Looking back at my posts past, I'm amazed that I've never covered these before. Of course, "mince" pies have got nothing to do with meat or even minced meat; the reason why they're called this goes back to the days of Merry Olde England, when mince pies did indeed include meat, or at least, a "mincemeat" consisting of chopped meat, candied fruit, suet, and sugar, all soaked in brandy. These days, we leave the meat out.

Here's our family recipe for mince pies.  Ideally, you leave the mincemeat to mature for god knows how long, but as time is short, I'm sure that it won't be the end of the world if you don't.

First, you need to make the "mincemeat".  Peel, core and chop 450g apples and mix them up with 335g raisins, 225g sultanas, 175g shredded suet, 335g soft dark brown sugar, 225g  chopped mixed peel (that's candied fruit), 110g chopped almonds, and a teaspoon of mixed spice.

Grate the rind off a lemon and squeeze out the juice. Pour this into the mixture, and add 110ml of brandy or rum.  Ideally, you would leave the mincemeat to mature for up to three months, but as time is short, leave it to mature overnight.

To make the pastry: mix up 335g plain flour, 75g ground almonds, and 75g caster sugar. Stir in two egg yolks and 225g unsalted butter, so that the mixture takes on a breadcrumb type texture.  Finally, mix in two tablespoons of cold water. Leave the mixture in the 'fridge for 45 minutes.

Roll the pastry flat, and use it to line small jam jar tart tins. Fill each space with heaped teaspoonfuls of mincemeat, and then top with a smaller circle of pastry. Wet the edges of the pastry and press down well at the sides. Cut a slit or a cross on the top of each pie, and brush with milk or egg white, and dust with caster sugar.

Bake in a moderate oven until the pies start to turn brown.  Serve hot- or cold- with brandy butter. Traditionally, the first mince pie of the season grants you a wish, but only on the condition that you don't talk while you're eating.

Racking my brains for an appropriate Christmas Lunch or Boxing Day first course, I've come up with the idea of giving 'em Smoked Eel, served with a Creamed Horseradish Sauce. For some reason, this seems to me to be a suitable choice, and I think the subtle smokiness of the eel will balance all the richness and over-stuffing to follow.

If you've never had smoked eel, forget all the "cor blimey, Guv, jellied eel" nonsense. Smoked eel tastes entirely different, and with a properly made horseradish sauce, might even prove to be a sophisticated option.

It's not especially cheap, I have to admit. We've just ordered our smoked eel from the excellent Brown and Forrest, and an 8oz pack of smoked eel fillets (hot smoked over beech and apple) costs £14.00. You will need about 2oz per person.

We're going to serve it with slices of lemon and creamed horseradish sauce. I'm basing this on Simon Hopkinson's version:

First you need to make a horseradish concentrate. Peel a horseradish root and grate it finely across the base of the root. You will need 200g of the stuff.

Next, put the grated horseradish into a food processor. Add five tablespoons of water, two teaspoons of Maldon Salt, one and a half tablespoons of caster sugar, two and a half tablespoons of lemon juice, and two and a half tablespoons of white wine vinegar. Purée the ingredients until smooth. You will be able to keep the horseradish concentrate in a Kilner jar for up to two weeks.

When you want to make the creamed horseradish sauce, it's simplicity itself. Take four tablespoons of the horseradish concentrate you've made earlier, and whisk it into 200ml of double cream, adding a little bit more sugar and salt, to taste.

I had a minor tiff with Mrs Aitch the other day. As we were watching "Delia's Christmas" on television (there's been a fresh outbreak), I suggested, in my superior way, that Delia's version of Cumberland Sauce was too thin. Mrs Aitch pointed out that Cumberland Sauce should never be too thick, and should always be served cold. Well, of course, after a bit of research, I discovered that Mrs Aitch and Saint Delia were right, and The Greasy Spoon was wrong.

I love Cumberland Sauce, and think it's utterly, completely delcious. In my opinion, it's infinitely a cut above the ubiquitous Cranberry Sauce, though I think, from memory, that we're planning to offer both on Christmas Day. Cumberland Sauce works brilliantly with ham, bacon and turkey.

There's quite a bit of useful historical info in Elizabeth David's superb little book, Elizabeth David's Christmas, edited by Jill Norman. I've recommended this one before, and I'm very happy to recommend it again.

According to Mrs David, the first mention of Cumberland Sauce in any published cookery book, comes as late as 1904, in Alfred Suzanne's "La Cuisine Anglaise". The great Alexis Soyer, however, published a similar German recipe for "a sauce to go with Boar's Head" as early as 1853.

Elizabeth David reckoned it to be the best Cumberland Sauce recipe, and it's almost identical to the family recipe I'm about to give you. The only substantial difference is that Soyer added a heaped teaspoon of English Mustard (Elizabeth David uses Dijon) to the redcurrant jelly, and Mrs David specifies Medium Tawny Port.

Peel of the skin of an orange, and then cut the skin into "julienne" (very thin strips). Put the orange strips into a pan with some water and bring to the boil. This will remove any bitterness from the orange peel.

In another small pan, melt four heaped tablespoons of redcurrant jelly, with a teaspoon of ground ginger. Stir well, until the redcurrant jelly and the ginger have combined. (If you're going to add mustard, add it now).

Redcurrant jelly is best described as a smooth English sweet, fruity jam (or jelly to my American readers) which we normally eat with lamb. It's available in ready-made in jars- though I have to admit, I have no idea if it's easily obtainable in America or not; so, if you live on that side of the pond, you may well have to track the stuff down on the internet, or see if you local deli stocks it. Redcurrant jelly will act as a thickening agent, but true Cumberland sauce should really have a thinnish consistency, so try to keep it reasonably runny- if it coats the back of a spoon, you know it's about right.

Now's the time to pour in a decent slug of port, the juice of one orange, and the juice of half a lemon. Stir well, then add the blanched orange strips (which you've previously taken out of the hot water, and drained).

You will be left with a tangy, fruity, gingery, port-infused dark red sauce- which will act as a balance to the salt in the ham. I can best describe it as the taste of Christmas. Nostalgic. Oh- and one last word of advice from Mrs Aitch: Cumberland Sauce should always be served cold, so don't try and warm it up; otherwise you're going to find yourself in trouble...

Many of you will know that I have a love-hate affair with the potato. Mashed potato, as far as I am concerned, is the Mark of The Beast; this, I've finally worked out, is a relic of my early days at Dotheboy's Hall. Here, their idea of fun was: soggy fishfingers (courtesy of The Good Cap'n Birds Eye); powdered mashed potato ("Mash Get Smash", that's the stuff the Martians eat), and watery tinned peas. The horror of it!

The kitchen was staffed by two Irish septuagenarian hags in dark blue polyester housecoats; fags dangling from their pursed lips. I'm sure Lord Woolton Pie was on the menu, an economical wartime relic, which survived until the early 70's. The boys did the washing up. This was a voluntary affair, a "volunteers please step forward, sort of thing", and if you were lucky you were promoted to foreman. The plongeurs were paid ½ p a day. The foreman got a penny. That's why I don't like mashed potato.

But roast potatoes, cooked properly, could be a good plan. The other day I found a discarded copy of the London Evening Standard (a rare event, as since it's gone "free" you can't get hold of a copy anywhere), and there was an excellent article about that bald wunderkind Heston Blumenthal, including a recipe for his "perfect roast poatoes".

Now, I'm a huge fan of Heston's, admiring his enquiring historical mind, his sense of the miraculous, and his lack of histrionics; all a refreshing antidote to the current crop of pock-marked prima donnas, otherwise known as "celebrity chefs". So, here's how to make perfect roast potatoes, courtesy of Heston Blumenthal:

The variety of potato is important. Maris Piper or the Scottish varieties, Golden Wonder and Arran Victory are all suitable.

Cut them up so that there are plenty of corners and edges, then cook them in well salted, simmering water until they are just about to fall apart. The trick is to cook them until they're fluffy, but at the same time you do want to keep them in one piece; so you'll need to watch them like a hawk.

Strain the potatoes off, and let them steam-dry. Put them into a pan with either olive oil or beef dripping. You will need a centimetre or so of oil at the bottom of the pan. Cook them in the oven at about 180°C or 190°C. Start turning after half an hour. They'll take between 60 and 90 minutes. Just before they're done, sprinkle with chopped rosemary and sea salt.

Back in the late 1960's, our Swiss au pair brought back a funky fondue set. I remember it well: a beaten copper affair, raised on a nifty wrought iron stand.

I happen to think that the best fondues use authentic cheese recipes. Recently, however, a bad, mad, and dangerous tendency has crept in for sickly, over rich chocolate fondues with cake, strawberries, sweeties, and the like. Please avoid them at all costs.

Here's how to make a genuine Swiss cheese fondue: grate ½ llb of Swiss cheese (Emmenthaler is ideal), and ½ llb of Gruyère into a pan. Start melting the cheese on a medium heat. It's important not to boil the cheese, over-stir it, or let it get cold. All these things will encourage separation and stringing.

Carefully stir in two tablespoons of flour or cornstarch. Again, the flour will help to prevent separation. Add a tablespoon of dry mustard.

When the cheese, flour and mustard have melted down, add a cup of dry white wine, a generous dash of Kirsch, a squeeze of lemon juice, and some grated nutmeg. That's it.

You then dip in hunks of fresh white bread into the cheese sauce. Traditionally, if you loose your bread in the cheese, you're supposed to pay a forfeit. Having seen The Stepford Wives, I can imagine the sort of saucy things our parents got up to forty years ago, though I stress that in our family, the forfeit was always a bottle of Kirsch.

I suppose there's something a bit tacky about the ubiquitous Thousand Island Dressing. It's that thick, slightly synthetic pink stuff which comes in jars, served alongside burgers and dubious salads. But like other classic foods, it's got an interesting history. There are various theories. Here's one of them:

A certain George LaLonde Jr., fisherman of Clayton, Upstate New York, hosted guided fishing parties, which included a group "shore" lunch as part of the day's attraction. It was at one of these fishing lunches, that the actress and cookery writer, Miss May Irwin, first tasted the "unusual" (then un-named) dressing, made to Mrs LaLonde's own special recipe.

May Irwin liked it so much that she asked for the recipe, named it "Thousand Island Dressing", and passed it on to the owner of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, George C. Boldt, who in turn, instructed his famous maitre d', Oscar Tschirky to serve it in his restaurant.

Have you noticed how Oscar Tschirky seems to crop up every time I write about American food history?  Tschirky sounds like a bit of a live-wire, and seems to have been credited with not only the creation of the Veal Oscar, but also the Waldorf Salad and Eggs Benedict. Either that, or he was a brilliant self-publicist. Anyway.

I've trawled the net for the original recipe- and of course, as with so many "classic" dishes, there are many different versions. Here's my reasonably authentic take on it. If any readers (especially from the Thousand Islands area of Upstate New York) want to give us their own "proper" recipe, please hit that comment button now.

Make a good mayonnaise, preferably using grapeseed oil and a touch of olive oil. Mix in a generous spoonful of tomato ketchup, a dash of Worcestershire Sauce, a teaspoon of white sugar, a dash of white vinegar, a pinch of ground cloves, a dollop of sweet pickle or relish, chopped black olives, a small diced red bell pepper, some chopped chives, and a sprinkling of chopped hard-boiled egg white. Season to taste with sea salt and white pepper.

Last Christmas or so, I wrote a post about a slightly weird recipe: "Ham Glazed in Coca-Cola". It's still one of my most popular posts, and as I'm currently getting increased hits (no doubt because of Thanksgiving) I'm going to give you the recipe again.

It doesn't sound that great, does it? However, as Coke is really just a very sugary, brown and fizzy syrup, there's no reason why it shouldn't work nicely with a lovely, juicy ham. And the recipe's an old favourite from the American Deep South, too. So, here's how you make it:

Put in a medium sized gammon into a large pan. Add a peeled onion (for flavour), and then pour in a litre of coca-cola. Bring to the boil, put the lid back on, and turn down the heat. Let the ham braise in the liquid for  2 ½ hours.

Take the gammon out of the pan, and let it rest. Remove the skin and preheat your oven to 210˚C. In the meantime, mix up a glaze from 100g breadcrumbs, 100g brown muscovado sugar, two tablespoons of French Dijon Mustard, and a tablespoon of Colman's Mustard Powder. Stir in a spoonful or so of coca-cola to the mixture, and then slap it onto the gammon. 

Roast the gammon in the hot oven for about ten minutes, or until the glaze has cooked.

Strangely, I don't think I've written about Minestrone Soup before. I'm not going to patronise you with a description; this is a dish we've all had time and time again, and of course you know how to make your own version at a drop of a hat.

I happen to think that the number one all-time recipe for Minestrone Soup comes from Arrigo Cipriani's The Harry's Bar Cookbook. His slightly refined version includes asparagus, and leaves out the pasta. When I'm cooking it, I like to dice up the vegetables into small pieces; I think it improves the look of the finished dish.

Here's how to make it, courtesy of Mr Arrigo Cipriani. (It will serve six people):

Heat up two tablespoons of olive oil in a heavy pan, and melt in a tablespoon of butter. Add a diced medium sized onion, and sauté over a medium heat until well browned. 

Now it's time to add the vegetables: a diced celery rib (peeled), two thinly sliced leeks (white part only), a large tomato (cored and diced), two small diced zucchini, a small wedge of Savoy cabbage (shredded and chopped), a medium potato (peeled and cut into small dice), a medium sized carrot (peeled and diced), and six asparagus spears (cut into slices). Throw in a bayleaf, and season with sea salt and black pepper. Cook on a medium heat and stir for about fifteen minutes.

Add two litres of stock (chicken or vegetable, I'll leave that one up to you), and ⅓ cup of tomato sauce. If you don't want to make your own, you could always use tomato purée. Bring the soup to the boil, reduce the heat and simmer, partially covered, for fifteen minutes.

Remove the bayleaf, stir in a tablespoon of butter, and check the seasoning. Serve very hot with grated parmesan cheese.

Each year, Christmas seems to start earlier and earlier. The lights have gone up in Oxford Street (do you remember that dreadful "Birds Eye" affair?), and our television set has suddenly erupted into full Christmas mode. Teflon snowflakes are having a field day. I suspect sales of Charles Dickens are on the increase.  And yet, autumn leaves remain: it's still November. The world's gone barmy.

Having said that, right now is the time to start making your Christmas Pudding; and if anything it may even be a bit on the late side. Traditionally, the Christmas Pudding was made on "Stir-Up Sunday", which was the last Sunday before Advent, (about four to five weeks before Christmas Day), but in our family we used to make it as early as late October.

I love Christmas Pudding. The way your spoon plunges into the moist (you hope!), rich, fruity mass; and the contrast with the smooth, rich, alchohol infused brandy butter.

This is the way I make The Official Greasy Spoon Christmas Pudding:

First, you need to stir up all the following ingredients in a pudding basin: 350g mixed fruit and peel (this means crystallised peel, dried apricots, currants, saltanas, raisins, grated lemon rind, and grated orange rind); 50g chopped glace cherries, 25g flaked almonds, 50g dried suet (you can't get the proper stuff anymore- the EU has made it illegal), 35g white breadcrumbs, 35g plain flour, 70g moist dark brown sugar, 50g grated apple, and a dash of mixed spice and grated nutmeg. Some weirdos add carrot- but very sensibly, I leave this one out.

Once you've stirred all the ingredients together well, mix in two beaten eggs, the juice of half a lemon, and half an orange, pour in two tablespoons of a dark stout (ie Guinness), a tablespoon of black treacle, and a dash of decent Scotch Whisky. Most recipes will tell you to add brandy, but being a contrarian, I've decided that Scotch works better. Stir it like mad.

Now's the time to add the mixture to a basin. Recently, I've had this thing about those old-fashioned ball-shaped puddings- the ones you see in the illustrations of "Phiz" and in Walt Disney. A few years ago, I managed to track down a ball-shaped pudding mould from Divertimenti in the Fulham Road, and used that- but a traditional ceramic pudding basin will be just dandy. Smear the inside of the basin with butter. This will stop the pudding sticking to the side. Pour in the mixture. Top off with a piece of buttered greaseproof paper, ideally cut down to fit. Finally, place a cloth over the basin, and tie it off at the top with a bit of string.

Steam it for five to six hours. This means getting hold of a large pan, filling it about a quarter full with water and bringing it to the boil. Place the pudding in the middle of the pan, and put the lid on. The steam will rise up within the pan, and cook the pudding. Once it's cooked, leave it in a cool place with a piece of tin foil on top. It will mature in the run-up to Christmas. On the great day itself, you will need to steam it for a further three hours.

The great thing about Irish Soda Bread is that it's so incredibly easy to make, always works out, and only takes about half an hour. I also happen to like it, and think it would work well with a lovely bowl of hot Irish Stew. So if you're tempted to make your own bread, but can't be bothered to faff around with scary yeast mixtures- this is the one for you.

I've taken the recipe from Terence and Vikki Conran's Classic Conran Cookbook. This is one of the best cookery books I've got on my over-laden bookshelves. If you haven't got a copy, I urge you to head for your local bookshop and order a copy.

Back to the Soda Bread. Pre-heat your oven to 230 C (450 F). Put in a baking sheet and warm it up. Meanwhile sift 350g wholemeal stone-ground flour, 220g plain white flour, a teaspoon of salt, and a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda into your favourite bowl and mix them up well.

Rub in 20g butter. That means mixing the butter into the flour with your hands. Strangely satisfying. Now mix in 300ml of buttermilk. The buttermilk contains lactic acid, which will react with the bicarbonate of soda to form tiny bubbles of carbon dioxide.

By now you should have a soft, but not sticky dough. Next flour a board or work surface and turn your dough out onto it. Knead it lightly. Shape it into a flattish round, and cut a cross onto the surface. Place the loaf onto the hot baking sheet, and bake in the oven for ten minutes. Once that's done, turn the oven down to 200 C (400F) and cook for a further fifteen minutes.

And that's it. You can find out if it's ready by tapping the base. If it sounds hollow- it's ready. Finis.

Yesterday an old friend came over to our new house for dinner. I decided to make a Cajun duck gumbo. Or at least, I thought I did, as the resulting effort, although relatively appetising, tasted nothing like the genuine dish. So I did some research:

Gumbo is a stew or soup popular in Louisiana and the Southern States of America. It's probably got okra in it, and most importantly, the "holy trinity" of diced onions, green peppers and celery. It's also thickened at the beginning by a roux. Now, this is not just any old roux. There's a whole sub-culture of check-shirted, bearded roux experts out there, ready to tell you at a drop of a hat that your roux isn't dark enough, and that you should have stirred it one hundred and one times anti-clockwise, and in slow-motion.

Forget your namby-pamby Cordon Bleu type rouxs made with a bit of butter and a genteel sprinkling of flour, these Cajun rouxs are macho affairs, made by heating cups of oil to a high temperature in old tin pans, and then stirring in cups of flour, until the liquid roux turns a mahogany colour, or even in some cases almost black. If you've got time, have a look at this excellent website, the Southern Gumbo Trail- which will tell you how to make authentic "Cajun Napalm".

Here's my recipe for Cajun Duck Gumbo:

Heat a heavy pan until it's smokin' hot. Pour in a cup of oil. Let it get hot, then turn down the heat to a low flame. Gradually whisk in a cup and a half of white flour, whisking it the whole time to make sure it doesn't burn. If you cook the roux on too high a heat, not only might it burn, but the oil might separate from the flour. Keep on whisking. I think it's important to have more flour than oil: you want the roux to be slightly sloppy, but you don't want an oil-slick.

You will see that as the flour cooks, the colour will start to turn brown. Keep on stirring. Your goal is to end up with a dark brown, nutty flavoured roux with the consistency of a thick chocolate sauce. Which hasn't burnt. This might take up to half and hour to achieve, but you will end up with an extremely worthy base for your gumbo. Oh and by the way, it's not called "Cajun Napalm" for nothing. Be extremely careful: if you splash a bit of the roux on your skin, it's going to hurt. As I write this, I'm suffering from some darn nasty burns on my fingers, which I wouldn't wish on anyone.

Now it's time to add the "holy trinity" of diced green peppers, onions and celery. Stir it in, and sauté for around five minutes. Add some chopped garlic. Stir. Throw in some chopped up okra. Turn the heat up, and stir the okra in until it's cooked properly, and become less "stringy" and gelatinous. The okra will thicken up the mixture almost immediately. You will see tiny "strings", looking a bit like miniscule white optic fibres. You need to cook the okra until these strings disappear.

Next, add shrimps (prawns), sliced smoked sausage and small chunks of duck. Keep on stirring as it cooks. After about another ten minutes or so, pour in some stock. I used a lovely clear duck stock which I had made by using a very low heat, and then skimming off the scum as it rose to the surface.

Simmer gently for about twenty minutes until the gumbo thickens up. Season to taste and add a generous slug of Tabasco and a teaspoon or so of Cayenne Pepper. Finish off the dish with some chopped parsley, and serve it on a bowl of steamed rice. The gumbo should be a dark brown colour, and that agonising half hour or so of roux stirring will give a complex, deep hickory flavour to the dish.

I'm a huge fan of genuine Indian food, believe me. The sort of street food served by restaurants such as the excellent Masala Zone. But I'm also fond of our own bastardised British versions too- as peddled by the Cordon Bleu Cookery Academy, circa 1959. Here's my own recipe for a delicious and simple chicken curry. Most Indians worth their salt will turn their noses up at it, but I find it strangely satisfying; and it's extremely easy to make too.

First, you need to sweat some chopped onions, celery and garlic in oil. Next add some apple chopped into chunks. Stir in a tablespoon of curry paste, and some turmeric. Cook this for a few minutes. In the meantime, season some de-boned chicken thighs with salt and pepper, and dust them with some flour. Add these to the pan. Cook for several minutes, until the chicken begins to colour. Now add some chicken stock (preferably home made, otherwise Marigold reduced-salt bouillon is just the ticket), and simmer for about ten to fifteen minutes. Next, pour in some coconut milk. Simmer for about half an hour until the chicken is cooked. You should end up with a thickish sauce. Add a teaspoon of redcurrent jelly (yes, redcurrent jelly).

Serve with chopped coriander. Instead of plain rice, try my Lemon Rice instead. This is just ordinary rinsed Basmati Rice, which has been cooked in a bit of stock, lemon juice, lemon zest, and a few cardamom pods.

Caesar Salad is one of those classic dishes that has been over-tweaked, bastardised, and generally ruined by self-indulgent chefs over the years. The best Caesar Salad is the original Caesar Salad.

It was invented by Caesar Cardini in 1924. Cardini was a chef working at the Hotel Comerical in Tijuana- the Mexican town a few miles from the Californian border. During Prohibition, large parties of Americans used to cross the border in search of booze. The story goes that Cardini created the salad when a large party of hungry Americans turned up for the Fourth of July celebrations. He had run out of food, so made do with what he had left over.

First, you need two small heads of Romaine lettuce, preferably organic. Tear the lettuce into large shreds. Add two coddled eggs. Coddling is a technique where you only boil the eggs in their shell for one minute, so that you end up with a runny yolk. Add half a teaspoon of sea salt, and freshly ground black pepper; the juice of two lemons, ten drops of Lea & Perrins' Worcestershire Sauce, half a cup of fresh grated Parmesan cheese, and half a cup of garlic oil. Garlic oil is just a good quality Virgin or Extra Virgin olive oil, infused by some garlic cloves for a day or so.

Here's a post I wrote last year about pheasant casserole. It's nostalgic, comfort food at its best, evocative of the English Countryside in autumn:

Pheasant Casserole! I can't think of anything more suitable for a cold November. I once had it at a Sunday lunch party, served with a jug of foamy Black Velvet- and this worked surprisingly well. If you don't know anyone who shoots, pheasant are amazingly cheap to buy, either from your local butcher or decent supermarket such as Waitrose.

Believe me, I've plucked a few pheasants in my time, and I have to say that I'm not sure that it's worth the hassle, when you can a) get the butcher to pluck them for you (and do a much better job) or b) buy them from the shops, ready plucked, for a few quid.

Here's my family recipe for pheasant casserole (from The ABC of Tried and Tested Recipes), which I've adapted slightly from the original version. Take a large cock pheasant and fry it in butter and oil, until lightly browned. Add a dash of cognac, and flambé it quickly until the flames die down.  Remove the pheasant and put it into a casserole.

In the same pan, fry some chopped bacon, diced celery and carrots cut into batons.  Add two tablespoons of flour, and cook. After a few minutes pour in half a bottle of red wine (I suggest using a Burgundy or a Rhone) and top up with some chicken stock.

Bring to the boil, and simmer gently so that the alcohol burns off.  Pour it over the pheasant in the casserole and add 50g button mushrooms and 175g button or baby onions.

Cook in a moderate oven for just over an hour. Pheasant has a tendency to get dry and stringy very quickly, so I've cut down the cooking time. I'm sure you'll get the drift: you want lots of sauce, and you need to make sure that you don't over cook the pheasant.

When you reckon the pheasant is ready, take the casserole out of the oven and let it cool down. Lift out the pheasant and carve it up: cut the legs and wings off and carve the breasts. Place the carved meat in a flat casserole dish with the sliced breasts in the centre, surrounded by the legs and the wings.  Place the vegetables, mushrooms and onions over the pheasant.

Strain off the sauce through a sieve into a small sauce pan-  this will get rid of all the nasty bits and pieces. Add two teaspoons of redcurrant jelly to the sauce and  chuck in some crushed juniper berries. I'm currently crazy about juniper (which, of course, is used to flavour gin).  It has a rich, pine-nut, woodlandly sort of  taste and works beautifully with game. Check the seasoning. When the sauce is at the right consistency, pour it back over the pheasant.

Serve the casserole with parsnip chips.

I've just read an article in The London Times about a new edition of the classic board game, Cluedo (or Clue to my American readers). I trust that many of you will have spent many happy and instructive hours of your youth playing this slightly ridiculous game, invented in England by a certain Anthony E. Pratt in 1949. How can we forget the vampy Miss Scarlett, that sinister old codger, the Rev. Green; the Library, the Lead Piping, the Conservatory, the Revolver, the Billiard Room or the slightly scary Mrs Peacock? 

Well, I've got some really depressing news for you: the thrusting young execs of the American games company, Hasbro, have taken over good old Waddington's and have revamped the game to what they consider to be modern taste: Colonel Mustard is now "Jack Mustard, the ex-professional footballer", Professor Plum is now "Victor Plum, a celebrity internet millionaire", the Ballroom is now the Spa, the Hall is now a Home Cinema, the lead piping is now a baseball bat. The evocative 1940's film-noir graphics have been given a naff computer game style makeover. Is nothing sacred any more? It's just not cricket.

From a commercial point of view, I'm not convinced that Hasbro have done a sensible thing.  If it ain't broke, don't fix it; tamper with the classics at your peril. It's the same with food. Often, you'll find some young new turk who thinks that he can improve upon a classic dish by giving it a twist.  Gary Rhodes tried this with his "New British Classics". Sometimes it worked, quite often it didn't.

Here's a recipe for Braised Red Cabbage. It's a classic British dish. It is is what it is. No extra squeezes of orange juice to give it "added lift". But it's more than just cabbage- there are other ingredients in there as well, and the dish has a tangy, piquant flavour which is addictive. It's also suitable for this time of the year. 

Take a red cabbage, slice it in two and take out the core (that's the hard bit in the middle). Cut up the cabbage into thin slices. 

Next, slice up some apples in the same way, removing the cores. Put them in a casserole dish with the cabbage, and some diced streaky bacon.

In a separate pan heat up a generous dash of port, two tablespoons of red wine vinegar, and two tablespoons of caster sugar. Bring to the boil, and then simmer gently for a few minutes.

Pour the liquid over the cabbage, bacon and apples, and season well with salt and pepper. Shove the dish (with the lid on) into a medium oven and cook for an hour or so.

London this morning is grey and overcast, the atmosphere heavy with an oppressive gloom. It's even slightly foggy. That's one of the odd things about this city of muffin men and dancing chimney sweeps: the way the weather changes at a drop of a hat; yesterday for example, we enjoyed the most glorious, warm, autumnal day bathed in a golden light. Now, I don't usually write about the weather (finding the subject, like cricket, slightly tiresome) and I would dispute the idea that the British are a "weather-obsessed" people. This dubious award goes to the Americans. Have you ever noticed how the Americans are obsessed with temperature? I once asked an American how he was, and was told "twenty three degrees".

Anyway. To alleviate all this gloom, I've suddenly got this thing about Irish Stew. Traditionally, Irish Stew consists of just lamb or mutton; onions, potatoes and water. Purists will tell you that carrots should not be added, but I was having a chat with an Irish friend about this recently, and she insisted that she includes carrots in her version. The secret with Irish Stew (as indeed with any stew), is to cook it for a long time at a low temperature. You want the meat to break down, so that it's hanging off the bone, and the potato to slightly disintegrate, so that it thickens the sauce.

Take some Lamb Chops, and brown them in a pan with a knob of unsalted butter. Transfer them to a casserole dish. Next, saute some sliced onions in the butter, and when they're cooked add them to the casserole. Peel some carrots, and slice them into quarters, lengthways. Add them to the casserole- on top of the onions. The aim is to build up your vegetables in layers. Add another layer of onions. Finally, add some peeled potatoes, which you have chopped into quarters, lengthways. Season with sea salt and ground black pepper.

Now pour in some stock (ideally lamb stock if you have it), and add a sprig of thyme. Cook the casserole in a low to medium oven, until the lamb is cooked properly (ie just about to fall off the bone), and the sauce is reasonably thick. On a low heat this may take at least two hours.

Take the casserole out of the oven, and have a look at it. If you want to thicken the sauce, you could always add a roux- which is butter and flour mixed together to form a small ball. Check the seasoning, and add more salt and pepper if it's needed. Finally, serve with a generous amount of chopped parsley.

It's that time of the year again: Sloe Gin Time. Sloe Gin is a liqueur made from the sloe berries of the Blackthorn bush, which grow in the hedgerows of the English countryside. By ancient lore, they're picked at the end of October (around Hallowe'en and supposedly just after the first frost); but with global warming, I can't quite work out if you should pick them earlier, or pick them later.  Anyway, they're quite easy to spot- medium sized purplish coloured  berries with a slight dusty bloom. I get mine from an idyllic spot I know in Oxfordshire- that is if the good burghers of Wallingford haven't got there first. Sloe gin is easy to make at home.

First, you need to pick a decent amount of ripe sloe berries. If you live in the city, you can buy sloe berries on ebay. I think it's probably a good idea to freeze the berries first to simulate the effects of a first frost. The freezing process will help to break down the berries, and extract the juices. 

Then you need to prick each berry, so that the juices can be released.  Traditionally this was done with a silver fork.  I'm not exactly sure why, but it certainly adds to the mystique. 

Next, you need to get hold of some gin.  I use Plymouth Gin, the traditional tipple of the Royal Navy.  One year as an experiment, and in a misguided attempt to be trendy, I made a batch from vodka; it was okay, but I missed out on the junipery flavours that gin gives you. It's easiest to make your sloe gin in the gin bottle itself, but if you're really keen you can use one of those large demi-john glass jars used for home brewing.

Using a funnel, pour your pricked berries into the gin bottle, so that they come up to between a third and a half way.  Drink the surplus gin.  Now it's time to add some sugar. (Up to about a third of the gin bottle is probably right). So you will now have a bottle of gin, with the berries coming up to about half-way, and sugar up to about a third of the way. I hope that's clear.

To give my Sloe Gin extra flavour, I add a teaspoon of almond essence, a clove and a stick of cinnamon, for added spice. Screw the cap back on tightly, and shake the bottle like crazy. The gin will start to turn a pink colour.  Store it away in a dark cupboard, shaking daily for two weeks, and then once a week thereafter.

One of my favourite restaurants in New York is the Grand Central Oyster Bar. I've always found this place a bit incongrous, and those of you who have been there will know what I am talking about: it's a labyrinth of sparkling marble and mosaic tiled rooms, decorated in the Byzantine style, and built directly underneath the station, offering an extensive choice of oysters from every shore in the United States.

And with the oysters comes a spicy horseradish and tomato sauce (or ketchup), served up in those little paper cups. You'll also find this sauce in American diners. I've noticed that some Americans just call it "horseradish sauce", which is slightly confusing as it's red in colour, and quite clearly contains tomato; while here in Perfidious Albion, "horseradish sauce" is the creamy stuff we serve with the roast beef of Merry Old England. You say tomato, we say tomarto, let's call the whole thing off.

Here's a good (if slightly lengthy) way to make your own version. I've based it on Simon Hopkinson's wonderful book Week in Week Out, which is currently The Greasy Spoon's "Book of the Month". The secret lies in making both the horseradish concentrate and the tomato juice ahead of time, and then keeping both of them in the 'fridge. The horseradish concentrate can also be used for English style creamed horseradish sauce and delicious horseradish mousse. The homemade tomato juice can be used for mixing Bloody Mary's.

First you need to make a homemade horseradish concentrate: Grate 200g of peeled horseradish root into a food processor and add five tablespoons of water, two teaspoons of Maldon Salt, 1 ½ tablespoons of caster sugar, 2½ tablespoons of lemon juice and 2½ tablespoons of white wine vinegar. Make sure you peel the horseradish and then grate it across the base of the root. Whizz it up in the food processor until smooth, and then tip it into a Kilner jar (it should keep in the 'fridge for up to two weeks).

Next, you need to make a homemade tomato juice: take 1kg of very ripe tomatoes and core and cut them up into quarters. Put them in a large pan. Add a heaped teaspoon of Maldon Salt, a tablespoon of caster sugar, and 125ml of water. Cover the pan and warm on a lowish heat for about twenty minutes. You want the tomatoes to wilt. There should also be quite a bit of tomato juice floating around in the pan. Pour the contents into a vegetable mill (mouli-légumes) and grind it up. (It's really worth investing in an authentic mouli-légumes, and I've included a link to buy one from amazon uk.  It's a decent bit of kit and indispensable if you are going to make your own purées, sauces and soups.

Leave the tomato juice to cool, and stir in a tablespoon of horseradish concentrate. Let it infuse for about ten minutes and then pass the sauce through a sieve. That make's a basic tomato juice.

To make the ketchup: take 300ml of the tomato sauce and reduce it in a small pan, until it thickens up. Remove it from the heat, let it cool down and stir in two tablespoons of the horseradish concentrate. Chill in the 'fridge. Perfect with oysters.

Photograph: Kake Pugh

Rasa Sayang does exactly what it says on the tin. It's a small crowded room in Chinatown, just off Shaftesbury Avenue; painted white, with wood-effect tables and cheery laminate menus full of colourful photographs of Malaysian and Singaporean street food. I like this: being able to point at something and saying "I'll have this one, this one and this one". If you're a lazy or frustrated communicator (and I'm often feeling like that in London these days) it makes life one hell of a lot easier. No hanging around for the idle.

The food is good: a substantial cut above many of the dubious restaurants in the area. And there's lots of it, too. I ordered "Seafood hor fun" (that's stir-fried flat rice noodles with seafood, mixed vegetables and "velvety" egg) and liked it, though The Girl thought it a trifle bland: much better were the deliciously crunchy stir-fried "Sambal cluster beans" and the intensely savoury "Nasi goreng istimeura" (rice with shrimp paste, soy sauce and chili). The Girl seemed pleased with her "Nasi Lemak" (chicken curry with coconut scented rice, sliced boiled egg and crunchy anchovies), and my "Curry chee cheong fun" (rice noodle rolls in a hot and rich curry sauce) were the cat's whiskers.

There seemed to be quite a few Malaysian people there- which is always a good sign, although I've just read a few negative Malaysian reviews on the internet, and I suspect they know much more about their own food than London bloggers who pretend to know what they're talking about. It's a bit like the time I ate a soggy fish and chips in Hong Kong- but that's another story for another time. 

Anyway, service was reasonably friendly at first, but then degenerated into slightly brusque, anti-social behaviour- I had my plate snatched from under my nose as I was still gobbling down the Sambal cluster beans with chili (dearie me, what Mrs Aitch has to put up with). I'm not too fussed about this: to survive, a small restaurant like Rasa Sayang needs a brisk turnover, and the bright lighting and hard seats à la "Chicken Land" are- er- not exactly there to make you linger are they now?

A destination for a romantic diner à deux it is not (am I writing the obvious?) but for students of a gourmet persuasion, those on a lunch break with a precious three quarters of an hour to spare, or just the plain greedy, this new restaurant comes out top of the form. Well, almost.

Rasa Sayang, 5 Macclesfield Street, London, W1D 6AY (020 7734 1382)

I had been meaning to take The Girl to Bocca di Lupo for ages, and typically had done zilch all about it. Until recently, Bocca di Lupo was currently the number one London foodie destination on the Urban Spoon hot list. I managed to get a table at a decent time (in other words not at Tea-Time or the Witching Hour), and one of the best-if not the best- tables at the back of the room, with comfy leatherette armchairs. Service was charming, and efficient.

This is The New Austerity. As at 22 Great Queen Street, menus were printed on unpretentious sheets of throwaway cheap paper, and at Bocco di Lupo the food is restricted to a selection of classic regional Italian dishes. The very helpful waiter suggested we went for a selection of the smaller dishes- in the Tapas manner.

The "tripe with cured pork cheek, chilli and tomato" was wonderful: for once the tripe didn't taste like rubber, and was cooked to perfection. The "artichoke a la Giudia" was crispy, the "rustic pork and foie gras sausages with farro and porcini", divine. The "grilled squid with gremolata" tasted as squid should taste, and for a light pudding, the "blood oranges" were just what we needed.

Wine was provided by the glass, and Bocco di Lupo has an interesting and intelligent regional wine list.

Jiminy Cricket, I really like this place; and I'm currently in quite a picky mood when it comes to reviewing restaurants. Bucco di Lupo is grown-up, civilised yet utterly unpretentious. The food is wonderful, too- which helps.

Bocca di Lupo, 12 Archer Street, London, W1 (020 7734 2223)