The Kitchen Diaries II. Nigel Slater

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      MARCH 7

      A tropical marinade and a shoal of sea bass

      For some time now I have been curious about glass, and why some is more beautiful to look at, and look through, than others. Windows made from old ‘crown’ glass have soft waves and little bubbles, like tiny seeds to catch the light, while drinking glasses that are uneven in the hand, with ripples and furrows, make the water within sparkle. Small things, but they matter to me. I like drinking water from a hand-made tumbler with dimples and folds.

      Aesthetics aside, glass is a useful object in the kitchen because it has a neutral effect on the food we put in it. Unlike aluminium, glass is unaffected by acid ingredients such as rhubarb, lemon and vinegar. Leave a batch of poached rhubarb in a glass bowl and it will taste the same after a night or two in the fridge. Use aluminium and your fruit will have taken on an unpleasant taint from the dish. It is one of the reasons glass has been used for centuries for storing acid-based preserves such as pickles and relishes.

      I also use glass to marinate meat and fish. Not only is it non-reactive but you can see the changes taking place in the food more easily. Make a ceviche in a glass dish and you can see whether the fish has turned opaque from the lime juice. I can’t be the only person who finds measuring liquid in a glass jug more accurate than in one made from china. I particularly like making the classic lemon surprise pudding in a Pyrex bowl so I can see the distinct layers of sponge and lemon sauce.

      Today I work on a recipe for a television programme for next Christmas (such is the life of a cookery writer). It is not my recipe, but comes via The Rebel Dining Society. It’s fresh, clean, smart and uses up the rest of the passion fruit.

      A ceviche of sea bass and passion fruit

      passion fruit: 4

      limes: 2

      an orange

      a vanilla pod

      sea bass fillets: 4

      a red chilli

      a small yellow or orange chilli

      chives: 4 or 5, snipped into short pieces

      coriander leaves: a small handful

      Squeeze the juice of the passion fruit, seeds and all, plus the limes and the orange into a bowl. Scrape in the seeds of the vanilla pod and mix gently.

      Skin the sea bass fillets, then cut the flesh into thin slivers and arrange them neatly on a large plate or in a glass bowl. Pour over the juice, almost submerging the fish. Scatter over very fine slices of red and yellow chilli and cover the plate with a piece of cling film. The sea bass will be ‘cooked’ by the acidity in the dressing, so leave in the fridge for a good three or four hours or even overnight. Scatter the chives and coriander leaves over the fish and serve.

      Enough for 4 as part of a light lunch

      MARCH 8

      A jar of capers

      The door of the fridge holds many treasures, but mostly rows of opened jars. Today the list is typical: a bottle of Vietnamese chilli paste, a block of tamarind, two packets of butter, a tube of harissa paste and another of wasabi, a bottle of damson gin and a jar of damson jam, two opened jars of marmalade, four bottles of tonic water, a bottle of apple juice I use for my breakfast smoothies, a bottle of Vietnamese fish sauce and another of rice wine, four bottles of sparkling Norwegian mineral water and a jar of salted capers. Of course, the capers don’t need refrigerating, but the oversized fridge has become the modern-day larder.

      Capers generally come in brine or salt. The latter is considered to be better, mostly because the capers are plumper and, although salty, the seasoning stays on the outside and can be washed off – unlike the brined version, where the capers soak up the salt-water solution like little sponges. Their qualities of sourness and salt tend to polarise people, but they are without doubt one of the most used seasonings in my kitchen, finding their way into sauces for steak and fish, a dressing for many a salad, and tossed with warm, partially melted butter for a pasta sauce.

      The caper is the cook’s first call for piquancy. Bitter, sharp and salty, it has the ability to bring out the flavour of any ingredient it is partnered with. A dull nugget that makes other flavours shine. Generally, I suggest a caper is only warmed, never cooked, as it can become inedibly bitter, though once it is dunked in a pool of tomato sauce on a pizza the average caper is probably fairly safe.

      The caper is a flower bud, pickled or salted before it becomes a small, creamy-white flower. Italian ones are probably the best known but they are grown in Morocco and Turkey too. Caper berries, incidentally, are fatter than capers – almost the size of an olive – and are eaten with their stalk, with a distinctive crunch to them. They are the fruit of the caper bush that is produced after the buds have flowered.