Hello again dear Platform 13 readers. Is it December already? Wow. . where did the year go? Christmas ... Some, like my husband Kris, just don't like it, but most people love that dark period of the year where lights and candles shine and give us a special feeling. Our eldest son especially loves this time of the year, just because of the lights everywhere. On the streets, in the gardens strung around the house … For me Christmas always has been a family thing. Being togethe

OK.. I will admit, I did not know that was what a pre-picked lentil looked like. Which got me thinking around what else I did not know about lentils - and don't imagine I am suicidally bored, or at the wrong end of a bag of California's finest gummies. There is always a tin in the cupboard, thanks to Vanessa, who will gleefully stir them into to pretty much anything. I saw lentils more as a food to be consumed when all else is gone. When the sirens blast, sending us scurrying

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There are few ingredients as humbly useful as the onion. It appears in every kitchen, at every stage of unprompted regrowth and under every list of ingredients. Raw and sharp in summer salads, melted and brown in winter stews, or quietly working in the background of rich sauces, often without due credit. The French don’t just cook with onions — they have built the entirety of French cuisine around them. France grows more onions than any other country in Europe, and you can ta

Golden apples. The asteroid-like quince is the last fruit to ripen - the one that waits until the year breathes out. Hard and bitter when raw, it softens only through patience and care. Once sacred to Aphrodite, it remains a quiet symbol of transformation: if you take your time, you'll get your reward. It's not the best looking fruit in the orchard, but nature is not so bothered with looks. Perfect imperfection is sometimes just right. The quince is a golden relic of autumn t

Ah, the walnut tart - that quietly confident dessert that needs neither hot custard nor sticky jam to make its entrance. Born in the hills and valleys of southwest France, it’s what happens when fistfulls of rural walnuts meet a good curl of butter, a wide ribbon of cream and a decent crackle of sugar. No drama, no tiers, no soufflé to collapse — just a golden crust holding everything in perfect balance. There’s an elegance to it, though not the fluffy, Parisian sort. It’s th

Let’s start with the obvious: the French eat. With butter, with wine, with joy. Meanwhile, across the channel or indeed the big pond, we seem to eat with an undercurrent of apology. We talk about “being good” when we skip dessert, or “cheating” when we don’t — as if a pastry were a moral failing. Somewhere between the calorie counter and the confession booth, food stopped being nourishment and became a referendum on self-control, by which we often judge ourselves unkindly Thi