When I grew up in London, we had a little greengrocer around the corner from our house, who, in winter, sold mainly leeks, potatoes, cabbages and carrots, and some apples and pears. He would wrap each vegetable up in a small paper bag. My mother, brother and I would stand in the drizzle; it was always drizzling or raining, and as this was an open-air affair, the grocer and all the customers were bundled up in layers to try and keep out the pervasive damp that crept up our bones. Every few days, we would walk the two blocks to look at his produce in the hope we’d be inspired by something new, and every week we would walk home with the same ingredients, the paper bags getting soggy in the rain. We’d make soup; Mum made spiced dahl and lentils, and terrific apple crumbles—foods designed to keep us warm.
I recently read these lines by poet Edith Sitwell: “Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.” This reminded me of those wet London days, and invokes images of hearty roasts, rich sauce mopped up with chunks of freshly baked bread, rib-sticking stews or a dish with a heart-stopping amount of melted cheese. Hugely satisfying every now and then, but as the short damp days drag on, some of us get the winter blues and get stuck in a rut cooking the same three dishes and a general throw-it-all-in-the-pot vegetable soup. At first, these big warming bowls of hearty stews, bean chili, gratins and soups are just what we need when the weather turns chilly and wet—and don’t get me wrong, I do love a bowl of creamy vegetable soup—but it can get tedious, and taste buds get tired.
I long for food that offers a little pick-me-up, something with a little zest and piquancy. Enter winter greens, citrus, lots of herbs, and meals that don’t require a spoon to eat them. It wasn’t until I moved to California that I found (and still find) winter markets more inspiring, the obvious bonus being that the temperature isn’t hovering just above freezing, and “winter,” such as it is, is thankfully short.
Here the markets are filled with vibrant colors from dazzling chards, radicchio and purple Chidori kale, to watermelon radishes, multihued beets and cauliflowers, and such a huge variety of citrus fruit, in particular fragrant Cara Cara oranges, stunning blood oranges and sweetly tangy Meyer lemons. This colorful bounty is stimulating to the senses, and as the old adage attributed to the Roman epicurean Apicius goes, “we eat first with our eyes.” Drawn in by these colorful winter vegetables, I walk through the market creating an array of dishes in my mind. I may well see a beautifully whorled creamy cauliflower and think of a curried cauliflower soup or a gratin. But I will balance that rich dish with a crisp winter greens salad with thinly shaved candycane-colored radish slices or will see a mound of carrots piled high on a farmer’s table and think of a carrot purée to serve alongside a roast chicken and balance the hearty meal with a dessert salad of sliced winter citrus fruit.
So much of winter cooking is about creating food that is warming and sustaining, making comforting dishes—dishes that take time to simmer and develop flavor, to slowly percolate on the stove while you, hopefully, curl up on the sofa with a good book until it’s time to eat. Sometimes these dishes can be monotone, a mac and cheese, say, or a mushroom soup. This is when I like to think about texture. A change in texture enhances a dish. Crispy Brussels sprouts in the bowl of mushroom soup will give it a pop in much the same way crispy bacon will to the mac and cheese or adding al dente vegetables to a bowl of lentil curry. The lentils are soft and tender, yet the vegetables add an uplifting note keeping each mouthful interesting.
Creating and cooking a lively winter menu is about balance between comfort food and dishes that open the appetite and keep satisfying all one’s senses, from the aroma of a roast filling the kitchen as it cooks to the fresh taste of citrus zest shaved across a salad, from the texture and sensation of a sensually soft yet crunchy mushroom crostini to the sight of a lemon souffle rising. As each of our senses is stimulated, our taste buds start salivating in anticipation; imagine a crunchy crisp pear and arugula salad followed by a luscious stew, a hearty vegetable soup with a zesty herb pesto followed by a mouth-puckering lemon tart, or a radicchio and shaved parmesan salad, followed by a lentil curry with a tangy yogurt sauce. Adding that little extra touch—the crisp pears to the salad, the pesto to the soup, the yogurt to the curry—livens up each dish. Adding these extra touches to winter dishes has kept my taste buds happy. Is this something you do too?
