The original Source of Love. My Nan. How I learned to cook and how to make four meals from a humble roast chicken.

Coming home to Nan. How I learned to cook.

The day we left

It is the sound of the day we left I can still remember. A dragging sound woke me up. Something being dragged along the floor. I was in bed. Curiously, I crept out to see what was happening. But I felt the dread and knew already. We were leaving. Mum was dragging a huge black bin liner on the floor, a finger to her lips. Low whispers went like this. I had joined in with the conspiracy. ‘Get dressed’.  ‘Not in school uniform’. ‘Can I bring anything?’  ‘No’. ‘What about Stevie?’ my teddy. ‘Yes, you can bring him, say it is teddy day and a no uniform day’.

I can’t really remember saying goodbye to Dad. Only to William, our dog. A scruffy mongrel who had always been part of my life. I had to leave him. I hugged him, in tears, which had to be wiped away. When would I see him again? I didn’t know. My four-legged friend, wagging his tail, he did not understand this either, an innocent source of comfort for me as an only child.

Something bad must have happened. Wait, something bad had been happening for a long as I could remember. Only I had just got used to it. It was my normal.

So, we left. I said goodbye to Dad, as normal on a school day, he not knowing where we were going or that we were not coming back. More secrets and lies.

Home to Nan. The original Source of Love

Why do Nans hug you so hard that the breath comes out of you? And kiss you so hard? Really hard on my little wet cheeks that morning. I remember her whiskery face, soft and floury, perfumed with face powder, full of love, safety and warmth. My Nan was pivotal in my life, the original source of love and unbeknown to me at the time, would shape how I learned to give love through food on the kitchen table to my own growing sons, many years later. It was of course many more years later that I learned to love myself. But that story will come later.

The allotment meant we ate to the rhythm of the seasons and nature. My grandparents were so ahead of their time and game. I soon settled in to the rituals and routine of the mealtimes, seersucker tablecloths and matching napkins, in our own napkin rings. Safety in routine, solace and comfort in home cooking. My Nan showed me how.

Sunday would always be a roast; meat sourced from the local butcher on Saturday. The greens and potatoes would be picked that morning. Grandpa, gardener hands weathered, lined and ingrained with the soil he loved so much, would proudly bring in conical cones of spring greens, crowns of savoy cabbages, knobbly arthritic fingers of broad beans, which we would pod together at the table. In the winter months kale, unruly and curly, clasping tightly onto their rough, sturdy stems. Jewels of sprouts, wreaths of onions. Potatoes shy, still snuggling behind soil, plucky carrots, proudly strutting their mohican hair.

Nan would always put the greens on so early.  Greens gurgling and bubbling on the stove, far too early, their earthy breath filling the kitchen, infiltrating the rainbow striped pastel winceyette sheets hanging on the ceiling washing line dryer over the kitchen table.  

In her housecoat, Nan’s roast chicken would proudly make three meals. The generation of the war, where budgeting, eating only what is in season and rationing taught valuable lessons. No waste, use everything up. The bones would be stripped and made into a stock (more steam) ready for chicken noodle soup on Monday. Noodles, well it was shards of broken spaghetti, bulking out the enriched stock with carrots, onions and any remaining greens to hand. The leftover meat was shredded and either added to fortify the soup, or stir-fried with boiled rice and greens, or a made into soothing, stove top stirred risotto.

Tuesday heralded plump butchers’ sausages, wrapped in their waxy paper, flavour bursting at the seams of their translucent skins, with buttery mash, now of course the obligatory greens. The allotment always reliable, giving generously. Gravy, homemade with the greens water. Wednesday was liver and onions. Followed by pork chop Thursdays and, of course, fish, peas and chipped potato Friday.

The kitchen table was a source of love, where we would gather at 630 pm every weekday night, when mum came home from work. Talk through the school day, the work day, eat, share, love together. It is here, at this kitchen table, Mum and I were slowly nurtured, healed, repaired and restored.  

And this is how I learned to cook. With love. I became the source of love for when my boys were growing up. Especially school age, coming home hungry, tired, happy, sad. Food for me became the consistent and constant power of love. And had the power to restore whatever the day had delivered. The boys knew a fresh dinner was always ready for them as they opened the front door, the oven unveiling her intoxicating scents, welcoming, greeting them, curling her fingers through the air. Safe, home and loved. Cooked with love as I had been taught.  

I think of you every day Nan. You taught me so much more than just how to cook. And I have so much more to share. But for now, let me share the magic of how to get at least three meals out of a roast chicken, vibrantly brought up to date, a leftover haven of flavours and combinations. A simple lesson in how to make the most of what you have, limit food waste and get ahead of the weekly meal plan and prep game.

 One pan roast chicken curry

This is a genius base to start with, based on a recipe by Ixta Belfrage from her book Mezcla. I am constantly reading and researching on how to glamorously and effortlessly get ahead of the game and take inspiration from other cooks.

Here the humble chicken roasts over the curry sauce enriching the curry with its glorious juices as it roasts! You will need a spatchcock chicken - it cooks super quickly! Your local butcher can do this. Or just turn the chicken, breast side down, and cut along each side of the back bone with sharp scissors. I keep this piece, and use it for stock. Pop in a freezer bag and freeze for later.

Turn the chicken back over, pressing hard on breasts to ‘butterfly the chicken’. You are now ready to marinade, which is the secret to this dish, which is made with mayonnaise. It works, the mayonnaise being a fatty conduit of flavour, much like yogurt.

To 60g of mayonnaise, add 1 tbsp medium curry powder, ¼ teaspoons cayenne, 2 tablespoons olive oil and 1 tsp salt.  Salt both sides of the chicken well, then smother with the marinade and leave for 30 minutes, or preferably overnight. Bring back to room temperature before roasting though. You can do this in two stages if you are short of time, but be proud as your smugometer is well and truly on, as dinner is half way ready for the next day. Always a win, getting ahead of the game.

So, for the curry sauce!

Blitz in a high-speed blender, or food processor, a 400g tin full fat coconut milk, 1 tbsp tomato purée, grated knuckle of fresh ginger, 100g cherry tomatoes, ½ chopped onion, ¼ tsp cayenne ½ tsp medium curry powder, ½ turmeric powder

1 tbsp maple syrup, 150 g water and 1 ¼ tsp fine salt in a blender. This sauce can also be made ahead and stored in the fridge ready for when you are ready to roast.

Pour into the roasting tray, placing the room temperature chicken on top of the sauce.

Roast in a hot oven 230c (this is for a crispy skin) for a minimum of 40 mins without basting until chicken is cooked through (test with a skewer at the thickest part of the joint always needs clear juices) and sauce thickened and bubbling! Cooking time will vary according to the size and original temperature of the chicken. I sometimes turn the oven down to 180c and continue to roast until I am happy it is cooked through. Leave to rest for 15 mins. Slice and serve with roast potatoes and a green salad.

Left-over heaven.

I will strip the chicken, and use the bones (and I use the skin too) to make a delicious flavoured stock. This will be for a risotto. Or a soup. I use the meat and remaining sauce to make cannelloni. Or a chili garlic infused Indian/Asian stir fry. And then more left-over heaven will be arancini from leftover risotto, filled with a soft Italian cheese. Taleggio springs to mind. 

Thank you for reading. Please let me know if you would like these recipes in the comments. Until next time, Love Sarah x