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A guest at our restaurant recently told me about her mother’s seasonal side hustle, though no one would have dared call it that out loud: in the weeks before Christmas, she became a quiet merchant of puddings. The proper kind of pudding, too: all dense but not leaden, heavy with prunes and warm with careful spicing.
As December crept in, forgotten cousins and semi-estranged uncles seemed to find reasons to drop by her place. She never advertised the fact, of course, but everyone knew that if you came bearing even a modest offering, you might just leave with a pudding wrapped in waxed paper and still warm with possibility. The exchanges were subtle. One neighbour would “pop by for coffee” and just happen to bring two dozen mince pies; a friend would promise to collect the Christmas turkey from the butcher and bring it round, saving this lady the schlep across town. Nothing was said, no ledger kept, but the pudding always travelled in the right direction.
I love this kind of seasonal bartering, not least because these edible interactions manage to bypass the digital world entirely. In an age where every conversation seems to take place on a screen and every relationship is fodder for some Silicon Valley metric, these small, delicious acts feel almost rebellious. We know we can count on the huge annual box of savoury nibbles from our nut suppliers, the one that keeps us and our guests going long after the last table has staggered home. And every year our neighbour’s daughter leaves a carefully wrapped block of Christmas cake by our door, shyly anonymous except for the neat handwriting on the label.
Another treat we look forward to every year is Fuchsia Dunlop’s Christmas email – yes, it’s technically digital, but it feels edible. Each year she bakes something extraordinary and sends out a picture, along with a quiet, thoughtful story and her wishes for the season. Even though we can’t exactly eat it, the flavour is all there.
We try to do our part, too. Every December, we offer the subscribers on our mailing list something different. Usually, that means some gingerbread tiles or chocolate from Ocelot, both of which are very letterbox-friendly. One year, after service, we made a gingery quince chutney from whatever happened to be lurking in the kitchen, jarred it in a sleepy haze and sent it out into the world. We got more requests for the recipe for that than anything else we’ve ever done, but we couldn’t share it because none of us could remember what we’d put in it.
In much the same festive spirit, last weekend our friends at the Fine Cider Company came to our Christmas makers’ market with some seriously delicious things to drink – so delicious, in fact, that this year we may well give champagne a miss and take up sparkling cider as our celebratory tipple; we may also take ice cider over the annual obligatory port. For more cider-centric inspiration, check out Thomasina Miers’ feature on cocktails in Feast, free with the Guardian this Saturday and on the Feast app.
It’s comforting to think that this kind of tiny ecosystem – this gentle, edible economy of gifts and favours – still exists. A community, I think it’s called: look after yours, and it’ll look after you. To feed your community with edible gifts, here are a few of our tried-and-tested favourites, and some we would absolutely love to receive.
My week in food
A winter fruit to savour | Persimmon season is always very exciting for us, but we seem to be almost alone in appreciating this glorious fruit. The question people always ask is: “But what do you do with it?” The simple answer is: just eat it and enjoy its sweet glory! And if you really need something more elaborate, try a simple salad. Mix slices of good winter tomatoes, chopped celery and sliced persimmons with as much chilli as you can take and as much coriander as you have in the house. Season with salt, orange juice and olive oil, and enjoy the best, most joyous winter salad. You can also experiment with Nigel Slater’s persimmon and papaya salad or try Rachel Roddy’s warming apple, pear and persimmon crumble. Next time you see them in the shops (they also go under the name of kaki fruit), put some in your cart.
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Sunday lunch … better! | Moro on Exmouth Market in central London has long been one of mine and Sarit’s favourite places to eat out – and it has just got that bit more wonderful. Somewhat secretly, in September they started a Sunday lunch club that offers a set menu with a Sunday roast vibe, but done the Moro way. And it looks as if the secret is well and truly out, because when we went recently, the room was buzzing with very happy diners.
Look sharp | We absolutely cannot justify the purchase of yet another luxury, artisan-made knife for our kitchen at home, but we know ourselves, and we are weak, so I fully expect that, before the end of the month, we will surrender and succumb to one of the stunning blades made by Two Sticks Forge. After all, when something is so beautiful and so useful, there is no risk of buyer’s remorse
A night of eastern promise | It has been way too long since our formative trip to Japan, and we’ve been aching to go back ever since, but in the meantime we are definitely down for Tokyo Nights, an immersive Japanese night of sumo, sake and sushi, next June. Not a cheap night out by any means, but cheaper than the cost of the air fare – plus we’ll be home by 10pm, which in our book is always a good night.
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