Acknowledgments
A Cooks Book was written at my kitchen table during the pandemic of 202021, but the stories and recipes between these covers go back a long way before that.
A book of recipes and meals shared is, inevitably, a collaborative affair, and I have many wonderful people to thank.
To Louise Haines, my editor for over thirty years.
To Allan Jenkins and to Harriet Green, Martin Love, Gareth Grundy, and everyone at the Observer , I simply cannot thank you enough for your continuing support. Thank you to Araminta Whitley, Marina de Pass, and everyone at the Soho Agency, and a huge appreciation to the Observer readers and to my followers on Instagram and Twitter.
Many hands have been involved in this book, but none more so than James Thompsons. Whether he is cooking with me or working with The Great Ovenhis international network for refugee aid and emergency food reliefhis work and inspiration run deeply through the pages of this book. I can never thank him enough. A round of applause to Giles Cooper, who worked painstakingly on many of the recipes in this book, testing and retesting, and to Nicola Lamb for her wisdom and baking expertise.
To everyone at 4th Estate, especially Charlie Redmayne, Michelle Kane, Julian Humphries, Chris Gurney, and Mia Colleran; to Gary Simpson, Annie Lee, Laura Nickoll, Alex Gingell, and Louise Tucker, my thanks.
It has been a joy, as always, to work with Jonathan Lovekin, who has photographed not only the food in this book and my weekly Observer Magazine columns but all of my cooking for as long as I can remember. I am so grateful to Jenny Zarins for photographing me and my kitchen, and for giving the stories and recipes in this book a sense of place. I think of each of my books as having its own character, which is why each has its own format. I thank David Pearson once again for his thoughtful design and am grateful to GS Typesetting and everyone at GPS Group.
As always, there are no stylists or props involved in my books. If you recognize plates and bowls and pots and pans it is because they are part of my life. The ceramics from which we eat are important to me and I would like to mention all those whose pieces I use regularly in my kitchen, especially Florian Gadsby, Steve Harrison, Anne Mette Hjortshj, Rupert Spira, Teppei Ono, Darren Ellis, Jono Smart and Emily Stephen, and the late Richard Batterham.
I have long been an admirer of the late Howard Hodgkin and am lucky to have some of his paintings in my own collection. I am indebted to Antony Peattie and the Howard Hodgkin Legacy Trust for their permission to use Howards painting A Pale Reflection , 201516, on the cover of this book.
Many have encouraged, inspired, or helped with this book more than they would ever know. A shout-out to Dalton Wong and George Ashwell, Richard Stepney, Tim dOffay, Jonathan Nunn, Edmund de Waal, and Takahiro Yagi; to Katie Findlay, Jack McGuigan, Tok and Hiromi Kise; Takako Saito; Maureen Doherty, Lyn Harris, Kyoko Kuga, and Mitsue Iwakoshi. Thank you and much love to you all.
Nigel Slater, London, October 2021
NIGEL SLATER is an award-winning author, journalist, and television presenter. He has been the food columnist for the Observer for over twenty-five years. His collection of bestselling books includes the classics Appetite and The Kitchen Diaries and the two-volume Tender. He has made cooking shows and documentaries for BBC1, BBC2, and BBC4. His memoir Toastthe story of a boys hunger won six major awards and became a film and stage production. His writing has won the James Beard Award, the National Book Award, the Glenfiddich Trophy, the Andr Simon Memorial Prize, the British Biography of the Year, and the Fortnum & Mason Best Food Book. He lives in London. He was awarded an OBE in the New Year Honors in 2020 for services to cooking and literature.
The cover shows a detail from A Pale Reflection, 2015-16, a hand-painted sugar-lift aquatint by Howard Hodgkin, by The Estate of Howard Hodgkin, courtesy of Cristea Roberts Gallery.
A bowl of soup
It is the humblest of suppers, yet soup has always felt like a luxury to me. We never had soup at home. Soup was something to be chosen from a menu and brought by a waiter. Part and parcel of the treat of going to a restaurant. Oxtail, cream of mushroom, Scotch broth, with its tiny diced carrots and rutabaga, or cream of chicken. All of which were eaten at a table with a starched white tablecloth from a wide-rimmed soup plate with a round spoon.
Even now, soup comes with hints of indulgence. The velvet texture of pureed pumpkin. A wealth of beans in a crystal broth. The New Year lentil soup whose round legumes were supposed to represent coins and wealth. The most basic recipe in my collection, leek and potato with Parmesan, has the texture of silk, despite the limited ingredients. Whether embellished with cream or strips of chicken or plump dumplings or glistening with pools of goose fat on its surface, even a small bowl of soup seems to speak in generous tones.
Occasionally, on a visit to my godmother the two of us would share a can of Campbells asparagus, smiling at each other at the sheer extravagance of it. One I make now is with leeks or onions, softened till they can be crushed with finger and thumb, joined by leftover vegetables and stock, cooked till soft, then blended. The flavors change depending on whether there are more carrots than kale, more peas than parsnips.
Bean soups, green soups, thin, clear broths, nubbly bowls of lentils and cheerful purees of scarlet and ocher, rust and mustardthere is a soup for every mood. In summer, I will happily take a bowl of chilled soup, by which I mean iced, into the garden. A green bowl of quiet contentment. In winter, soup is all about warming our soul, a bowl to bring color to our frozen cheeks.
I stir soup with a wooden spoon but serve it with a ladle. A ladle carries with it a certain generosity. The volume of soup it holds, the capacious bowl, the implication that there is always more in the pot. A life-enriching thought on a winters night. The exceptions to all of this are the sachets of instant Japanese miso soup, which I have for breakfast or late in the evening, when in an Im-hungry-but-cant-be-bothered-to-cook mood.
Pumpkin soups
There are, at the last count, eight pumpkin soups in my archive: the noodle-rich pumpkin laksa in Appetite ; the golden squash pureed with lentils, its surface a tangle of fried onions ( The Kitchen Diaries ) and another with bacon and cream; with tomatoes, rosemary, and cannellini beans ( The Kitchen Diaries II ); and finally a smooth and silky version with tahini and butternut ( Greenfeast: autumn, winter ). Favorite of all is the stew-like offering in Tender, Volume I , where the squashs golden flesh is cooked with chickpeas, ginger, cardamom, and coconut. Good luck working out the inspiration for that one.