Erica�s recent post on life in Italy versus life in France was charming, and made me think about my experience of Spain and France. I�d never been to Spain before I moved to the south-west corner of France in 1997, only an hour�s drive from the Spanish frontier at Le Perthus. For years it was just a destination for quick day trips to buy cheap olive oil and petrol, and eat copious lunches in some country restaurant in the hills behind the Costa Brava. But over the last few years I�ve learned some Spanish and spent more time there, culminating in a 3-month stay in the Pais Vasco.

The more time I spend in this vast and varied country, the more fascinating I find it, and I itch to find out more. I love the conviviality and spontaneity; Spaniards always seem to be ready to party. And I continue to be amazed by the rapidity of social change in Spain since the death of Franco. The French are generally very resistant to change (yes, despite the French Revolution and 1968!), whereas the Spanish seem very open to it. In fact I wish I could have two lives so that I could spend one of them in France and one in Spain.

Anyway, here are just a few differences and similarities I�ve noticed.

Cafe culture

It�s almost dead in France, at least outside large cities and major tourist attractions where there are enough tourists and other visitors to keep it going. It�s very difficult to make a living from a cafe; bars and bistros in villages and small towns are closing at an alarming rate as their owners retire.

In Spain, though, it�s alive and well. Every village with more than a hundred inhabitants has its bar, and in towns the streets are lined with small bars, usually packed. Spanish people love to talk, and rather than invite people into your home, there�s a tradition of meeting friends in bars to chat over a beer or a coffee. I particularly love the evening paseo; in every town, from about 7 pm, the streets fill with people unwinding after a day�s work and filling in the time before dinner: strolling, chatting, shopping, dandling children, sitting at cafe tables, meeting and greeting friends.

And anyway, the coffee in Spain is much better than the poor-quality coffee served in most French bars. Even if in both countries they�ll look at you askance if you order a caf� cr�me or a cafe con leche in the afternoon.

Noise

Spain is a noisy place. For one thing, there�s always construction of some sort going on. Every town worth its salt shows two or three giant cranes on the skyline as you approach, and the ghastly mess Spain has made of its Mediterranean coast testifies to the importance of the construction industry. When we were in Terrassa in the holiday month of August, the whole of the town�s ramblas had been dug up and sweating workmen were toiling in the 35-degree heat repaving it, shouting at each other over the noise of earth-moving machinery. People sat outside nearby cafes apparently unperturbed by the racket.

When there isn�t any background noise to shout over, it has to be created. The Spanish love piped music, or rather muzak. Everywhere. They drive their cars onto the beach so that they can open all the windows and listen to the radio. We were once staying in the isolated Parador at Cazorla, which is in a field surrounded by woodlands in the middle of a national park. On the terrace in the evening, guests watched the moon rise in a clear sky and listened to the twittering of birds settling down for the night. Or at least they did after I�d found the switch for the muzak dribbling out of speakers on the terrace and turned it off.

And then there are the all-night parties The French like to party too, but they can�t hold a candle to the Spanish.

Food

I could write an entire blog post about this. Oh, I already have! I�ve always found it easy to slip into the Spanish timetable, eating lunch at two and dinner at nine or ten; it suits my body clock perfectly. But, accustomed as I am to leisurely meals in French restaurants, I can still be disconcerted by the rapidity of service in Spanish ones. It may take quite a while for the staff to take your order, but once they have, courses arrive at the table with bewildering speed. You have barely laid your fork down when the hovering waiter snatches up the plate, ready to serve the next course. I still remember the occasion (in another Parador) when the waiter snatched my plate from in front of me while I was still sipping my shot glass of gazpacho, and smiled tolerantly at me when I protested. It�s also not unheard of for them to serve one person�s main course while the other is still eating her starter. This would be considered terribly bad manners in France.

From observation, though, we eventually learned a way of spinning restaurant meals out. Groups of Spanish people eating out often order a selection of first courses and have them delivered to the table either singly or all at once, with clean plates for each person, and then everyone shares them, tapas-style.

Speaking of which, tapas are definitely the way to eat out in Spain, saving you from the stodgy, unimaginative menus del dia that proliferate in restaurants (unless you can afford to eat in one of Spain�s many Michelin-starred restaurants of course). Although eating tapas can work out rather pricy if you choose to do it somewhere like San Sebastian, where the pintxos are imaginative, delicious � but often expensive. We still treasure the memory of Andalucia, true tapas country, where you will be given (unasked) something to nibble with every drink you order; it could be anything from a plate of crisps or a few olives to a bacon sandwich. And by paying 2 or 3 euros, you can choose from a range of delicious hot and cold tapas. So a bar crawl can turn into dinner with little effort.

In France, of course, eating the menu of the day in a good brasserie or bistro is nearly always the best-value option: you�ll get fresh seasonal food chosen by the chef, cooked in the inimitable French style, and attractively presented. Plus time to linger over your meal as long as you like.

Local culture

France is very much a country of regions, each with its own local peculiarities, from accent to food to music and folklore, and people take pride in their origins. Spain is that in spades. The regions seem even more diverse and independent (though admittedly I�ve spent most time in the more �semi-detached� regions � the Pais Vasco and Catalonia). There are even four official languages, as opposed to only one in France.

The outsider�s stereotype of Spain as bullfights, flamenco, sun, sea, and sangria only really applies to Andalucia (and even then only to parts of that vast region). The Basque Country is absolutely nothing like that; you barely feel as if you are in Spain at all. And Catalonia doesn�t feel that foreign to me because it has a lot in common with the southern part of France where I live. One of the great pleasures of travelling in Spain is its amazing diversity; I�m longing to discover Asturias, Galicia, and Castilla y Leon, as well as the parts of Andalucia I haven�t visited yet.

Sorry about the slight hiatus in this series. Somehow, while I was living in rural Spain, I had no desire to cook meals from elderly English cookbooks. Tapas and very simple food were the order of the day.

This book is another tattered old favourite from my student days, with a really unappetising stew of some sort on the cover. Several pages fell out when I took it off the shelf. Georgina Horley is another no-nonsense type in the Delia mould, except she doesn�t spell things out in such detail. It was first published in 1969, and the recipes are very traditional English food, with a few foreign touches due to the author�s background as a Cordon Bleu instructor.

I found it invaluable when I was learning to cook, because it�s organised by month and focuses on fresh ingredients that are good and cheap (in the UK) in that month. It really helped me learn what to buy when, and how best to use cheap cuts of meat. It also has a section of �foundation recipes� at the front. This is where I learned to make bechamel sauce, pancake batter, pastry, scones, marmalade � other sections cover basic skills like filleting fish and sharpening knives, growing vegetables and herbs, making jam, and planning a kitchen. It really is a compendium of useful culinary information even if many of the actual recipes are dated.

As for the recipes, the most food-splattered page is Gertie Goslin�s Brown Stew. We used to eat this a lot; a dark, spicy beef stew enriched with pickled walnuts that tasted better as it aged, so was made in large quantities. I also fondly remember Madam Rigot�s Burgundian Potatoes, a dish of potatoes slowly simmered in milk until it was thick and creamy.

So, on to the menu. I cheated a little bit and transformed her sweet and sour tomato salad (simply sliced tomatoes, salt, and sugar) into tomato tartare. I followed it up with her classic chicken fricassee. This was good, although not as good as the blanquette I normally make; it lacked the all-important kick of a smidgin of curry powder. It might look a bit naff, but I rather liked the border of creamy mashed potato as a change from the plain boiled rice I normally serve with fricassee or blanquette. She also suggested using a border of puff pastry, which I think would be nice too, making a much more elegant dish.

And now dessert. Oh dear. Having some melon in the fridge that needed using up, I decided it would be a good idea to try her melon cooler: ginger-flavoured jelly with bits of melon suspended in it. Some conversion was required, from powdered gelatine to sheets. And ginger ale in �split-sized bottles� was a non-starter. In a perhaps misguided moment of inspiration, I decided to use some of my home-made vin d�orange instead. After all, melon and orange are a good combination.

At first I thought I�d got the gelatine conversion wrong, because it just wouldn�t set. �As jelly starts to set, push melon down evenly through mould,� says Aunty Georgina. Well, I tried, but my melon balls resolutely popped up to the top again. In the end I put the dishes in the fridge, where of course they set before I had a chance to arrange the melon nicely. It looked a fright when I turned it out, and could only exacerbate French people�s phobia of jelly. I quietly ate it myself, without showing it to anyone else. It had tasted dire when I first made it, really sharp and alcoholic, but a night in the fridge seemed to tone it down a bit. So it was edible, but I wouldn�t make it again.

Replacement improvised dessert: affogato. Put a scoop of vanilla ice cream in a glass, pour over a freshly made cup of espresso. Yum! No danger of slipping up here.

This is good served with mild fresh goat or sheep cheese. But I think it would go well with fish too. Or thinly sliced raw vegetables (fennel, baby artichokes…). Maybe even roasted garlic. Note that you need to start preparing it at least 8 hours before you want to eat it.

I had a photo, but I deleted it! Oh well.

For 2-4 people, depending on the size of your ramekins.

5-6 ripe tomatoes
1 tbsp lemon juice
1 tbsp balsamic vinegar
3 tbsps olive oil
chopped fresh herbs (certainly basil, plus whatever else you fancy)
1/2 tsp coriander seeds, crushed
salt and pepper

Peel the tomatoes, then halve round the equator and remove the pips with a teaspoon. Cut into very small dice. Put them in a sieve and sprinkle generously with salt. Place the sieve over a bowl, and put a small plate or saucer on top of the tomatoes to weight them down, pressing it down well. Put the whole lot in the fridge for at least 6 hours.

Whisk together the remaining ingredients and stir into the tomatoes. Line small ramekins or glasses with clingfilm and distribute the tomato mixture between them, pressing down well to make a compact mass. Fold the clingfilm over the top and return to the fridge for an hour.

To serve, turn out onto plates and remove the clingfilm. Add cheese or other ingredients and decorate with a sprig of fresh basil.

Pitting cherries must be one of the messiest jobs in the kitchen, but it is oh so worth it. I�m not very conscientious about wearing an apron, but this is one occasion when I swathe myself in my most voluminous apron, cover the table with newspaper, and settle down to a curiously relaxing session of pitting. We�ve eaten a lot of cherries this season � mainly because back in May I was irresistibly tempted by a 2-kg crate of cherries in a Spanish venta for only 5.60 euros. I got home wondering how on earth two of us were going to eat them all before they rotted. My new cookbook, The Real Taste of Spain, provided an answer: cherry compote. A monster, messy pitting session followed, especially as I had no cherry pitter to hand.

This recipe is so simple to do, and words cannot describe how delicious it is. For a week, our breakfast was a spoonful or two of this with dollops of Greek yoghurt, and we mourned when we scraped out the last few drops of syrup from the bowl. From then on we constantly looked out for affordable cherries, and whenever we found some, we bought at least a kilo to make some compote. The last batch is now in the freezer in several plastic boxes so that we can spin out the pleasure over the summer. So my advice is, if you make this, make plenty, it freezes really well. It goes with all sorts of things: with ice cream for an extra-special Cherries Jubilee, with yoghurt or cream, or spooned over an almond cake, for example.

Note: if you double the quantities, don�t double the amount of sugar and water, just leave it the same. The cherries will produce lots of lovely juice anyway.

500-600 g ripe cherries, pitted
100 ml water
150 g sugar
100 ml guignolet or cherry brandy (optional)

Put the cherries in a pan with the sugar and water. If you have some guignolet (a cherry-flavoured aperitif wine) or cherry brandy, you can add some, but it doesn�t really need it. Simmer very gently, uncovered, for 30-40 minutes, stirring occasionally. The cherries should be tender and glossy but still whole, and the juice syrupy. If the juice is still quite liquid when the cherries are done, remove the cherries with a slotted spoon and boil the liquid vigorously for 5 minutes or so, till it is thick and glossy. Then pour over the cherries. Store the compote in the fridge, where it will keep a couple of weeks (probably � it never lasts that long in our house) and serve either chilled or at room temperature.

As I was planning this post, I happened across Pueblo Girl’s recent post about Spanish food. After quite a few 9- or 10-euros menus del dia in local restaurants, I can really relate to a lot of what she says there. Until recently Spain was not a country that was renowned for its good food. If it is now, it’s for many-starred, bank account-busting “creative” restaurants like El Bulli (now closed down) or, closer to here, Arzak and Beresategui. But these are hardly representative. All too often, Spanish restaurant food is ensalata mixta, deep-fried everything, stodgy rice, or stringy, overcooked meat in a claggy sauce with a few mushy green beans.

However, as Pueblo Girl says, it’s not all bad. With persistence and much sampling, we have found a handful of reasonably priced restaurants in the area of Pamplona and San Sebastian that are well worth a visit, serving food that would be recognised as good in other countries, not just Spain. So here’s my list of recommendations: three country restaurants, and two city ones.

1. Dona Maria. The first time we ate here was two years ago; we were on a Spanish language holiday, and didn’t know the area at all. At the time we though it was OK, but nothing special. Since spending three months here though, we have realised that it is in fact exceptional. The charming, friendly team here serve carefully prepared, interesting and attractive food at a reasonable price. OK, it’s expensive by local standards and in fact we’ve seen few locals eating here; almost all the clients seem to be British!

The set menu changes frequently and is 25-30 euros for three or five courses, excluding wine — which is not expensive, ranging from 8 to around 30 euros a bottle. There are normally three or four choices for each course. We’ve now eaten there half a dozen times; the best meal we had was a special “all pig” menu. It started with a selection of salami, followed by fresh asparagus with melted cheese. Then some pork tenderloin with grilled peppers. Then what was for us the true pi�ce de r�sistance, gorgeous slow-roasted spare ribs served on a thin slick of mashed potato so creamy it was more like a sauce, with a dab of reduced balsamic vinegar on the side. Very simple, but the flavours complemented each other perfectly. Finally, a moist, coffee-flavoured cake served with the Basque national dessert, cuajada (fresh cream cheese made from sheep�s milk).

2. The Posada at Oitz. I’m sure this village bar/restaurant must have been inspired by Dona Maria; the food is in a very similar style, if slightly less refined and a little cheaper. I had some delicious bacalao here, and the platter of lightly stir-fried green vegetables with crisply fried jamon was memorable too; it’s really rare to get good veg in Spanish restaurants! The setting is less attractive than at Dona Maria, in a rather dark upstairs room. But the food is really lovely.

3. La Trastienda del Colmado in Pamplona. We have a tip for people searching for good restaurants in Pamplona. Get to know the nice lady who works in the Muga outdoor sport and bookshop. We made several visits there choosing and ordering a satnav for walking, and then sorting out various problems with it. Not only was she very helpful, but every time we went, we asked her to recommend a restaurant for lunch. Every one was excellent value. The best by far was La Trastienda del Colmado, which we’d never have found on our own.

We were slightly worried when we walked in at 2 o’clock on a weekday and the large, modern dining room — very stylish and obviously recently renovated — was completely empty. But lunch was superb. We started with little shot glasses of a divine asparagus cream that we’ve been trying unsuccessfully to recreate ever since. Then I had one of the best bowls of gazpacho ever, served with a scoop of celery sorbet instead of the usual chopped vegetable and crouton garnish. Perfectly cooked sea bass, home-made mint and lemon sorbet, and petits fours with coffee. I would certainly go there again. There’s a bar there too, and judging by the quality of the restaurant food, it would be a very good place to go for pintxos.

4. El Bodeg�n de Alejandro in San Sebastian. We’d have liked to visit Arzak or Beresategui, but the prices meant it was out of the question. 155 euros for a tasting menu? I think not. I believe the Bodeg�n is part of the Beresategui empire, and it was very good value. The setting, in the basement, is unpretentious, the staff friendly, the food very elegant. The 6-course tasting menu was 33 euros. All of it was lovely, except that we weren’t at all impressed with the beef cooked at low temperature; soggy and tasteless.

Our favourite parts were utterly perfect slices of roast merluza (hake) on crushed potato, with mussel juice poured over at the table, and the first dessert course of torrija (basically French toast/pain perdu) which had a lovely thin crispy caramel layer on top and was served with a scoop of cream cheese ice cream. Oh, and another perfect asparagus cream served as an amuse-bouche with incredibly wafer-thin slices of crisply fried bread. Out of these five restaurants I think the Bodeg�n and the Colmado tie for the top spot.

5. A late and surprising entry to this list is the Bar/Restaurant Ameztia in that gastronomic hub, Sant Esteban. We tried all the menus del dia in Sant Esteban in the first few weeks we were here, and quickly settled on this one as our “canteen”. Same price as all the others (10 euros for three courses, wine, and coffee), but showing just a touch of extra care in selection of ingredients and preparation. And the staff were friendly and patient with our halting Spanish.

In our last week, we decided to push the boat out and try their menu especial de la temporada at 25 euros, including a bottle of wine (which turned out to be our favourite Navarran red, Castillo de Eneriz). What a revelation! By virtue of our choice of menu we were seated in the “smart” half of the restaurant, with linen tablecloths and proper wineglasses (paper cloths and tumblers for the menu del dia). From here we could see the lone chef in the vast and otherwise deserted kitchen. He was preparing lunch for the 15 or so people having the menu del dia, and the seven people, including us, who’d chosen the menu especial, with no sign of hurry or stress. Service was a bit slower than usual, but that was absolutely fine by us. It just meant it was French speed instead of Spanish.

I started with roast vegetables with Romesco sauce. Beautifully cooked and presented, simple and delicious. Steve oohed and aahed over his warm salad with pan-fried foie gras. We’d both ordered roast sucking pig for the main course. This was amazing! Juicy and tender with perfect crackling that almost made us swoon, since pork crackling does not exist in France. Served with chips for Steve and a perfectly dressed green salad for me. Then sorbete de cuajada for Steve, and for me a lovely light cheesecake topped with a deep red berry sauce. We left a giant tip and an abrazo for the waitress, and waddled out feeling utterly replete and contented, in fact we were incapable of doing anything for the rest of the day. It really was remarkable that this unassuming “canteen” could turn out such high-quality food. It made us wonder what else we’d been missing by not eating � la carte very often. Hmm. A research project for our next trip.

After almost two months in Spain, I think I�m beginning to understand what Spanish food is all about. Our initial impressions were not good. With one honourable exception, restaurant cooking here seems to be bland, stodgy, and unadventurous. And revolves around meat. Lots of it (not so surprising given that it�s a livestock-raising area). The menus at all the local restaurants have many, many things in common: ensalada mixta, ensalada russa, arroz con leche, flan, natillas, and cuajada (sheep�s-milk junket) feature on all of them. Main courses are usually massive platefuls of roast or grilled meat. Low points were the albondigas (meat balls) served in thick, Bisto-flavoured gravy, and bechamel-coated deep-fried lamb chops. There seems to be little concern with freshness and flavour.

Meanwhile, shops and supermarkets in our local small town were poorly stocked and uninspiring. The spice rack in the supermarket was a particularly sorry sight. Black pepper. Two kinds of piment�n (dulce and picante). Cinnamon (sticks and ground). Nutmeg. Herbes de Provence. Yellow food colouring (cheaper than saffron). Lots and lots of packets of �paella spice�, of which a major ingredient is the aforesaid colouring. �But where�s the ginger? And what about cumin? Or coriander?� Nowhere to be seen � I ended up bringing some back from France.

But then we hit the covered market in Ir�n. Revelation! Of course, living in France we are used to markets, even blas� about them. Superficially a Spanish market looks much like a French one, but this was different enough that we wandered spellbound around the stalls, oohing and aahing over the produce, and left laden with a week�s supply of food.

First, the preserved food stall. Bottled and tinned food is considered a worthy genre in its own right in Spain, and this is not surprising when you consider: thick chunks of bonito del norte (tuna) in brine, nothing like the flaky scraps in tins; whole, roasted piquillo peppers in oil, lusciously juicy and ready to eat straight from the jar; olives, of course, in their many forms; anchovies and boquerones; cans and bottles of olive oil. Half a dozen varieties of dried beans, dried fruit and nuts are piled in bins. And of course, since this is the Basque country, strings of dried peppers hang from the ceiling.

Then the preserved meat stall. The stallholder sharpens his menacing-looking knives, ready to serve you. Jam�n, of course, in multiple varieties, ranging from garnet-red to purple, edged with frills of white fat, at prices ranging from maybe 10 euros a kilo for standard serrano ham to an astonishing 80 for the best bellota. The extra you pay for jam�n ib�rico is worth it, for bellota I can�t yet say. Multiple varieties of salami, sausage, and lomo ahumado are also on offer. The most notable sight at the butcher next door is tiny legs of lamb, weighing barely a kilo each; it seems Spaniards are fond of milk-fed lamb. We bought one of these, marinated it briefly in a paste of olives, capers, anchovies, olive oil, and piment�n, grilled it on the barbecue, and ate the whole thing between the two of us.

The cheese stalls might not rival French ones (OK, they definitely don�t). But there are a few varieties of hard cheese, from Manchego to Ossau-Iraty, dozens of local sheep�s cheeses, and bags of raw sheep�s milk (I snapped up one of these to make my own cuajada).

Then whole stalls are devoted to that Basque staple, bacalao, again with major divergences in price, from thin, scrappy pieces stiff as a board with salt, to thick chunks of boneless cod steak at 25 euros a kilo, waiting for a long soak to be reconstituted as white, flaky fish, gorgeous when simply cooked and served with a lively salsa verde or tomato and pepper sauce. Next door, the fish stalls were piled with glossy fresh fish, with ugly but delicious hake (merluza) playing a starring role alongside beautiful sea bass (lubina), red mullet (salmonete), crabs, lobsters, langoustines, squid, and octopus.

The major �aha� from all this is that Spanish markets lend themselves to simple food that can be nibbled with drinks � that would be tapas then (or pintxos, since we are in the Basque country). Getting home, we simply laid out platters of ham, piquillo peppers, thinly sliced cheese, olives, nuts, cut some bread, opened a bottle of wine, and a lifestyle was born. If you feel the need of something sweet afterwards, a little clay pot of cuajada drizzled with mountain honey hits the spot. Or the Spanish version of lemon sherbet: buy some lemon sorbet and a bottle of cava, combine in a blender, pour into champagne flutes, serve with straws. Who needs to cook?

My choice for April was Delia Smith�s Frugal Food. My paperback, now a tattered mess of food-stained pages, loosely contained in a cover adorned with a photo of a fresh-faced, decidedly unglamorous Delia, cost me 70p in 1974. She actually re-released this book with minor updates in 2008, not long after the publication of her much-reviled How to Cheat at Cooking (a more radical rewrite of her first published book). The new version, undoubtedly brought out to cash in on the recession, was a large-format hardback with full-colour glossy photos, the cover adorned with a cabbage instead of Delia’s face, costing �18. Not exactly a gift to poverty-stricken cooks.

I was a poverty-stricken cook in 1974, a student in London living in bedsits or crowded student flats. This book, along with Jocasta Innes�s excellent Pauper’s Cookbook, was rarely far from the stove, as its condition attests. I probably bought it because I regularly read and used the recipe column she wrote for the Evening Standard; I still have a looseleaf binder with many of Delia�s newspaper recipes pasted into it.

I don�t use the book now � the recipes are rather stodgy and earnest, a bit like Delia�s prose. Still, I thought it was worth getting out again. She had some sound ideas that stood me in good stead in those days � using cider in cooking instead of wine for example � and I still stick a skewer through baked potatoes so that they will cook more quickly. There are a few recipes here that became real favourites: fidget pie, made with scraps from a ham bone begged from the local butcher, rabbit in cider, steak and onions in Guinness, several recipes for offal, and, especially, chilladas � little rissoles made of lentils served with a tomato and chilli sauce (well, in my defence, it was the 70s!). Overall, the recipes aren�t much fun, but they are cheap, filling, and easy to cook.

For my vintage feast, I decided to cook something I couldn�t remember having tried before. As I�m in cider country at the moment, pork braised in cider with prunes seemed like a good choice. It did turn out well, if a bit dry � but I think that�s because I used a pork loin roast, since that was what I had. It would have been better with a fattier �and cheaper! � cut of meat. What little sauce there was tasted excellent, belying its humble origins. It�s a one-pot dish topped with sliced potatoes, but it needs some carrots or a green vegetable with it. To start, we had a simple carrot and leek soup, made with the stock from a pot-roasted chicken.

The choice of puddings was rather limited and uninspiring. I ended up picking spiced apple bread pudding, because I had some apples and some stale bread, but we were underwhelmed. It wasn�t a patch on my classic eggy, rum-flavoured, sultana-studded bread and butter pudding; the apples just made a soggy layer in what should have been a creamy mass of custard-soaked bread.

I�ve never been a huge fan of Delia, but having said that, there are a few of her recipes that I turn to again and again because they are so good, and she can be partly credited for teaching me (and probably millions of other people!) to cook. Her prissy, spell-out-every-detail style is a boon to unconfident cooks. Still, this book is evidently dated, in a way that her Summer Collection (the only one of hers I really like) isn�t � well, not yet anyway! It�s a reminder of how much better and more varied our food has become since then. It�s also a reminder that once upon a time most cookbooks just had recipes in them, not pages of arty photos, and were a lot cheaper!

Braised pork with prunes

750 g lean belly of pork or spare ribs, cubed
1 large apple, peeled, cored and sliced
2 onions, sliced
1 clove garlic, crushed
125 g pitted prunes
6 juniper berries, crushed
750 g potatoes, peeled and sliced
200 ml dry cider
oil (I used olive) — or dripping if you want to be traditional!
butter
a little sugar
thyme
bay leaf
salt and pepper

Preheat the oven to 170C. Use a heavy casserole for this (a Le Creuset is ideal). Heat the oil or dripping, and brown the cubed pork. Remove and set aside. Then fry the onion and garlic until softened. Return the pork to the pan, season with salt and pepper and add the herbs and juniper berries. Add the prunes, then scatter over the apple slices and sprinkle lightly with sugar. Finally, cover with a layer of overlapping potato slices. Add more salt and pepper, pour in the cider, and then dot with butter (or drizzle over a bit of olive oil). Cover and bake for about an hour and a half. Then remove the lid and check the potatoes are cooked — if not, raise the heat to about 200 C and cook uncovered for a bit longer. Otherwise, brown the potatoes under a hot grill. Serve with a green vegetable.

We took the opportunity of living next to a small sheep farm in the Navarran Pyrenees to find out how our neighbour makes cheese. She has about a hundred sheep and makes cheese in her kitchen every couple of days. It’s a surprisingly simple procedure, requiring little equipment.

You will need:
about 7-8 litres of this morning’s sheep’s milk (I expect cow or goat milk works just as well)
about half a teaspoon of liquid rennet or other coagulant (I’m told nettles work, but I haven’t tried them yet)
A large metal pan or bucket to hold the milk
a thermometer
a large wire whisk
a cheese mould lined with cheesecloth

It goes without saying that all your equipment must be scrupulously clean. First of all, heat the milk to 36 degrees C. Turn off the heat. Add the rennet to a very small amount of water, about a tablespoon (just to make it dissolve better). Pour into the milk and mix thoroughly with the whisk. Leave to stand for 20-30 minutes. Sagrario told us that you could achieve the curdling by dangling a bit of tripe in the milk, but she prefers liquid rennet!

At this point the milk should have thickened to a lumpy, yoghurty consistency. Don’t proceed to the next stage until it does.

Reheat the milk to 39 degrees C, whisking constantly to break up the curds. According to Sagrario, this is important to kill all the bugs and prevent your cheese from ending up full of maggots. Remove from the heat and set aside to settle for 5 minutes.

Plunge your hands into the bucket and grope around the bottom, pulling all the settled solids together. Lift out your large and dazzlingly white lump of cheese, squeezing with your hands to firm it up and get rid of some of the liquid. Press into the lined mould and squish it down as hard as you can.

The cheese is left to drain for 24 hours, then put in a cheese press and squeezed further before being broned and left to mature for two months. The resulting cheese will keep for up to a year.

Update: and here is the proud cheesemaker with his mature cheese!

There was a lot of liquid whey left over in the bucket. “It’s not wasted,” Sagrario assured us. “You can take this liquid and boil it up. Lots of froth will appear on the top. You can scoop this off; it’s called reques�n, and it’s delicious.” A check in the dictionary confirmed that this was curd cheese, the word literally meaning “re-cheese”. And later we realised that the word ricotta (re-cooked) in Italian expresses exactly the same principle.

Next lesson: how to make cuajada, a very simple and delicious fresh sheep’s cheese made in clay pots that’s often served as a dessert with honey or sugar. I’m going to gather some nettles to make my own rennet for this.

This is March’s entry in my Cookbook Challenge, but I got a bit behind, because I had so much else to do. The book lay on the coffee table for weeks with a scribbled list of recipes next to it. I’ve had this book so long and used it so much that the copy I have is almost pristine; the first one completely disintegrated and had to be replaced.

First published in 1974 and endlessly reprinted since, it’s a true classic; unlike Elizabeth David, Jane Grigson wears her scholarship lightly and is a comfortable companion in the kitchen, rather than a somewhat alarming and superior presence. Nevertheless, there is a lot of historical information here along with authentic regional recipes from the Middle Ages onwards. It is a reminder of the regional traditions Britain seems to have lost; many recipes here are truly rooted in a place and its local ingredients, and Jane Grigson makes you want to cook them.

So, I love this book (along with Good Things and Grigson’s Fruit and Vegetable books it’s one of my all-time favourite cookbooks). There are already a few Jane Grigson recipes in my blog, including my best-ever pudding, Springfield Pear Cake, and the famous Chinese Yorkshire pudding featured in English Food — a must-try if your Yorkshires always flop.

I’d planned to do something I hadn’t done before, but time was pressing so I ended up plumping for one of my oldest favourites for the main course: pulled and devilled chicken. This is simplicity itself to make, and, says Jane, “there is no better way of using up the Christmas turkey with the glory it deserves.” You can use any poultry though, including pheasant, chicken, or guineafowl. You basically separate the leg and breast meat, tearing it into rough quills. The leg meats is spread with devil sauce, left to marinate, then grilled, while the breast is heated through in a thin, creamy sauce flavoured with lemon. The two are served together, with crispy toast. Don’t do vegetables with it, just serve a salad afterwards.

For the starter, I decided to make individual leek tarts, because I had some puff pastry that needed using up. “I’ve lost my Michelin star!” I wailed as I struggled to prise them out of the tart tins. They looked a bit of a mess on the plate, but they did taste good. I think if I made them again, I wouldn’t use a top crust, and I’d add more cheese (which was supposed to be Wensleydale or Lancashire, but hey, this is rural France — I had to use Gruy�re).

For pudding, I’d have liked to make the gorgeous syllabub-topped trifle, but it’s just impossible to make syllabub with French UHT cream, as I have discovered to my cost. This book also has the original sticky toffee pudding, credited to Francis Coulson at Sharrow Bay. Then there’s the famous Sussex Pond pudding, heart-attack-on-a-plate stuff. In the end, I made Stuffed Monkey, which isn’t really a pudding, but I liked the name. It’s a very sugary, buttery pastry filled with chopped candied peel and ground almonds stirred into melted butter. As I slid it into the oven I realised the filling was supposed to have an egg yolk in it too. Oops. No wonder it wasn’t very spreadable. Still, the recipe worked despite this, a crisp browned crust surrounding a crumbly filling. It’s very rich even without the egg, so you only need small pieces served with coffee; the peel and almonds give it a Christmassy flavour. Although actually it’s a Jewish recipe, credited to Florence Greenberg.

Stuffed Monkey

Pastry:
175 g plain flour
1/2 tsp cinnamon
125 g butter
125 g soft brown sugar
1 egg, separated
Filling:
50 g butter, melted
60 g chopped candied peel (or dried fruit)
30 g sugar
60 g ground almonds
1 egg yolk

Preheat the oven to 190C. For the pastry, rub together the butter and flour. Stir in the sugar and then the lightly beaten egg yolk. Bring the mixture together with your hands as best you can. “Roll it out and cut two rounds to fit into an 8″ sandwich tin” instructs Jane. It was nearly impossible to roll out, so I pressed half of it into the bottom of a loose-based flan tin, using wet hands. For the filling, just mix the melted butter with the rest of the ingredients (preferably including the egg yolk!) and spread over the base. Use your hands, a rolling pin, or anything else you can think of to pat out the rest of the pastry; if it falls apart, just put the bits on top of the filling and press them together to make a lid. Brush the top with egg white.

Put in the oven for 30 minutes; cool in the tin. Using a loose-based tin did mean it was very easy to get it out of the tin. Cut into small slices and serve with tea or coffee (though I fancy a glass of Muscat or ginger wine wouldn’t go amiss either). It is said to keep well.