Nigella Lawson

Sharp and sweet, rhubarb and beets were made for one another, and this soup is a fitting celebration of their union.

“Fried,” “Chicken” and “Sandwich”: three alluring enough words on their own; together, they promise pure, unbridled pleasure.

I’m just going to say it: this is the best macaroni cheese I’ve ever eaten – better than the macaroni cheese I ate as a child; better than the macaroni cheese I brought my own children up on when they were little (they don’t agree); better than any fancy restaurant macaroni cheese with white truffle or lobster; better than any macaroni cheese I have loved in my life thus far, and there have been many.

I have written a recipe for panettone dressing before: the sweet seasonal fruit bread was cubed, toasted, and mixed with Italian sausage; this is very different, not least because I see it not as an accompaniment to turkey (which has its own interior stuffing) but to be served, at parties or over cocktails, in small squares, like savory brownies. As ever, feel free to substitute the plainer pandoro if you wish, though I do think the rich fruitiness is part of this unconventional appetizer's charm.

As with biscotti there is an undeniable American-Italian influence at play here but, once again, I embrace this. Actually, though, American-Italian food has had its own influence on the cooking of the Old Country: these days, I am reliably informed by my Italian publisher and celebrated food writer, Csaba dalla Zorza, you can find dried cranberries with relative ease in Italy. The true Italian Christmas dinner is very much about the capon. Yes, you can find capons outside of Italy, although not everyone can quite cope with the idea of eating a castrated cockerel. Many understandably view old-school caponization with distaste, although it is considered ethically acceptable if the rooster has been chemically rather than surgically castrated. I don't know about you, but the idea of eating meat that has been flooded with the types of hormones necessarily involved here gives me the willies. Besides, my Christmas Dinner is my Christmas Dinner: unchanging, ritualistic, an intrinsic part of me. When in Rome, and all that, but if I'm cooking at home, I don't fiddle with my time-honored menu. I'm not going to give an evangelical tub-thump about my turkey brining techniques, as I've done enough of that in the past, but I am still open to other ways of celebrating the Big Bird and this recipe is a case in point. For me, it is perfect for any sort of seasonal supper party, but really comes into its own on a buffet table, as it carves fantastically and is as good (maybe even better) cold than hot, so you can make it in advance and then be the world's most unharried host on the night. You need to go to a butcher to get a while breast joint and you need to ask for it to be butterflied and boned and make sure the skin is left on. I know it might sound a bit of a faff, but take it from me that stuffing a while double breast joint is very much easier than stuffing and rolling a single breast joint, as is more commonly found in supermarkets. Basically, all you're doing here is opening out your boneless turkey joint, smothering it with stuffing, and folding it over. What you end up with, for all the ease of its creation, is nothing short of a showstopper.

If you've never encountered struffoli before, they are best described—visually at any rate—as the croquembouche of southern Italy: small dough balls, and I mean really small, the size of marbles, that are deep-fried and then rolled in honey before being assembled into a cone—as in the French piled-up profiteroles model—or a bulging wreath. Since I was taught the recipe by a pair of Calabrian sisters, I make mine as their Mamma makes hers; and this takes the wreath form. I'll be honest: you don't make these because you're seeking some exquisite taste sensation; struffoli are about custom, celebration, and sweetness. This, in effect, is the festive centerpiece of Christmas in the south of Italy. You get a very real sense of this if you make the struffoli not alone, but in company, with other hands to roll out the dough with you. Children love doing this, by the way, and their little hands are much better suited for rolling the small marble-sized dough balls you need. Obviously, children are best kept away from the deep-frying part of the operation. As for the decoration, I've seen not only the regular cake-decorating sprinkles used but also candied fruit, glacé cherries, almond dragées, and cinnamon-preserved pumpkin pieces. It's the former, solely, for me. And although I've seen only the multicolored ones in Italy, I go for the festive and flag-resonant Christmas sprinkles in red, white, and green. The struffoli would look more beautiful, perhaps, left burnished but otherwise unadorned, although gaudiness not elegant restraint—I'm firmly told—is in order here; I have tried to maintain some balance between the two.

Editor's note: The recipe and introductory text below are from Feast: Food to Celebrate Life, by Nigella Lawson. Nothing gives quite the flavor a rib roast does, but I know it's hard to carve. If you get your beef from a butcher, ask him to cut the meat off the bone and then sit or tie it back on, so that you get all the flavor but can slice more easily. Otherwise, go for a boned roast, such as sirloin. For 8 - 10 people you should be fine with 7 lb. Roasting times as for the rib roast still apply.

Editor's note: The recipe below is from Feast: Food to Celebrate Life, by Nigella Lawson.

Editor's note: The recipe and introductory text below are from Feast: Food to Celebrate Life, by Nigella Lawson. While I love a shrimp cocktail, this I think has a slight, elegant edge. The hot, green mustardy horseradish, the wasabi paste, is not so hard to find these days but you could always substitute a small dollop of Colman's English mustard in its place I suppose. Similarly, you could shred some little Boston lettuce should you have difficulty locating the Chinese leaves.

Editor's note: The recipe and introductory text below are from Feast: Food to Celebrate Life, by Nigella Lawson. There is no doubt about it, anything with chestnuts in it, even if they come vacuum-packed or canned and are perennially available, is so right for this time of year. This hums the tune, but in a subtler key. The chestnuts are present, in the form of a gritty, grainy sweetened purée: some to add to the cookie base; some to fold through the plain cheesecake filling before baking; and yet more — well, it is Christmas — to drip in a thick syrup over the cake when served. And yet, you know, the chestnuttiness is not blaring: there is something undeniably festive about this, but not in a full-on, party hat kind of a way. As with all cheesecakes, you need to bake this the day before you want to serve it.

Editor's note: The recipe and introductory text below are from Feast: Food to Celebrate Life, _by Nigella Lawson._I'm not really one for cocktails and pitchers of funny drinks, but I came up with this a few years back and it was so good and the color so festive, I just had to go with it.

Editor's note: The recipe and introductory text below are from Feast: Food to Celebrate Life, by Nigella Lawson. Strictly speaking, I don't think of this as a casserole, but I know that this is the traditional nomenclature; and, besides, I do sometimes serve the beans in one so it seems silly to quibble. This is another recipe I'd never have thought of adding to my Christmas till I started cooking for Thanksgiving, but I love its fresh, citrussy crunch. Actually, all I've done is bring on board an amplification of the way my mother always cooked green beans: just plenty of butter, plenty of pepper, and vicious amounts of lemon.

A good roast potato isn't about showing off or about striving desperately to impress. Nor is it a difficult thing to achieve, but I can't pretend it isn't a high pressure zone. You either get it right or you don't, and anything less than perfect is a disappointment. It's brutal but it's the truth.

While I love a shrimp cocktail, this I think has a slight, elegant edge. The hot, green mustardy horseradish, the wasabi paste, is not so hard to find these days but you could always substitute a small dollop of Colman's English mustard in its place I suppose. Similarly, you could shred some little Boston lettuce should you have difficulty locating the Chinese leaves.

Nigella Lawson If we're talking about family favorites, I couldn't leave liptauer out. It was the deli counter delicacy of my childhood and another eating item I'd all but forgotten about. But something made me remember it, and from taste-memory and some notes from the kitchen book inherited by my friend Olivia from her mother, I tried my hand at making it myself. I can confidently and categorically state that it's not some sentimental yearning that makes me want to see its comeback. You don't need to go in for the retro-molding here, just mix the ingredients and plonk them in a bowl if you like; but whatever, this glorious cream cheese, caper, caraway seed, and paprika combination, spread over sour black bread or — if you don't have the genetic taste for it — over slices of any dark or brown bread that you can get from the supermarket, is rhapsodically unbeatable.

This salad, or some approximation of it, was on [the Rainbow Room's] menu and my mother loved it and made her own version at home regularly. I do, too. Its ingredients list may sound odd, but this is a combination that not only works but becomes addictive. Don't be alarmed at the amount of vinegar: the astringency of the dressing, against the fulsome oiliness of the nuts and, in turn, nutty sweetness of the carrots, is the whole point.

This is a variant on lemon surprise pudding, in which the mixture divides on cooking to produce a sponge above the thick lemony sauce which forms below. Indeed, it is known in my house as Lemon Surprise Pudding, the surprise being that it's chocolate. Although I didn't actually eat this as a child, it is heady with reminders of childhood foods: the hazelnuts in the sponge bring back memories of Nutella, the thick, dark, fudgy sauce of chocolate spread. The proportions below are geared towards 6, but easily feed 8. It's heavenly with fridge-cold heavy cream poured over it. It is also child's play to make. Choose good cocoa and good chocolate and stick carefully to the exact measurements. (You can, though, use 1 2/3 cups flour in place of the 1 1/4 cups flour and 1/2 cup ground nuts, if you prefer increasing the amount of baking powder needed to 1 1/2 teaspoons.) Use one of those standard white soufflé dishes 8 inches in diameter, or a shallow square 12-inch pan. If you've got only a single oven, it makes sense to use the shallow dish: it will take less time to cook.

Having run the cake table at my daughter's school last year, I can say that there are two types of optimum bake sale fare: small, individual pieces that look cute and fetch high unit-prices and sheet cakes that can be made without effort or dexterity and sliced up easily. This recipe fits the latter category and has the added virtue of appealing to parents and grandparents who feel that something from the sale should be gratifyingly old-fashioned. The fresh ginger is a modern touch, admittedly, but I always keep some in the fridge and wanted to try it in a less contemporary, pan-Asian way one day (it worked.) The lemon icing may not be conventional either, but there is another starkly practical reason for it: brown things — if they're not gooily chocolate — don't sell so well; and the lemon spruceness of the topping is perfect with the musky sweetness beneath it.