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Turnips

I got off to a good start with turnips, thanks to an alcoholic chef called Monsieur Bastard. He owned the restaurant at the end of the French village my family decamped to every spring and autumn. The evening we arrived we invariably ate at The Ariana. The first spoonful of M. Bastard’s vegetable soup signalled the proper start of the holiday, and we cheered whenever jambon aux navets appeared on the menu. I still salivate at the thought of that thick slice of fine French ham and tender, glazed turnips that surrounded it.

Not everyone is so lucky. Bad turnips are enough to dismay the most ardent of vegetable eaters, let alone youngsters who are just embarking, often against their will, on the road to vegetable-appreciation. Or not. Which is a shame, because at their best turnips are downright sexy. Not the hefty, awkward lumps shrouded in tough green and grey skin fit only to be fed to cattle, not humans. No, I’m talking about the cute sorts of turnip: smaller than a tennis ball, with a handsome flush of pink or purple, waxy, tender skin and crisp white flesh.

The trouble is that the ideal turnip, sold marble-sized in fetching bunches, is horribly expensive and far too rare – good arguments for growing your own, so that you can enjoy them as fresh as can be. Failing that, you must regard turnips as a rare indulgence, especially if you have children. Never force-feed them rank monster turnip in the hopes that they will eventually grow to enjoy it. They won’t. They’ll probably never eat turnip again. Instead, restrain your turnip intake to once or twice a year, only when you can buy and cook small, sexy turnips that will tempt one and all.

Practicalities

BUYING

Turnips must, must, must be eaten young and impeccably fresh. Over-large or stale turnips are a penance we could all do without. Beauty is for once a reliable guide. Look for pert small turnips, prettily blushed with pale purple or pink, over pearly white skin. Medium-sized green and white turnips are just about acceptable, but big bruisers are to be avoided unless you are a masochist. Only buy turnips, even the most perfect little darlings, when you are sure that you will be eating them within the next 48 hours.

COOKING

Extra small turnips (think quail’s egg or walnut-sized), bunched together fetchingly, are the ne plus ultra, the apex of deliciousness. Don’t muck around with them – just trim the stems off a centimetre from the base, rinse well, nip off thready rootlets, then steam or blanch whole in lightly salted water for a few minutes until tender-crisp. Well drained and served immediately, they need no embellishment at all. If you want a dab of butter, fine, but it really isn’t necessary. There’s only one more complex dish that I’d recommend using them for, and that’s a navarin printanier, the remarkable French stew of spring lamb and baby vegetables in a creamy sauce. Otherwise, leave them alone.

As they mature, the turnip flavour matures too and the outer skin toughens. As they approach tennis-ball size, they will probably need to be peeled. Before that it isn’t necessary unless the skin is discoloured. Raw turnip is rarely used in salads, which is a shame, as it has a pleasing crisp juiciness – try it thinly sliced in the Malaysian rujak on page 121, for instance, or tossed with crisp sweet lettuce leaves, thinly sliced eating apple and walnuts in a lemony dressing.

Medium turnips are open to more adventurous approaches, as long as they do not include a crude white sauce, which does nothing for them. I often roast them with a little olive oil, or serve steamed or boiled turnip quarters sprinkled with a gremolata (a very finely chopped blend of lemon zest, parsley and garlic), or drizzled with bright green parsley and basil oil (literally a little olive, sunflower or avocado oil liquidised with a handful of tender herb leaves).

As they swell up, you: a) will have to peel off the tough skin, and b) would be well advised to blanch the turnips before finishing the cooking. In other words, cut the turnip into cubes or slices and drop into boiling water for 3 minutes or so, before draining thoroughly. This softens the less appealing aromas, without destroying the flavour or texture completely. Finish off the cooking when needed by sautéing them in butter or, better still, glazing them, for which I give a recipe overleaf.

Glazed turnips with orange and honey

There are many ways to glaze a turnip. The simplest is to finish the cooked turnips in butter and sugar, stirring them over a moderate heat until the sugar dissolves, and the turnips begin to colour. This recipe brings orange juice and honey into play as well.

Serves 4

500g (1 lb 2oz) medium turnips

finely grated zest of 1/2 orange

juice of 1 large orange

30g (1oz) butter

1 tablespoon light runny honey

salt and pepper

Peel the turnips and cut into 2cm (³/₄ in) cubes. Blanch in boiling water for 3 minutes, then drain thoroughly. Wipe out the saucepan and return the turnips to it, adding all the remaining ingredients together with a splash of water. Return to a moderate heat and stir until the butter has melted. Simmer, stirring frequently, until the liquid has all evaporated, leaving the turnips glossy with their buttery, orange glaze. Serve swiftly.

Torshi lift Turnip and beetroot pickles

I love the habit, at some North African restaurants, of bringing a plate of raw vegetables, olives and pickles to nibble on while you wait for the food. Very civilised, and naturally far better for you than stuffing in slices of bread and butter. I grab the startlingly pink crescents of pickled turnip – torshi lift – first. This pickle is crisp and juicy and very more-ish (as well as being Moorish). The colour comes from the inclusion of a few slices of beetroot, but the base flavour is the sweet, juicy, raw turnip. It doesn’t take long to make, and is a good addition to a plate of charcuterie, or served with cheese at the end of a meal.

Fills a 1 litre (1³/₄ pint) jar

1kg (21/4 lb) small/medium turnips

1 large raw beetroot

4 cloves garlic, thinly sliced

a small bunch of celery leaves

4 tablespoons sea salt

350ml (12floz) white wine vinegar

Peel the turnips and cut them in halves or quarters, depending on their size. Peel the beetroot, cut it in half and slice. Pack into sterilised preserving jars (see page 215), alternating layers of turnip and beetroot and interspersing with garlic slices and celery leaves.

Mix the salt with 1 litre (1³/₄ pints) water in a saucepan and bring up to the boil, stirring until the salt has dissolved. Add the vinegar, stir and then pour over the vegetables, making sure that they are completely submerged. Seal with non-corrosive lids.

Store in a warm (not hot) place – say a shelf in the kitchen. Leave them alone for 10–12 days. Once they are slightly softened and suffused with pink, move the jars to a cool place, where they will keep happily for a month or so.