a flaky ‘rough puff’ dough, a generous quantity of butter is used. It does hinder a little of the gluten formation, but it’s also designed to not fully be incorporated in the dough, which it would have to be for optimal gluten hinderance. Here, as is the case of puff pastry, larger chunks of butter are left within the final dough so that when the pastry finds its way into the oven the high temperature causes the water within the butter to evaporate, creating tiny pockets in the pastry that help provide that final flaky result.

Temperature

The ideal temperature for proteins to form gluten bonds is between 22c/72f and 25c/77f. By trying to keep the temperature as low as possible we’re able to lower the chances of too much gluten forming, hopefully leading to a crisper, flakier final pastry. This is partly why a pastry section in a restaurant may have stone or marble work surfaces and possibly even air conditioning (as well as for preventing the melting of butter, chocolate and a whole host of other troublesome ingredients).

This recipe not only uses chilled butter, but calls for a few ice cubes to be added to the water used, to really bring the temperature of the final dough down - and help prevent the melting of any butter. It also calls for the use of a bench knife or dough scraper when cutting the butter into the flour (you could also use a knife). This simply keeps warm hands at bay and again contributes to keeping things as cool as possible.

Water

Flour needs to be hydrated in order to form gluten. Without it, the proteins have no means of connecting with one another. This is essentially what keeps flour shelf stable. When water or liquid is added to a pastry recipe (sometimes milk, which is not only always chilled but has a percentage of water in it and also a percentage of fat - so limiting gluten formation even more) each protein that comes into contact with it is in essence readying at the start line of the great gluten race.

This is the main reason for autolysis, the period after initial mixing in bread making where the dough - usually in the absence of any yeast, levain or salt - is left for a time to just hydrate. This means that when mixing or kneading is resumed afterward there’s an entire workforce of proteins that are hydrated, willing and able to start forming those bonds of gluten.

The water quantity specified in this recipe is a guide as different flours will have different capabilities of absorption. Depending on the extraction rate of the flour (what percentage of the whole grain is in the final product) and how finely it’s been milled, it’ll absorb more or less water. You want a final dough that only just comes together when you’re mixing it - there’s a fine balance to be had where there’s enough water to bind everything so it can be rolled, but not too much so that more gluten is formed and the pastry adapts a more elastic character. Elasticity normally means chewiness.

Movement

If you’ve ever wondered why a recipe for pastry has asked you not to knead it or mix until only just coming together (as I even mention above) this is because movement also advances the formation of gluten. By movement I mean kinetic energy. This isn’t a direct process, in fact gluten formation is enhanced by movement as the very movement itself both increases the temperature of the pastry and aids the hydration of the flour - both key players in the gluten game. This is again why a dough scraper or bench knife is a secret weapon in the pastry maker’s armoury.

I believe that alongside the ingredients that’ll accompany it, a pastry too has the ability to reflect a time, place and people. When opening a bag of responsibly grown and milled ‘white’ stoneground flour a baker is greeted with something creamy and slightly golden - more akin to the true colour of wheat than its snowier commercial counterparts. I can’t help but smile every time I bake with it. If you’re based in the UK, try sourcing some flour from the likes of;

• Landrace in Somerset

• Gilchesters Organics in Essex

• Hodmedod in Suffolk

• Field Bakery / Gothelney Farm in Somerset

• Stoate’s in Dorset

• Fresh Flour in Devon

My go-to flaky pastry / pie dough / rough puff

350g plain flour, plus a little extra for rolling (I use one milled by Landrace - ideally a soft Red Lamas or Maris Widgeon wheat)
1 teaspoon soft light brown sugar or panela
1 teaspoon fine salt
250g cold unsalted butter
1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar
A few ice cubes
120-135ml water

1. Add the flour to your largest mixing bowl (ideally with a flat bottom a similar size to your bench knife or dough scraper. A clean and empty pot can also be used for pastry making if the latter isn’t possible), followed by the sugar and the salt. Forming a claw-like shape with your hand, mix the dry ingredients together until evenly incorporated. This recipe makes for a wonderful balance between sweet and savoury and a very versatile pastry. If you were keen to take it in a sweeter direction, double the sugar used at this stage. I really like using a soft brown sugar, golden caster sugar or panela here as it brings another layer of character to the dough.

2. Add the block of butter and shimmy it in the bowl until evenly coated in a little of the flour mixture. Using a dough scraper or bench knife, begin cutting the butter bit by bit, rotating the bowl and regularly tossing the cut pieces in the seasoned flour, until you have a nice mix of pea-sized chunks.

   

3. Fill a small measuring jug (around 500ml capacity) with ice and add the apple cider vinegar. Top-up with water until almost full. The vinegar here adds a little acidity - another little trick to slow the formation of those gluten bonds.

4. Place your large bowl of flour and butter mixture on a scale and tare it so it reads zero. Add 120ml of your slightly acidified water (and more later if you need to) and, again using your bench knife, move the bowl off your scale and onto your worktop and start to bring it all together. Continue cutting, rotating the bowl and mixing until it’s just coming together. You can scrunch the last few bits of dough together if necessary to create one more cohesive mass. At this point you should place the dough in a snug-fitting airtight container or wrap it in parchment paper, to stop it drying out and to stop the dough absorbing the fragrance and flavour of other foods around it. Place in the fridge to rest for at least 30 minutes, or ideally two hours. You can freeze the pastry at this stage, or keep it in the fridge for up to 3 days.

   

5. Remove the pastry from the fridge, doing so about 30 minutes before rolling if it’s been resting in the fridge overnight or longer. If it’s only rested for 2 hours or less you can roll it right away.

6. Place a rolling pin in the middle of the dough and roll outwards, trying to keep the pressure of your roll as even as possible. Rotate the dough 180 degrees and do the same, repeating 180 degree turns and rolls until you have a long rectangle roughly 45cm by 20cm. Fold the top third of pastry down towards you and into the middle, and then the bottom third of pastry up into the middle as if you were folding a letter. This is called a single fold or a letter fold. Turn the pastry block 90 degrees and repeat this whole step of rolling and folding once more. This stage not only introduces a few rustic layers to the dough, but warms it just enough to make it nice and malleable. Go forth and roll the dough out in any recipe calling for a flaky, rough puff or puff pastry (a special summer mille-feuille coming to the newsletter in the week after next).

Seasonal ideas and uses

Spring

• Top a pot of braised artichokes, green garlic, peas and broad beans

• Bake as a sheet of pastry topped with nettles, greens and goat’s cheese

• Bake into small loquat and chamomile jam tarts

Summer

• Cook as a sheet and then cut for a simple strawberry mille-feuille

• Bake in small rounds and top with tapenade and confit tomatoes

• Bake in fingers topped with rouille to adorn a simple seafood stew

Autumn

• Use as the foundation of a classically spiced pumpkin pie

• Wonderful when encasing rich rabbit, beef or chicken fillings

• Roll and fold into brown sugar laced apple turnovers

Winter

• Mince pies filled with boozy apple and quince mincemeat

• A leek and smoked ham hock pie

• Sugared and baked into fingers for pots of citrus posset

Further pie and pastry based reading

Sister Pie by Lisa Ludwinski
Four and Twenty Blackbirds by Emily and Melissa Elsen

Hello and welcome back to Salt and the Earth, a weekly newsletter about the ingredients that are in season RIGHT NOW, and exactly what to do with them. I spend most of my time in the kitchen and on farms, market gardens and allotments and this newsletter is my way of bringing you along, too.

This week I share the five cookbooks I turn to most when seeking inspiration or looking forward to the produce in the seasons to come. These are absolute essentials and offer something new to consider or think about every time I turn through their pages. Most importantly - I always use them - the only real criteria for a recommendation that matters.

If you’d like some recipe inspiration and an update on the ingredients that are shining brightest right now (delivered straight to your inbox) then please consider subscribing to the newsletter. Next week… my go-to pastry recipe for (almost) anything, and why it works every time.

Hugo xx

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A bookcase is like an address book. Each time my head tilts and eyes sharpen for a spine-scanning side step I wonder who’s best placed to help me with the task at hand. The shelves are full of many voices, with a great many thoughts, opinions and ideas on an even greater number of subjects. Below are the five authors (and my favourite of their titles) I keep on speed dial.

If I was efficient in any way I would have grouped these books together on the shelf long ago, but there’s something magical about searching for a book.

Chez Panisse Cafe Cookbook by Alice Waters

If cooking truly seasonal food has taught me one thing, it’s that older titles are an absolute guiding light. They’re seasonal, more often than not, because at the time of publication the term seasonal wasn’t even used - it was all just cooking! There were no out-of-season alternatives. This, one of the many titles to come from the hand of Alice Waters and the Chez Panisse kitchen, was published in 1999 - not particularly fitting into the aforementioned category, but beating the drum for seasonal produce nonetheless.

The café at Chez Panisse, nestled above the more formal Berkeley restaurant, has an open kitchen framed with Japanese-style redwood joinery and a wide wood-fired oven. In the evening golden light pours through the branches of the tall bunya-bunya tree in the front courtyard, passing through the stained-glass windows and filling the dining room. Every detail is relaxed and effortlessly simple and each recipe in this book rings true to those defining factors. The café menu is filled with food you want to eat, and recipes for many of the greatest hits are documented in this book.

Wild nettle frittata, morel mushroom toasts, King salmon in fig leaves, grilled skirt steak with anchovy and garlic sauce, home-cured pancetta, Meyer lemon éclairs and peach leaf crème brûlée - these are dishes you’ll find on the menus of many of your favourite restaurants today, and there’s a reason for that. They’re delicious, timeless classics, explained in beautifully written detail. If I want to cook something that centres around a wonderful seasonal ingredient and delivers big flavour, a recipe from this book is where I start.

Other titles from the Chez Panisse library that are worth taking a look at are; Chez Panisse Vegetables, Chez Panisse Fruit and Chez Panisse Desserts.

Five Seasons of Jam by Lillie O’Brien

Lillie is the owner of cult favourite London Borough of Jam, and this book is packed-full of her knowledge and recipes for fruit-driven, rather than sugar-driven jams (and aperitifs, fruit wines and vinegars). I am yet to make a recipe from this book that I haven’t immediately fallen in love with. Each one is a masterclass in balancing flavours with sweetness and aromatics - an endless school of lessons that can be transferred to no end of uses in the kitchen.

This is one of the first books I had ever seen that not only eluded to but drove head-first into the subject of ‘many seasons’. As anyone who has seen a place change over the course of 12 months will know, seasons can rarely be boxed-in to just four categories. Lillie instead offers five seasons, each named not only to embody the produce within them but how each one feels - ALIVE (mid to late spring), HOT (summer), BLUSH (early autumn), BARB (late autumn) and FROST (winter to early spring).

There is magic in this book. It centres around fruit (and at times vegetables), so you may think calling it seasonal is a little obvious. Where this title goes one step further, however, is helping you to make that first step towards truly seasonal cooking, and it’s one that leads you away from the kitchen and into the great outdoors. Lillie’s writing will send you to the hedgerows, coastlines and pick-your-own fruit farms - those glorious rabbit holes where cooks who love flavour, and connecting themselves to it, seem to loose themselves.

The Modern Cook’s Year by

As a book of vegetable recipes, The Modern Cook’s Year is of course inherently seasonal. This beautiful title is full of over 250 recipes - but in actual fact can boast a great deal more beyond the titles and ingredients lists. There’s a guide to making your own kombucha, a flavour map for seasonal fritters, notes on what flowers are in season and when, tips on creating the perfect green salad, how to lay a celebratory table and much more besides.

Anna’s writing is incredibly warm and has the ability to make you feel immediately comfortable. She recently described the cooks who prefer asparagus cooked and served simply as purists and I feel, for the most part, I definitely fall into that camp. Whenever I embark on a recipe that requires me to widen the contents of my cupboards (and my palette) it’s usually one of Anna’s recipes that has lured me into doing so. When I grow tired of peas or courgettes as the warmer months trundle on, it’s within the pages of The Modern Cook’s Year that I search for new ways with the ingredients I already know and love.

It’s testament to Anna that this book is FULL of recipes (nearly three times that normally included in a common cookbook) and each one makes you dwell on the page; beet salad with orange blossom water and curd cheese, buttery aubergines with toasted couscous, red cabbage and juniper sauerkraut, summer pudding… Apple, rye and walnut bundt! Marvellous.

The Last Bite by Anna Higham

Why is it that when our sweet tooth has lured us into the kitchen it never occurs to us to approach whatever it is we’re making in the same way we would something savoury? Rarely do I consider making a mid-week pudding, nor do I reach for the salt, pepper, oil or vinegar to season a bowl of something sweet (well, now I think of little else when sugar is nearby thanks to Anna Higham’s writing). This book details a new approach to making desserts through the year and one that will truly change the way you cook.

The Last Bite, referring to the final moments of a meal, is a deep-dive into seasonal produce (through the lens of pudding!) and exactly how to use it. It’s extremely clever, incredibly detailed and wonderfully approachable all at the same time. It’s a bible for professional chefs and home cooks alike and has taught me more about cooking than any other book I own. It will teach you how to source an ingredient - and to tell the difference between good and extraordinary examples of them - and make them taste infinitely more of themselves. Always a special proposition.

There’s a recipe for rhubarb juice, compote, granita, powder (later used for a sherbet-like sugar) and rhubarb chewies. It’ll expand your perception of what can be done with an ingredient, and guide you through every step therein. It’s worth buying just for the rice pudding recipe. If I encounter an ingredient for the first time (or really crave rice pudding), The Last Bite is what I reach for.

You can listen to a podcast I recorded with Anna on the publication of this book. She talks about how she wrote it alongside cooking full-time and where the recipes came from while we pick magnolia together in Hyde Park. You can also taste many of these recipes IRL, at her bakery, Quince.

Fern Verrow by Jane Scotter and Harry Astley

Of all the books on this short list, this is the one I struggle to find on fellow cook’s shelves - and I have no idea why. Opening it’s pages is like tumbling onto the very pasture of the book’s eponymous 16-acre farm in Herefordshire. In the depths of winter when I long to remember what spring and summer feel like, the photography in Fern Verrow (by Tessa Traeger) is as close as I can get to smelling scrunched herbs and feeling the sun on my back.

The book is split into four seasons and the pages lead you through each one - not just with recipes but with beautifully-written stories and guides that give you a true feeling for this biodynamic farm’s character. Almost 10 years ago, when I first read-through the book, it was one of these guides that helped me plant my very first collection of herbs and flowers; valerian, lemon balm, fennel, sweet cicely and lemon thyme - all grown on the guidance of these authors, for their flavour and fragrance when brewed as a tea or tisane.

Whether you’re hungry for guidance in the kitchen or garden, the pages here are brimming with information. In this past month I have flicked-through thoughts on making compost, notes on varieties of radicchio to grow this year, a recipe for rhubarb cordial and a number of recipes for those first few blooms of elderflower (there’s a cake I have my eye on). In whatever month this book may eventually find you, it’ll give you guidance for the present and much excitement for the future.

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All flora have their secrets, and asparagus is no different. When a window for gorging on something is as fleeting as it is for bunches of the vivid green (and at times purple and even white) spears I mention here, a cook is best placed to arm themselves with a wealth of facts and folklore alike. All that’s left then is to dive into the kitchen and soak-up all of it’s short-lived glory.

Some of my favourite things to recall when in the kitchen with asparagus;

• Spears must be cut or snapped with care, so as to waste as little as possible of nature’s first green gift of the growing season.

• It’s worth noting that, especially if using your asparagus for dipping in a mayonnaise or vinaigrette, the woody ends needn’t be removed. As Fergus Henderson famously explained, they act as perfect and stable handle provided in kind by nature itself.

• Longer stems may be older, or have been cut from under the earth, rather than above it and require a little peeling at the base of their snapped limbs. A swivel peeler is an excellent tool for the job and even removing the bottom 2-3cm can be enough to rid the unwanted bite and fibrous character of an unruly spear. If you aren’t sure whether to peel your spears or not, simply take a small bite from the base of one. If it’s at all tough or stringy, peeling is advised. Peelings should kept (see below)!

• Any discarded woody stems can be kept and dropped into bubbling pots of stock or broth for an addition of spring-like earthiness, or used in the base of a soup when other vegetables are sweating and softening.

• Few items are more useful in a kitchen than the elastic band that clutches a bunch of asparagus together. I collect them as a matter of urgency.

• Asparagus should never be served at a spring wedding or large gathering of friends, should the bathrooms become too pungent and distract from the merriment and bliss of love and wine.

• Once harvested (or more often procured), store a bunch in a small glass of water in your fridge, with spears facing upward and the cut ends of each spear submerged just a centimetre or two.

• The starting pistol for harvesting asparagus in England is meant to fall on St George’s Day (23rd April), but spears grown in polytunnels often appear much earlier. It thrives in temperatures above 6-10c and bolts at much above 20c, producing thinner and more elongated stems and leaves in a rush to go to seed. With this in mind, depending on the climate of the spring at hand, spears can be worthy of the table well into early June.

• Asparagus is a claw-shaped perennial crown, sending out shoots (much like any plant in the adolescent stages of a growing season) which grow into a beautiful fernlike plant that produces berries (shown in the video below). These shoots are our main order of business, harvested as the plant wakes from winter. A light and sandy soil ensures an easy path to the surface, and is why the main crop of asparagus in England lands from the likes of Norfolk, Suffolk and Herefordshire.

I must admit that my favourite way to enjoy asparagus is blanched in boiling salted water, served with far too much butter, a little lemon or spritz of vinegar and a generous grating of Spenwood or Corra Linn. I thought that would possibly make for a rather short and boring newsletter and so, while trying to hold tight to the simplicity of dropping spears into a pot, my mind was thrown back to eight years ago, when I was staging at The River Cafe.

A stage is a period of unpaid work in a kitchen, common among professional cooks who’re keen to get to the heart of a particular chef or restaurant’s cooking. Back in 2017 and having worked for Jamie Oliver for just shy of two years, The River Cafe had been mentioned to me a great many times. I wrote to one of the Chef’s, Joe Trivelli, and shortly after found myself in the midst of two weeks cooking that would shift my perspective on food, for better and for worse (more on this in a future newsletter).

Not only were the chefs at The River Cafe entirely impressive but they were wonderful educators, too. After preparing eight crates of violet artichokes, I soon forgot the many small cuts on my hand as I was so keen to make room in my mind for the method of cooking that was being explained to me.

Always wear gloves when embarking on any artichoke-related task - midway through artichoke prep I dabbled in the chopping of a soffritto for a pan of risotto one of the chef’s was making. Some hours later during service and when tasting the dish at the pass, Joe jarringly looked up from the pan and straight at me. With one mouthful and amidst great quantities of rice, dairy and Barolo he had tasted the bitterness of my morning’s endeavour. “Did you help with this risotto?” he asked me. “Without gloves on your hands are passing bitterness to every ingredient you touch.” It has always stuck with me.

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Artichokes cooked in the Roman style (alla Romana) are prepared removing tough outer leaves and any inner choke and are then often laced with herbs and garlic and placed upside down in a heavy-bottomed pan. Next comes the detail that we’ll borrow for our asparagus in the recipe below. Water, olive oil and white wine (sometimes) are added each in equal quantities - the water evaporates and renders the artichokes tender, the wine evaporates and flavours them and what remains is a glorious infusion of fragrant oil that sizzles and turns the bottom of the artichokes golden.

Roman-style asparagus with goat’s curd and herbs
Serves 2, as a starter

This simple recipe creates a wonderful starting point that you can take in any direction you wish. As long as the quantities in the pan remain the same, swaps can happily be made. Omit the vermouth for wine, or use something sharper like vinegar or verjus. Herbs are a very welcome addition, as are the likes of dried chilli flakes, black pepper, walnuts, fennel seeds, mustard or shallots. Whatever you choose to add, it’s important to retain the cooking liquor. A vegetable leaves much in the pot when cooked and this recipe captures every glorious ounce of it, ready for you to administer spooned over the cooked spears.

250g thick asparagus spears (about 8)
50ml extra virgin olive oil
50ml dry white vermouth or wine
2 cloves of garlic
1 lemon
125g goat’s curd, or mozzarella
Broad bean shoots and fennel fronds, to serve

1. Carefully remove the woodiest ends of the asparagus with a knife and keep for another use, peeling the very bottoms of the spears if they’re at all tough and/or fibrous. Add to a heavy-bottomed frying pan that holds them all flat but snug. Add a generous pinch of salt, followed by the olive oil, vermouth and 50ml cool water.

2. Peel and finely slice the garlic and add this to the pan, along with a few strips of lemon peel, avoiding the bitter white pith if possible. Shimmy the pan slightly to ensure all components are in contact with the liquid in the pan. This will ensure even cooking.

3. Place the pan over a high heat and watch and listen carefully - the line between cooked and overcooked is a mighty thin one here. The water will begin to plume in large bubbles, the evaporation sounding soft and rounded. As the wine and water reduce the bubbles will, too. The sound of cooking will sharpen and crackle, sounding harsher and more akin to frying as the majority of what remains in the pan is oil. Remove from the heat and serve immediately. This should take roughly 3 and a half minutes.

4. Spoon goat’s curd or break mozzarella onto plates. Season with salt and freshly ground black pepper. Divide the asparagus evenly over both plates and cover in much of the remaining cooking liquid. Finish by scattering over torn herbs - I love using broad bean tips and fennel at this time of year.

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Welcome to Salt and the Earth, a newsletter full of recipes and writing to help you feel a deeper connection to the food you eat, every time you cook. Each entry should arm you with the knowledge and confidence to know what’s growing right now, and exactly what to do with it.

Thanks so much for being here. If you’ve arrived by accident, or on the generous recommendation of a friend - you’re most welcome. Subscribe below (it’s free!) and never miss a newsletter.

Hugo x

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A jar is a powerful thing. Through very simple means, it can allow us to jump back to a moment in time at just the twist of a lid and the pop of a seal. I can never resist filling my lungs with the fragrant first fumes from a jar of hot pepper jelly or apple chutney opened at Christmastime - a sure-fired way to transport yourself back to plants and places from seasons past.

Preserving exists in many guises in my kitchen. Whether it be a slowly simmering pot of jam or a hurried pan of compote - I am always drawn to the power it has to not only prevent waste but timestamp a moment; your shelves becoming an album of sorts as the weeks of the year come and go. Multi-coloured and unassuming, the jars patiently wait for you to decide which month you’d like to jump back to with that first closed-eyed mouthful.

Sugar is magical and so is smoke - both adding their own light brush strokes of character to the business of preserving. In my mind, however, nothing comes close to the joy that can be found in preserving with salt - namely by fermentation. It’s an ancient method that not only connects us to our ancestors, but seems to make the fruit or vegetable at hand taste infinitely more of itself - two elements I adore in any realm of cooking.

Most importantly, I cannot stress how simple it is to achieve something extraordinary. It really is a process that is so very easy.

I always loved teaching cooks how to handle food with fire, whether it be in a roaring wood oven or a glowing grill. Even those who had never struck a match before would become masters of the craft in a short space of time once they understood the simple principles of it all. A successful fire needs three very essential things; heat, fuel and oxygen. If you’ve a face-full of smoke to contend with or a lazy bed of embers it’s likely that the balance of the three isn’t in check. A quick reference and a tinkering with any of those core principles is likely to result in a rekindled blaze in a moment.

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Fermenting vegetables works in exactly the same way - once you understand the very simple core principles, it’s very easy to troubleshoot and use the produce and salt you have to hand to create something marvellous. So what exactly is fermentation, when referring to the preservation of vegetables?

Here it is, as I understand it, in basic terms;

The use of salt - normally around 1.5-2% of the vegetable’s weight - and the presence of liquid creates an environment without oxygen where the things that normally spoil or alter our food, namely mould, cannot exist. Consequently in the absence of those things (oxygen and mould), the bacteria that is needed to preserve the vegetable (one of the many species of lactobacillus) can thrive. This is why you’ll often see the fermentation of fruits and vegetables referred to as lacto-fermentation.

How does the preservation happen?

Lactic acid bacteria, essential for fermentation, are present on all raw fruit and vegetables. Once a vegetable is cut, scrunched or grated and salt has been added, the cell walls of the vegetable are ruptured, releasing liquid. As the salted vegetable is added to a clean jar or crock, there has usually been enough liquid produced to cover the vegetable completely (a weight is sometimes used to help this along) - thus removing oxygen and allowing the lactic acid bacteria to thrive. The bacteria begin consuming the natural sugars in the vegetable, producing lactic acid and carbon dioxide as a by-product. Sometimes alcohol and acetic acid (most commonly found in vinegar) are produced, too. Over time, as the acidity of the jar increases as more natural vegetable sugars are consumed, fermentation activity will slow.

How long does it take?

Lacto-fermentation, to a certain degree, is never ‘done’ - it’s all a matter of taste. When kept at an ambient room temperature of around 18c, the ferment will begin producing carbon dioxide after a couple of days. After 8-10 days, the jar will have reached an acidity of roughly 2% (vinegar can have an acidity of anywhere between 4-16%) and fermentation will begin to gradually slow. Temperature affects the rate of fermentation massively and consequently flavour, too. A higher temperature means a more rapid rate of fermentation, but many believe that by slowing the process down you can achieve a more complex and deep flavour. The most useful way to gauge whether your ferment is done - at least to your liking - is to taste it! For a more salty and slightly effervescent result, begin tasting it after a few days until the balance is just right. For something more akin to a pickle as we know it, with a sharper and more acidic flavour, continue fermentation (and regular tastings) for another few days. If you still find it too salty, allow it to ferment for a little longer at room temperature and acidity will continue to gently increase. When you’re happy with the flavour, remove the weight in the jar if you’ve used one, and place in the fridge where fermentation will all but grind to a halt. Enjoy dipping into the jar as you see fit.

Why ferment, rather than pickle?

Pickling with a classical vinegar mixture, usually with the addition of water, sugar, spices and salt, is a glorious way of preserving in it’s own right. Why then, bother with fermentation?

I believe, as each vegetable can have a different species and quantity of naturally occurring bacteria on it, every ferment is an opportunity to capture a completely unique aroma and taste - not only acidic, salted and rich in umami but the subtle character that every vegetable holds, too. It’s a way of unlocking a mesmerising set of I-can’t-quite-place-it flavours.

Without heat, and with the presence of salt, whatever vegetable you have chosen to ferment retains it’s natural crunch - something often lost when using a classic hot pickle brine. The salt slows the action of pectin consuming enzymes, allowing the vegetable to keep its natural texture, even after fermentation has slowed to a sluggish pace.

Finally, fermentation gives you utter freedom. With just one calculation to make (that of 2% salt) you can use whatever variety and quantity of vegetable you have to hand. If, for example, you’re to ferment a haul of wild garlic (as the recipe below will dive into in more detail) it’s unlikely that when deep in woodland or at a river bank you’ll have a set of scales to hand. The process of fermentation, first and foremost, allows you to enjoy the process of harvesting, foraging or shopping for your ingredients wholeheartedly, away from the rigid guidance of a shopping list or scribbled quantities. Below is a ferment that I look forward to making, and eating, every single year.

Fermented wild garlic
Makes 1 x 1 litre jar

This recipe is truly my favourite thing to ferment. It is incredibly easy and relies on just two ingredients. It’s a wonderful way of using the slightly tougher, later season leaves of wild garlic (you can read my guide to what else to do with wild garlic here). that often get forgotten. When finished, the brightly acidic and pungent leaves are wonderful in countless applications. Try them chopped and added to the oozing centre of a toasted cheese sandwich, strewn over a beef carpaccio or fish crudo, or added to a hand-chopped salsa verde or chimichurri. It’s a ferment that’s wonderful eaten straight from the jar, too.

1kg wild garlic leaves
20g salt (fine or flaky sea salt - I always use Halen Mon)

1. It’s important to remember that this recipe can be applied to any quantity of wild garlic you have to hand - it’s unlikely you’ll return home with the exacting accuracy of leaves specified here. After harvesting and returning home, weigh your wild garlic. To calculate the 2% of salt that’s required, simply multiply the weight in grams by 0.02. For 1kg of wild garlic as above, for example use the sum 1000 x 0.02 = 20.

2. Wash the wild garlic in cold running water, removing any debris from the woodland as you do so. You may need to do this in batches. Pat dry or process in a salad spinner, then place in a large bowl. I must admit that I was without a bowl large enough and so used a large casserole pot instead.

3. Scatter over the salt and begin to scrunch it into the leaves. Continue scrunching, turning and folding the wild garlic with your hands for 5 minutes or so, until the wild garlic has significantly decreased in size and released a generous pool of emerald-green liquid. Set aside for 30 minutes while the salt continues to drawn out moisture from the leaves.

4. Add the salted wild garlic to a 1 or 1.5 litre sterilised jar (I usually opt for one like this), gradually pushing and pressing it down with your fist at each addition to remove any pockets of air. Continue until all the wild garlic is in the jar, then cover with the liquid remaining in the bowl. There should be enough to cover the wild garlic, and possibly a little too much (remove a few spoonfuls if so). It’s important here to leave at least a 3cm gap at the top of the jar, as when fermentation begins and carbon dioxide is produced, the contents grow a little in volume.

5. Cover with a small round piece of greaseproof paper that’s just larger than the opening of the jar, and add a sterilised weight. I really like using glass fermentation weights like these, and have done so for years. I just cover them in freshly boiled water before using each time to sterilise them. Alternatively you can use a clean sandwich bag full of water, or a very small jar that’s been sterilised and is full of something weighty like rice or dried pulses (ceramic baking beans work well).

6. Clasp the lid shut and place somewhere out of direct sunlight and at a warm ambient temperature (around 16-18c). After 3 or 4 days, begin ‘burping’ the jar by opening and closing it, allowing the carbon dioxide that has been produced to escape. Continue this process each day, noticing how many bubbles are produced each time. Begin tasting it, noting the flavour and levels of salt and acid. Continue fermenting until you achieve the balance you’re after, then store in the fridge.

What if your jar isn’t producing any bubbles?
This may mean that your ambient temperature is too cool, in which case leave to ferment for another few days before opening the jar again. Alternatively, the seal on the jar could be a little worn-out, in which case gas will be constantly escaping in small amounts, removing the expected ‘release’ of bubbles you’re expecting. In this instance it’s best to taste the wild garlic to gauge it’s readiness.

What if it tastes too salty?
Simply allow to ferment for another couple of days, then taste again.

What if mould develops on the surface?
If left at ambient temperature for a long time, especially if any of the fermented vegetable is exposed to air, it’s likely a little mould or yeast may develop on the surface. You can simply remove this all with a clean spoon, and all the remaining vegetable content that isn’t exposed to air will be totally fine to consume.

How do I ferment in brine, rather than dry salt?
If you want to keep vegetables whole, rather than cutting or grating them - like baby carrots - a 2% salt brine is a wonderful way to achieve a delicious ferment. Watch this space for a guide to salt brines, soon!

Further fermentation reading;

• The Art of Fermentation, by Sandor Katz

• The Noma Guide to Fermentation, by Rene Redzepi and David Zilber

• Bar Tartine, by Nicolaus Balla and Courtney Burns

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If you’re already subscribed, or perhaps have arrived here on the generous recommendation of a friend, you’re very welcome. Salt and the Earth is a newsletter with one simple aim - to share simple recipes, writing and podcasts that empower you to feel closer to the food you’re eating, every time you cook.

If you’ve enjoyed reading this entry at all then please consider sharing it - it would mean a great deal to know this had found even more hungry minds.

Hugo x

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As winter brightly tumbles into spring the leaves of wild garlic that were once vivid green and tender get stronger - in texture, colour and flavour. A slight bitterness arrives, along with a more fibrous leaf. This transformation from a young and tender plant best eaten raw, to a more mature and deeply-flavoured one that yearns to be cooked is really true of most vegetables. At every stage of a plant’s life there are wonderful applications for it in the kitchen. For the most part, vegetables are sold to us at one generation of their life only, and often a latter one - think of a head of cauliflower or a ripe and sweet red tomato - affording us just a handful of the countless ways we could enjoy it.

On a bright March morning at a Farmer’s Market in San Francisco I once saw a grower selling rocket at every stage of its life; roots he had cleaned and encouraged customers to use like a fragrant spice, young and gentle leaves yet to find their true fire, mature ones as we know rocket to be and then punnets of rocket flowers and their subsequent seeds, too. It was a physical example of what can be unlocked when you have direct access to a plant. Unless you have a relationship with a farm or are indeed growing your own food, this access is indeed a bit of a luxury. Not so, however, when it comes to wild garlic.

If you have a go-to wild garlic spot, and are picking it responsibly and with the land owner’s permission, then you have a wonderful opportunity to witness (and taste) the many delicious stage’s of a plant’s life, and all without need for a garden or local farm. Visiting the river bank, green space or woodland you normally harvest your wild garlic from multiple times in a season will give you a whole host of new wild garlic possibilities;

• First growth - vibrant, sweet and small leaves. Perfect thrown into a mix of salad raw or added to dishes at the last minute; tossed through a pasta or folded through risotto. Also wonderful beneath a resting steak.

• Mid-season leaves - wild garlic as you know it. Lovely preserved in a butter or oil where the flavour and colour are now vibrant enough to stand-up to fats. I daresay delicious in pesto and other raw applications. Beginning to hold their own when heat is applied, too - glorious when done so gently, often with eggs (omelette, quiche or soufflé).

• Later growth - now larger, stronger and broad-leaved. Wonderful for wrapping fish, or asparagus as Tomos Parry does here. You can use them to line a terrine mould or to embellish layers of a gratin. Very delicious when deep-fried (more on that later) and benefit from a more intense cook - the leaves in fact need to be broken down somewhat before eating. Fermentation works well here as salt breaks down the cell structure.

• Flower buds - an unlock-able bonus should you visit an emerald carpet of wild garlic toward the end of it’s life. These can be fermented or pickled or are wonderful thrown into soups and braises for bursts of intense allium character in a final bowl or plate. Think spring minestrone!

• Flowers - one last and final flourish. Beautiful when adorning salads, savoury spring bakes and useful if you’re looking to add a touch of freshness to something cooked and dark, like a bowl of greens or a crock of creamed spinach.

• Seed pods - when the final petals begin to fall and many of the leaves are dying back, what remains standing proud is a single stem holding each plant’s seed pods. These can be preserved in salt, and when finished resemble an irresistibly garlic-flavoured caper. The process is a little arduous, so be sure to make enough to last until next year’s crop.

This week’s recipe is a wonderful way with wild garlic in those later stages of growth, just before the seed pods send forth their snow-white flowers. This is a recipe that I return to year after year, and I hope that you will, too.

This is a take on a classic bar snack from Marseille, panisse. It can be made with the flour of any legume, although traditionally uses that of chickpeas, has only three ingredients and is one of the most moreish and crispiest ways with wild garlic that you’ll find. An ideal snack for those first milder evenings spent outdoors.

Wild garlic panisse
Serves 6, as a snack

Panisse is traditionally made with chickpea flour which, for the most part, is incredibly hard to source transparently from a supermarket - that is, origin of milled chickpeas unknown. British food heroes Hodmedods not only sell chickpea flour they’ve milled themselves, but they name the very farmer who has grown the legumes on each pack. They also sell green pea, marrowfat and fava bean flour which can all be used interchangeably here, for a wonderful flavour and incredibly vibrant colour. Legumes are a nitrogen-fixing crop that help farmers build soil structure and vitality - improving not only future crops but their surrounding landscape, too. Has the cooking of a deep-fried food ever had such an alluring social and environmental power? I think not!

10g fine salt (a generous pinch)
250g chickpea flour
30g wild garlic leaves
Sunflower oil, for frying (around 300ml)

1. A little like the cooking of polenta, once the cogs of panisse are turning you’ll find yourself bound to the bubbling pot, so it pays well to measure all of your ingredients first, having them to hand before starting. Weighing the chickpea flour into a measuring jug, rather than a bowl, helps it fall into the pot in a steady stream and (for the most part) prevents lumps of dry flour forming in the panisse mixture later.

2. Bring 1 litre of water to boil in a small, high-sided saucepan. The hydration of a batch of panisse is very important to the success of the final fried form, so it’s vital that once boiling the pot isn’t left to simmer for too long before starting. As soon as the water comes to the boil, add the salt and stir with a sturdy whisk to dissolve.

3. A moment later, turn the heat down to low and add the chickpea flour to the boiling water gradually and in a steady stream, whisking all the time while you do so. Once it’s all added, beat the mixture vigorously for a moment or so and cook, beating with the whisk regularly (every few minutes or so), for 25 minutes.

4. Meanwhile, lightly oil a shallow baking dish (roughly 20cm by 26cm) and set aside. Wash the wild garlic and remove any stalks so that just the leaves remain. Once 25 minutes have passed, quickly tip the hot panisse mixture into a food processor with the wild garlic, using a rubber spatula or spoon to get all the mixture out of the pot. Blitz for a minute, until all visible lumps in the mixture have dissapeared, the wild garlic has broken down into vivd green flecks and the mixture is looking glossy. Immediately tip into your oiled tray (it will start solidifying quickly now).

5. Cover with greaseproof paper and place in the fridge to set for at least 2 hours, and ideally around 6. At this stage it would keep in the fridge for 48 hours and still fry very happily later

6. Add sunflower oil to a heavy-bottomed and high-sided pot, ensuring it’s no more than a third full. Warm over a medium-low heat to 180c/350f. Once set, tip the slab of panisse onto a chopping board and cut into your desired size - I like long fingers around 1-2cm thick. Carefully add to the oil, cooking in batches, and fry for about 4 minutes, or until beginning to brown. Turn them halfway for an even cook. Drain on kitchen paper.

7. Serve with an extra sprinkle of salt or a flavoured mayonnaise. Making a mayonnaise with a batch of herb oil creates a wonderful, brightly-coloured dip that’s full of flavour and well worth the effort.

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I’ve always maintained that when staring down by your feet at the earthly canvas of any farm or garden, there is no greater reflection of time, place and persons than a bed of salad leaves. Whether it be the deep-coloured bitter heads of autumn or the red-flecked lettuces of summer. I daresay many green-thumbed cooks or growers can detail the very month of the year by studying the palettes, shades and vigour of a lettuce, mustard or cress. They’re a time stamp of the growing season.

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Spring is undoubtedly the best time of year to enjoy a bowl of leaves. Often sown in autumn or late winter, by springtime plants have grown slowly and usually under cover, building a deep character and flavour as they do so. Unlike the hurried growth of summer’s salad - thrown into a lazy but rampant surge thanks to an abundance in warmth and water - winter salads have experienced the stresses of biting temperatures and low-light. They’ve lived a longer and more arduous life than their midsummer siblings, and have much more to say for themselves in the salad bowl because of it.

Mustards are more fiery and lettuces are infinitely more interesting. Bitter radicchios and peppery cress command your attention and that of the table. Spring’s new growth of pea shoots, lamb’s lettuce and broad bean tips soften the hardier edges of winter’s bolder leaves and makes a mesclun that April alone can bring.

The line-up of leaves

My allotment (newly acquired) is presently barren but for a few leeks and a growing collection of muddy bale twine from the previous tenants, so my search for spring salad took me to friends Bess, Helena and Ada at Maple Farm in Kelsale. Their certified organic polytunnels house a great many leaves. I filled my colander with;

• Rossa Di Treviso (radicchio)

• Grumolo Verde (radicchio)

• Osaka Purple (mustard)

• Purple Frills (mustard)

• Pea shoots

• Watercress

• Mustard flowers, from bolting plants

When deciding the varieties you’d like for your salad the best starting point is, as is often the case in the kitchen, the end. Imagine the first mouthful and the coming-together of leaves - would you like the character of the bowl to be aromatic, fiery, peppery, herbaceous or a clean and crunchy mixture that compliments, rather than commands? What follows is my favourite way to bring the leaves of spring together. As I’m sure you’ll learn with each entry I add to this newsletter, the recipes you’ll find here are thoughtfully prepared but simply presented. I like whatever my hands place on the plate to be a true reflection of that time and place. I hope the tips that follow will help you do just that in your own kitchen at home.

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Leaves acquired, our attention must now turn to adornments.

Cooks much wiser and more confident than me (namely Tom Adams and Rose Maxwell at Coombeshead Farm) might reach for the vinegar bottle and little else. If you have access to fine salad leaves, and can harvest them a moment or two before serving, then you’ll likely agree this to be the best course of action. Construct your salad in a handsome bowl, allowing each leaf to play its part and flaunt its natural shape. Just before serving, administer a spritz or two of vinegar that’s had a pinch of fine salt added to it, to help season the leaves. In my mind, this is the ultimate flex; “Look here at what I have to hand (or have grown!), and how little it needs to shine so brightly!”.

I always enjoy a drop or two of vinaigrette, and in an attempt to dial-up the very essence of spring, I assemble it with a macerated vinegar (vinegar infused with leaves, fruit, herbs or flowers) and a herb oil.

For the woodland vinegar
In April the hedgerows and woodlands are bursting with the vibrant green new growth of nettles, cleavers and - if you’re near the coast - alexanders. Scrunch any of these in your hands and you’ll smell the fluorescence of that earthy green itself. This can be captured in a vinegar over as little as a week of maceration, and will only improve over time. A little of this in a salad’s dressing not only amplifies the leaves themselves, but brings a dose of that woodland aroma to the bowl.

Makes 1 x 500ml jar
A handful of nettles
A handful of cleavers
A handful of alexanders
Apple cider or white wine vinegar, about 400ml

1. To a clean jar, add the nettles, cleavers and alexanders, pushing them down and filling the jar as much as possible. Cover with vinegar, seal the jar and leave somewhere cool and dark to macerate for at least a week.

For the lovage oil
I adore herbs in a salad but find their sudden arrival in a mouthful (tarragon! Chervil!) can negate the hard work you’ve already done in composing the balance of your leaves. The flavour of a herb oil, however, brings a gentle and even flavour and a vivid green that only amplifies all of the salad’s existing qualities. My favourite herb for the task is lovage, especially vivid and delicious during its first spring growth. You can use any soft herb you have to hand with equally delicious results. The yield is admittedly poor, but what it lacks in volume it makes up for in colour and flavour - a little goes a long way. I use rapeseed oil here as I can get a very good one that’s grown and processed locally to me, but sunflower oil would work well, too. I generally avoid vegetable oil as, for the most part, it’s produced from soy beans.

Makes 200-300ml
300g rapeseed or sunflower oil
300g lovage, or any fresh soft herb

1. Warm the oil slightly in a small saucepan, to around 50c or thereabouts (this helps extract the flavour and colour from the herb), then add to a high-powered blender with the lovage. Blend, slowly at first, until the lovage and oil are largely combined and minced together. Blitz for 7 minutes, gradually increasing the speed as time goes on. It may have moments of stillness (and will be loud!) as air pockets form, but adjust the speed a level or two lower and it should remedy itself.
2. Strain through a sieve lined with muslin or kitchen towel for an hour or so, being careful not to squeeze it at any point, as this forces through water from the herbs, rather than the newly infused oil. Store in a container in the fridge where it will keep happily for a couple of weeks.

For the vinaigrette
I find this method for making a small batch of vinaigrette not only incredibly quick, but most satisfying in the way it leaves whisk, bowl and food processor free and clean for another purpose.

Makes 1 x 400ml jar, enough for many salads
50g Dijon mustard
100ml lovage oil, or olive oil
100ml woodland vinegar, or apple cider vinegar
Flaky salt (I love Halen Mon)

1. In a clean jar, add all of the ingredients. Secure the lid and shake vigorously for a moment or two, until all is emulsified and the mixture has thickened slightly. Open the jar and check the seasoning, remembering you want a good vinaigrette to be slightly too salty and too acidic at this time, while in the absence of the leaves it’ll meet later.

To assemble the salad
Into a large bowl, add the washed leaves - allowing 30-40g per person. Add vinaigrette to taste, mixing lightly with your hands, feeling to ensure each leaf is lightly coated in its vibrant dressing. Taste and adjust the vinaigrette quantity to your liking. Serve immediately.

Notes
- The possibilities of a macerated vinegar are endless. Be guided by what you have to hand, or the purpose you’d like to use it for in the kitchen. Bay or myrtle vinegar is wonderful for deglazing roasting pans of poultry. Blossom vinegar adds a beautiful fragrance to meringues. Fruit and herb vinegar can provide a welcome home for any less-than-perfect leaves, herb stalks or berries and captures their flavour so well. Try adding a dash to a compote or jam to bring a little balance and an additional I-can’t-quite-place-it level of flavour.
- The best, simplest and most well-remembered method for herb oil is in a Thermomix, blitzed on speed 7 for 7 minutes and at 70c. I sadly don’t own one at home, and know few cooks who do, so the recipe provided in this entry is intended to be more sympathetic to the home cook’s artillery of equipment.

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Welcome to Salt and the Earth, a newsletter full of recipes and writing to help you feel a deeper connection to the food you eat, every time you cook.

I hope that every recipe I write is a complete reflection of time and place. Just what you want to eat right in that instant. Think roasted strawberries and hay-infused cream on a late spring day, a grilled flat fish wrapped in fig leaves for the height of summer or a handy guide on what to do with a glut of pumpkins. Whatever the season may be, I hope you’ll feel equipped (and excited!) to get in the kitchen.

Thanks so much for being here. If you’ve arrived by accident, or on the generous recommendation of a friend - you’re most welcome. Subscribe below (IT’S FREE!) and never miss a newsletter.

Hugo x

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I often wonder whether seasons are in correspondence with one another. Does a tardy autumn ever write to summer, to extend thanks and plead for another few more hazy weeks before arriving late, bashful and full of amber embarrassment? I’d like to think so.

Not long ago I was the chef at a small restaurant on a farm. Our modest market garden, woodland and orchards provided us with much of what we cooked with. With such a deep connection to the ingredients we were using, we were often witness to seasons within seasons within seasons. One week in late winter could offer both tempting flushes of abundance and a snap at the eager cook’s hand in the same seven days.

In the hours before one Sunday lunch at the end of March I remember the kitchen was humming with calendar chitter chatter, a dialogue between winter and spring. Young nettles sat nestled in a colander with great bunches of frost-hardened chard. Branches of bay filled ceramic crocks, patterns of vivid chartreuse and deep green as all ages of leaf hung proudly next to one another. Jars of dried gorse flowers sat aside baskets of fresh, the latter full of an enviable and radiant yellow.

The wood oven was roaring and the kitchen was full with the heady smell of wild garlic and roasting meat - namely the four hoggets we had studiously prepared to feed the dining room. Legs were cooked gently and spinning over fire ‘a la ficille’, saddles were rolled, stuffed with borage and roasted. Chops were grilled hard and fast then left to rest gently in the door of the wood oven. Each cut was delicately sliced, pulled and portioned and sent to the tables upon a warm platter laden with braised herbs, a celebration of spring in its whole and glorious form. The finest example of winter and spring’s conspiring, however, was to come with lunch’s last and sweetest mouthfuls.

Meringue is always a beautiful canvas, not least when flaunting the flavours and feeling of a specific time. In my experience, even the most dubious of meringue eaters can be encouraged if the supporting cast of fruit and dairy have been awarded sufficient care. The dwindling yields and thinning stems of forced rhubarb normally coincide with the first buds of magnolia, as if exchanging between them the fuchsia hues from earth to tree.

They’re natural bedfellows, too; magnolia bringing a great ginger character, often with a cardamom-like fragrance, depending on the variety of blossom you have to hand. These are flavours commonly used with rhubarb, but in this iteration a wholly new one arrives - ethereal, light and fragrant - a gentler touch than the boldness of winter’s molasses and marmalades. It tastes of spring itself. When piled atop a chewy meringue with spoonfuls of Jersey cream, gorse and flowering currant - I can assure you that this is as close as you can get to walking down a country lane in springtime from the comfort of your kitchen.

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Magnolia and forced rhubarb meringue
Feeds 6

For the meringue
150g egg whites (from about 4 large eggs)
260g caster sugar
1 tsp apple cider or macerated fruit/blossom vinegar

For the rhubarb compote
400g forced rhubarb
100g caster sugar

For the magnolia syrup
200g caster sugar
½ tsp (3g) citric acid
150g magnolia buds (around 12)

To assemble
600ml Jersey double cream
1 vanilla pod, or 1 tsp vanilla bean paste
A handful of gorse flowers
A handful of flowering currant blossoms

1. First, make the meringue. Preheat the oven to 150c/130c fan. Add the egg whites to the bowl of a stand mixer (or large mixing bowl if using an electric hand whisk) with a pinch of fine salt. Begin to whisk on a low speed, increasing to medium-high (6/10 on my mixer), until you reach the soft peaks stage, about 5 minutes. Turn the speed of the mixer down to medium and gradually add the sugar to the egg whites one spoonful at a time, allowing a moment or two of mixing before each addition.

2. When the last of the sugar has been added, turn the mixer up to medium-high once again, mixing for 10 minutes, or until the meringue has very little grittiness when rubbed between your thumb and forefinger (I’m never too worried if a grain or two remain). With the mixer still running but at a more sluggish speed, add the vinegar and mix for a moment until well combined.

3. Line two baking trays with greaseproof paper, adding a tiny stroke of meringue to the underside corners of each piece of greaseproof to make them stay put on their trays. Add half the meringue mixture to one tray, spreading out into a round roughly 30cm wide. Take two thirds of the remaining meringue in the bowl and spread it onto your second tray, making another round that’s 20cm wide, or thereabouts. Finally, take your remaining meringue and spread it into a smaller round still, a 15cm crown to top the eventual tower of meringue. Place the trays of meringue into the oven and immediately turn the heat down to 120c/100c fan. Bake for 1 and a half hours, turning the oven off when finished but allowing the meringues to cool completely within it - for at least two hours, but ideally overnight.

To make the rhubarb compote;

1. Trim the ends from the rhubarb, then finely dice into roughly 3 or 4mm pieces. Add the caster sugar to a small saucepan with 100ml water and bring to the boil, stirring until the sugar has dissolved. Immediately add the rhubarb, stirring until all is coated in the warm syrup. Bring back to the boil and cook for a minute, then remove from the heat, cover with a lid and set aside somewhere to cool completely. Store in the fridge, where it will keep happily for a week or so, until ready to assemble the meringue.

To make the magnolia syrup;

1. Add the caster sugar and 250ml water to a small saucepan. Bring to the boil, stirring occasionally until all of the sugar is dissolved. Add the citric acid, stir to combine and then remove the pan from the heat. Set aside for 15 minutes to cool slightly (ideally to around 50c or below). Meanwhile, trim the green bases from your magnolia buds, keeping the whole clusters of blossom whole if possible. Place them in a shallow bowl.

2. Once cool, pour the syrup over the magnolia and mix gently so that the buds wilt slightly and are covered in syrup. Allow to cool, then place in the fridge overnight to infuse - you’ll see both the colour and flavour brighten with time. The syrup will keep happily in the fridge, within an airtight container, for at least 2 weeks.

To assemble

1. Add the cream to a large bowl. Halve the vanilla pod, if using, and scrape out the seeds from each half using the back of your knife. Add to the cream. Beat with a whisk until very soft peaks form. Always best to under-whisk here, as distractions often arise during the business of meringue building, and the cream will thicken of its own accord while out of the fridge.

2. Place the largest meringue onto the plate or board you wish to serve it on. Add a generous layer of vanilla-flecked cream, followed by an equally generous layer of rhubarb compote. Lay a few syrup-soaked magnolia blossoms over the top, then cover with the next largest meringue. Repeat the process twice more for the remaining layers.

3. Finish the top of the meringue with a few more magnolia blossoms, along with a scattering of edible flowers - I love gorse and flowering currant.

Notes
- Along with every other sweet-toothed cook in England, Anna Higham’s influence now runs deeply in all I cook and consider in the kitchen. The compote and magnolia syrup recipes here, although slightly different in quantity and method, were directly inspired by the notes in her priceless cookbook, The Last Bite. I encourage anyone who doesn’t own it already to make short work of doing so. You can visit her beautiful bakery, Quince, too.

- If ever using cream of any sort, you haven’t lived until you’ve tried that of Ivy House Farm in Somerset. Available here.

- Citric acid isn’t essential, but adds a pleasant note and prevents the magnolia from discolouring too much when immersed in syrup. Available at any local pharmacy.

- These meringues are decidedly chewy, thanks to their size and shape. For a more pillowy meringue, shape them slightly taller and with a smaller diameter, baking for the same time as noted here.

Welcome to Salt and the Earth, a newsletter that’ll help you feel the sun on your back, soil in your hands and air in your lungs from the comfort of your own kitchen. Too often my Instagram feed is fit-to-burst with swathes of cooks swooning over the arrival of new season produce (Peas! Asparagus! Rhubarb! Strawberries!) well before any farm I know has even reached for their boots and baskets. This is a newsletter that will connect you to those very farms - giving you a realtime insight into what’s actually growing right now (or not as the case may be), and how to cook with it.

There’s recipes galore (from meditative weekend projects to simple suppers) and a handful of tips and stories; on how to grow and handle lesser-known herbs, what to look for when shopping for fruit, vegetables and dairy (and what does organic really mean, anyway?) and why a well-raised chicken costs so much money. Occasionally you’ll find podcast entries, too - recordings of visits to farms and kitchens run by friends that I’ll bring you along for.

I spend a lot of time in the kitchen, either at home or at work where I assist Jamie Oliver across his recipe, books and TV show development. I’m often on farms, too - rallying pigs, planting trees and foraging from ground, trees and hedgerows. Salt and the Earth will be your insight into both, helping you feel a deep and delicious connection to the food you’re eating, every time you cook.

Hopefully see you there.

Hugo x

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Welcome to Salt and the Earth, a collection of notes and dishes from a farm-centric kitchen in Suffolk. This is the home of truly seasonal recipes and tales that’ll bring you closer to your ingredients and the people that produce them.

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After opening and running a farm-to-table restaurant in a small corner of Hampshire, I’m now back in my home kitchen. The market garden of seasons past has been swapped for a modest allotment, and my stoves have downsized somewhat, too.

From fermenting gluts of vegetables to butchering whole animals - I want to show you all I learnt along the way and how to cook simple farm-led food at home, connecting you again to the seasons outside and the abundant possibilities each one can bring.

What does grass-fed beef actually mean, and does it make a difference? How do you cook that beef perfectly, and why are some cuts destined for the grill and others for the oven? I hope to answer some of these, as well as a whole host more vegetable, soil-centric questions along the way - empowering you to feel a deeper connection to your food, every time you cook.

I can promise fortnightly recipes (and sometimes more besides), visual guides and the occasional podcast. You’ll hear from the cooks, growers and herdsmen that produce some of your favourite ingredients - the true power of food is in these connections, after all.

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If you haven’t already, please subscribe (it’s free!), and kindly pass the newsletter on to anyone else you feel may like to roll-up their sleeves, tie their apron strings and head into the kitchen with us.

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You can watch George Foote’s short film about my time in the farm restaurant on NOWNESS. Available now.

It’s always been my dream to build a holistic restaurant kitchen - a constantly flowing series of conscious movements that inform and shape the ones that follow. In recent years it’s been my belief that food cannot continue to be a binary part of our lives.

We buy food, and what we don’t buy is wasted. We eat food, and what we don’t eat is wasted. In this linear way we get very little, other than sustenance. Consequently we give very little, too. As I write this now I’m beaming at the thought of just how much food can give us when even glanced through a more holistic lens.

What does this actually mean, and what does it have to do with me leaving?

Let me explain, if it’s possible to, through pasta.

In the kitchen at Malverleys the basis of a pasta dish would start with an ingredient from the garden at it’s very best in that precise moment. In the first days of May the two beds of green garlic were fit to burst and needed using before they formed cloves and their tops begun drying - like garlic as we more often know it. It’s sweet, very aromatic and altogether different from the dried iteration found in kitchens the world over. The vibrant green at its core carries a herbaceous personality that screams “SPRING!”, when all is emerald green, wonderfully tender and bright.

At this stage the entirety of the garlic is usable; no skin to peel or tops to pull. We’d trim the slightly more fibrous tops and dehydrate them, producing a punchy, neon green powder we would later use for dusting over fresh cheese or flavouring a dry dredge (key to our buttermilk fried partridge dish). The stems are finely sliced and cooked under a cartouche with butter for an hour or so, until totally giving, sweet and intense. To this we add a ricotta made by Tom Calver and his merry band at Westcombe Dairy (created using the whey leftover from their cheese production) and season it with freshly ground single-origin black pepper sourced by Angus at Hill & Vale and Spenwood, a Pecorino-like sheep’s milk cheese made by local cheesemakers Village Maid. Each element in this glorious mixture can be traced back to source - the point at which each ingredient was closest to the soil, the fundamental pillar of it all.

Filling made, by this point it’s decided the green garlic and ricotta mixture is destined for ravioli. Being a filled pasta, the dough requires a slightly higher hydration and so we would typically opt for mostly whole eggs - the whites being mostly water and protein, two wonderful elements for enhancing gluten development and consequently a stretchy, strong dough. We’d typically use a stoneground flour milled by Andrew Lowkes at Landrace Milling, produced using a wheat like Maris Widgeon or a blend like the legendary Coppice from Green Acres Farm. These flours are made from wheat grown in a flavour-first, soil-centric way - and create beautiful pasta (more on this in another newsletter!). Using a UK grown and milled flour helps encourage a resilient, diverse and strengthened food system that supports itself and those within it.

Dropped into a pot of boiling salted water, tossed into a pan of steaming butter and a splash of whey, the pasta rests for a moment, sauce emulsifying around it. A handful of fresh broad beans are scattered in (coming from the garden but not yet at a quantity to be the pasta protagonist in their own right) along with a few more rasps of Spenwood, then into warm bowls and onwards to hungry friends in the dining room. Running a bowl of food like this to a table gives me more pride than I know how to convey here - each ingredient a character in a story that’s a joy to tell.

At Malverleys the story began shifting. The ability to cook in such a holistic way grew harder and harder as it was decided to shift the direction of the food and processes.

Suffice to say cooking in this way is not something you can simply switch off. Sowing seeds, feeding livestock, cutting herbs, picking fruit - these are the makings of an outlook beyond food, and to stray from this was not a direction I could follow.

So, how does From the farm continue sans farm? Well, these newsletters will remain a home for farm-centric cooking; showcasing the ingredients and work of some of the most inspiring growers and cooks in the British Isles. Through these entries I hope to connect you to your food, to help you delve deeper into ingredients, traditions and ideas. I hope it’ll be a place to try recipes from my notebook and beyond - opportunities for stirring and sowing in equal measure. Until the next entry…

• Buy Spenwood from Neals Yard Dairy

• Try making pasta with some stongeround flour from Hodmedods

• It’s time to sow winter squash! I’m growing Queensland Blue from Real Seeds

• Read more about green garlic on The Spruce Eats

Food is a funny thing. I’m the son of two brilliant chefs, but when moving away from home I hadn’t the faintest idea how to cook. The very nature of my parent’s work meant moments at home on weekends, especially for my Dad (hereafter known in these entires as Chef) were rare. The time he had in our kitchen was never cardinal; no recipes passed down or shared hours at the stove. As a child a restaurant to me was simply a place - details beyond that were trivial - it was the answer for his absence.

The clink of glasses and the clatter of cutlery, the smell of warm bread and fresh napkins, the crunch of sugary shortbread - all things so sweet in childhood memory turned bitter when post-school, pre-dinner service trips to the restaurant ended in us heading home, leaving Chef to conduct a kitchen of cooks for the evening. Food in this way was a language I couldn’t decipher, let alone understand. It set us apart.

I hated kitchens. Now I run a restaurant on a farm in Hampshire, spending many hours a day in the throws of a job I thought I never wanted. Away (but never far) from the huge breadth of knowledge at home, I taught myself to cook (as much as one can ever be truly self-taught) and found my own rhythm in food.

Food for me stretches far and wide; it’s the way someone handles a lettuce fresh from the soil, the closed-eye smile of that first slurp of soup or the careful cooking of a pork chop reared, butchered and grilled by the same hand. Food should make us feel something.

Six months ago I opened a restaurant kitchen, hired a team of cooks, plotted a market garden and reared a drove of pigs from the forest to the butcher’s block - all things I had never encountered before, and still navigate wearily now. This newsletter is a document of that magic that food can bring and just how much it can affect besides; the comfort in the uncertainty, the brutality of the seasons and that magnetic force it has to bring us together, to heal and forgive.

There’ll be recipes - those which form the basis of our cooking in the restaurant and how they came to be. Stories, too; of failed crops, surprise piglets, our wonderful team and the odd success for good measure.

If you like food that makes you feel, then I hope you’ll be very happy here indeed.

Has this landed with you by mistake, or perhaps been forwarded by a friend In either case you’re most welcome, and can subscribe to more recipes and notes From the farm here.

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