INTRODUCTION
As a first-generation Brit, born to Bangladeshi immigrant parents, I grew up in a household where family was not just your mother, father and siblings, but also the grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, first-, second-, third-, fourth-cousins and even the neighbours. Everyone was family. If you knew us – or knew our father – you were family. It was an open-door policy in our home. If my parents were cooking and the smell wafted out of the kitchen window, then you were welcome.
For me growing up, the food I ate was the only food I knew of. Forget shopping lists, or menus, or special events – food for us was the excitement my dad felt when he walked through the door with a freshly bought tiger fish on his shoulder. It cost him a week’s wages but it reminded him of home. In our family, Dad was the daydreamer.
For me growing up, food was about my mother sitting on the floor with her sisters-in-law, parcelling samosas, heavy work for one day making light work for the month, thirsty work equalling thrifty work. In our family, Mum was the workforce.
For me growing up, food was about visiting my sick brother in hospital and watching him sip a dense, murky cocoa drink to build up his strength while the rest of us ate fish and chips at the end of his hospital bed. Him watching us with sad eyes, desperate to eat real food, dreaming of mum’s chicken and cabbage curry. Similarly, it was watching my poorly sister come round from her anaesthetic and knowing she craved the sweet taste of the fruit squash she wasn’t allowed, while we sat by her bedside quenching our own thirst with flat, sugary Lucozade. The bitter with the sweet. She waited weeks to enjoy a spoonful of our sweet, scented vermicelli for breakfast. My brother and sister were the cravers of comfort and home.
The rest of us were lucky. Lucky to be at home, lucky to be able to eat whatever my nan cooked while my parents sat by hospital beds. My food shaped my world, like everyone else’s does theirs, creating unique memories for each of us individually. My food was full to the brim with colour, bursting at the seams with laughter, waiting at the door in anticipation, overflowing with happiness, seasoned with a measure of sadness.
At home, we lived on rice and curries. Not just any old rice and curry, but some of the most beautifully cooked, elegantly spiced curries I have ever eaten. Always filled with Asian vegetables that had a carbon footprint as hefty as the receipts my dad came home with. Rice and curry after school every night. Rice and curry for lunch on the weekend and the same again for dinner. We didn’t know any different so we never complained. We ate in congregation on the floor and we ate with our hands, all five fingers stained and scented with turmeric.
During term time, school lunches were a world away from the meals we loved at home. We used knives and forks to eat, filling up on pizza, chips, beans, burger, mashed potatoes and peas (not all at once, though sometimes I wished it could be!), followed by apple crumble, cake, tarts, biscuits and every colour of custard you can think of.
The food of my childhood was a collision of two worlds. The curry, the pink custard, the switch between hands and cutlery. British food to me was everything I ate, because I was British and therefore it followed that whatever I ate must also be British. It was only when I discovered the freedom of a driving licence and a clapped-out Renault Clio that I realized the world was bigger than my parents’ kitchen and the confines of the school canteen. I discovered food magazines, supermarket aisles, takeaways (real-life food that we didn’t have to cook ourselves), markets, restaurants, food stalls, Chinese supermarkets and online shopping!
Since then, I have asked myself the same question I ask even now. What is British food? Is it a fixed set of recipes? Is it the curry I grew up on? Is something British if you pour custard over it? Is it British if you eat it with cutlery? Is it really just full English breakfasts, roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, fish and chips? Type ‘what is British cuisine?’ into a search engine and it will tell you simply that it is ‘a set of cooking traditions and practices associated with the United Kingdom’. And yet how can something so vast and varied be described in just a few vague sentences, which barely scratch the surface of its depth and complexity?
British food today is a melting pot, a bubbling mixture of cuisines that have been stirred together as people from different cultures all around the world have settled here or passed through, introducing their own colours, their own recipes, their little culinary gems, their secrets, their flavours from far and wide. Over the years, Britain has welcomed Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Mexican, Caribbean, Chinese, Indian, Turkish, African, Arabic, Thai, Korean, Australian and North American immigrants, to list but a few, along with their ideas, influences and ingredients. This is the Britain I recognize, and the one that I set out to discover through the recipes in this book, a diverse land that I know best through the food that I have eaten and the dishes that I have come to love, and which I cook over and over again.
We never travelled much in the UK as children, but since having my own kids I have discovered nooks and crannies that I never knew existed, and so my children’s ‘Britain’ is quite different to the one I grew up believing in. Writing this book has allowed me to travel even further, seeking out the hidden gems of the country I call my home, meeting exciting people who grow and farm our food, as well as innovators who have exceeded expectations, pushed boundaries and overcome adversity with their stories of imagination and hard work. These forward-thinking people are the true face of British food today, and you’ll get to know some of them in my TV series, Nadiya’s British Food Adventure. Meanwhile, the recipes I’ve collected together in this book will take you on a unique journey through the UK, celebrating the many culinary influences that have shaped us, and letting you taste for yourself the food and flavours that represent the real and diverse Britain that I know and love.
This book takes you through each mealtime of the day, with recipes for hearty breakfasts and brunches, speedy lunches and easy midweek meals, as well as dishes you’ll love to cook when having friends over, fun ideas for parties, comforting everyday puddings and extra-special desserts. Recipes such as Masala Eggy Bread, Ploughman’s Cheese & Pickle Tart, Chilli Lasagne, Minted Lamb & Apple Pasties, Fish Pie with Cinnamon Sweet Potato, Easy Chicken Tikka Masala, Fennel Welsh Cakes, Malt Tiffin, Mango & Passionfruit Jam Roly-Poly, and Eton Mess Cheesecake are just a small taster of the 120 recipes that are proudly nestled in this book and which together reflect my food journey.
My Britain is many things. It’s thanks to a father – the daydreamer – who worked tirelessly to bring a bit of Bangladesh to his growing expat family. It’s down to a mother – the workforce – whose greatest skill, still, is feeding us into oblivion, no matter how hard she has to work to do it. It was shaped by a brother and sister who longed to be at home, craving comfort in a bowl of solid food, because mother’s food, whatever it was, meant home. It is two culinary worlds that collided spectacularly to create a grey area that is more colourful than a rainbow, with a pot of sprinkles at the end of it!
This is the Britain that I recognize and the Britain that I know so many other people will relate to. A Britain we should all be proud of, for the diversity that it offers through the food it has welcomed and the worlds it has joined together. This is not just my Britain, this is OUR Britain. Let’s feast our eyes and appetites on the amazing food it has to offer.
CARDAMOM BANANA DROP SCONES
My children often begin the mornings with a sweet breakfast revolution, chanting, ‘Pancakes, pancakes, pancakes,’ until I drag myself out of bed. Believe me, this is no fun at 6 a.m. on a Sunday, but on the weekends the kids do tend to get their way and I often make these easy banana drop scones. (On a rushed weekday, it’s rice puffs with honey. So I can see why we have revolution two days out of seven!) These are like little baby pancakes with a hidden gem inside, and are so simple to make that it’s win-win for everyone. As an extra treat I make this fragrant cardamom caramel to go with them.
1. First make the caramel. If your sugar is lumpy, rub it between your fingers to break up any big bits. Put the sugar and butter into a small pan and place on a medium heat. Cook for a few minutes, stirring all the time. As soon as the sugar has melted, take the pan off the heat.
2. Add the cream and cardamom and stir until it is all well combined. Set the caramel aside while you make the drop scones.
3. Place the flour, salt and sugar in a bowl and give it all a quick mix. Make a well in the centre and add the egg. Again, mix that in.
4. Stir in half the milk and you should get a thick paste. Add the rest of the milk and the mixture will slacken slightly, though it should still be thick. Perfect for dropping scones!
5. Put half the butter into a frying pan and place on a medium heat. Once it has melted, place the banana slices in the pan, well spaced out. Work in batches – I can fit about 6 slices in a 28cm pan.
6. Place a tablespoon of the drop scone mixture on top of each banana slice and leave to cook slowly on a medium to low heat for 4 minutes. The top layer should be covered in bubbles.
7. When the tops look less liquid and more set, turn them over with a spatula and cook for a further 3 minutes.
8. Once the drop scones are cooked, keep them warm on a plate, covered with foil, while you cook the second batch.
9. Gently reheat the caramel and serve generously alongside the warm drop scones.
Tip: If you can’t find ground cardamom, crush 8 cardamom pods in a pestle and mortar or a spice grinder, discard the green pods, then grind the seeds to a fine powder.
