Olivia Potts

You may be forgiven, if you are a regular reader of this column, for thinking that my primary motivation in cooking is showing off. I’m always banging on about lovely dishes you can serve to unsuspecting guests that will guarantee plaudits and amazement. But while there is more than a kernel of truth in this, I think that it’s actually simpler than that: what I crave from cooking is satisfaction. And I don’t mean satiation of hunger (although that too: I am greedy), but the sense of achievement that cooking – almost – invariably brings. True, this achievement can often be found in presenting a beautiful cake to an assembled group of people, or your new friend saying ‘You know, I think these are the best brownies I’ve ever tried’.

Isn’t it awful that the older you get, the more you know yourself? It’s supposed to be a good thing, attributed to wisdom, experience and a deeper understanding of our place in the world around us. But good lord, self-awareness can be a cruel mistress. I have realised that my greatest culinary goal is simply unachievable. You see, I long to appear effortless. This is true throughout my life, but particularly so when it comes to cooking. Every time I invite friends round for lunch or dinner, I resolve that this is the time when everything will not only be easy but, crucially, I will make it look easy. That I will simply throw something together that everyone will adore; the gathered diners will be equally impressed by the food and by the nonchalance with which I’ve assembled it.

Pub food in Britain has had a mixed reputation over the years. For a long time, the most a pub would have to offer as food would be some pork scratchings or a pickled egg. There certainly wasn’t a brigade of chefs in white coats in a shiny chrome kitchen. This is midweek-teatime cooking, it’s sling-it-in-an-oven cooking, it’s cheer-me-up-quickly cooking Pub grub started to appear in the 1970s, but it was simple, filling and predictable. It was the sort of unpretentious, low-priced food that was suitable for a worker’s lunch break. So up and down the country pub menus all hit the same beats: steak and kidney pie, ham with egg and chips, chilli con carne, fish and chips, even lasagne – and hunter’s chicken.

January kitchens are my favourite. This isn’t anything against Christmas – I love the spice, the frenzy, the ritual of festive cooking, but I also love the aftermath. There’s something calming about the kitchen once it’s all over – nothing is made through obligation, or with a deadline. I embrace the cosiness of autumn and the sparkle of Christmas, but I find the bright, cool light of January reviving and renewing. At this time of year my kitchen is a place to take stock and make stock. To steady and sustain. Proper puddings, hot and sweet and served with cream, are a non-negotiable part of late winter It’s also full of puddings, among other things. Proper puddings, hot and sweet and served with cream, are a non-negotiable part of late winter for me.

For as long as we’ve been serving food, we’ve been unable to resist a bit of culinary deception. Making one thing look like another thing – especially if it makes a sweet thing look savoury or vice versa – seems to have universal comedic value. There’s something Willy Wonka-ish about the visual wrong-footing, the surprise – we find it delightful. I’m not even going to stop you slinging some mini marshmallows in there – it is Christmas, after all There’s a long history here. At medieval and Tudor banquets, the food was entertainment as much as it was sustenance: huge pastries made to look like life-size stags and swans stood alongside carefully carved marzipan fruits, both imitating the real thing as closely as possible.

Sometimes, when it comes to culinary history, Britain is its own worst enemy. For a long time, British food has been seen as a joke among other nations, but also nearer to home. Even when the dishes are near indistinguishable, we’re still happy to poke fun at our own fare: we love panna cotta but laugh at blancmange; we cringe at stew but revere boeuf Bourguignon. They’re the same, but that doesn’t stop us. Where better to showcase the unsung hero braised beef mince than in a beautiful short-crust pie? Mince gets the worst of our inward-turned opprobrium, a leitmotif in our national food anthem. A pot of stewed mince speaks to all that is wrong with British food: staid, bland, brown, probably overcooked and definitely stuck in the 1950s.

I often think of the first time I ate brown bread ice cream. I know how that sounds: it’s the exact sort of pretentious nonsense a food writer would say if they were about to press a recipe for brown bread ice cream on you. But it was long before I became a food bore, and it’s true. I really do think about that first time a lot. Using leftover bread or stale breadcrumbs is the basis for some of our finest puddings I had just moved to London to study law after university, and was about to train as a barrister. I was living in a small flat and surviving on pesto pasta, bowls of cereal and crisps. At that point, going out for dinner probably meant a McDonald’s at the end of a night out. I knew next to nothing about food.

There’s nothing more intriguing than a closely guarded secret recipe. Coca-Cola and KFC are two famous examples, with the precise ingredients for the soda syrup and special coating kept in guarded vaults: the story is that those who hold the information aren’t allowed to travel on the same plane in case of disaster. Lea & Perrins, Angostura Bitters and Chartreuse all keep their products’ make-up secret. Making sure the butter is the brightest of greens is as important as any of the individual components Nobody knows the recipe for oysters Rockefeller – or at least nobody knows the original recipe. It was created in 1889 at Antoine’s restaurant in New Orleans, which still stands today, serving the same classically French food it did back in the 19th century.