Rachel Roddy’s recipe for lamb ragu with pasta

As my butcher bones out a leg of lamb and cuts the meat into pieces with a precise “thwack thwack”, or joints a chicken, we talk. About the lamb or chicken; how old it is and where it came from; the nature of the cut and the goodness of fat. We talk about what I plan to do with whatever I have bought when I get home. She is generous with advice when I ask for it, in that moment shifting roles from butcher to the sort of confident home cook who inspires trust. We also talk about being the mums of difficult eight-year-old boys, and swing between big headlines and the minutiae of every day: dry hands and cold mornings.

Manuela’s hands are worth watching: like her brother, mother and grandmother before her, she is incredibly skilled, with the strength of a lumberjack and the precision of a surgeon. The other day she cut a gallina (boiling fowl) in half to reveal eggs; one almost at full size in its opaque sack, the rest a bunch, like tiny grapes, only bright yellow. It was a shock, to be honest; I wanted to turn away. It was Manuela’s reaction that made me turn back, her practical admiration of the animal before her and then the way she carefully cut away the cluster of eggs and lifted them into a tub and told me to poach them in the broth I was about to make. Again, I was shocked by her suggestion; the familiar comfort of my morning shop and cooking plans disturbed by the reality of the meat I chose to eat.

It was the same the other day as she carefully boned a leg of lamb and reminded me that the animal was four months old. But then, as she worked carefully, her knife easing the meat from the bone, we talked about the trusted farm the animal came from and how the price reflects the nature of the way that farm works. In that moment, I was reminded of Hattie Ellis’ book What to Eat?, and her reminder that meat is not just any food, but a tricky business that requires much self-questioning; that it should be more of a cherished treat than convenience.

There is convenience, though, in having a butcher bone and dice your lamb. More convenient is the rosemary bush in the park on the way home, when the one on the windowsill has not survived the winter. As well as resinous rosemary and sweet marjoram, this week’s recipe for lamb ragù includes sage, whose domineering and musty scent and astringent flavour are well matched by the rich and distinct braised lamb.

The recipe has much in common with the classic Roman abbacchio alla cacciatora, lamb hunter’s-style – so braised with wine and many herbs. Today’s version also contains tomato and chilli, and is cooked until soft and collapsed enough to use as a pasta sauce for both dried shapes – rigatoni, paccheri or conchiglioni – and fresh ones – tagliatelle, pappardelle or gnocchi.

As my pan of ragù splutters and burps like a drunkard, I pull What to Eat? from the shelf and re-read Hattie’s conclusions to the meat chapter. She suggests that if we choose to eat it, we should eat less but better quality. That, when we can, we should shop at butchers and visit farms; meat is a privilege and a pleasure.

Lamb ragù

Prep 15 min
Cook 1 hr 30 min
Serves 4

1 onion, peeled and finely diced
1 small carrot, peeled and finely diced
1 stick celery, finely diced
6 tbsp olive oil
2 sprigs marjoram
2 sprigs rosemary
8 sage leaves
Salt and pepper
450g boneless lamb suitable for stewing, cut into 2cm cubes
200ml white wine
1 x 400g tin peeled plum tomatoes
1 small dried red chilli
500g pasta (rigatoni, paccheri, tagliatelle, pappardelle)
1 handful grated pecorino

Put the diced onion, carrot, celery and olive oil in a large, heavy-based pan. Finely mince half of each of the herbs and add to the pan along with a pinch of salt. Gently fry over a low heat until soft and fragrant – about seven minutes.

Raise the heat a little, add the lamb, and cook, stirring, until browned on all sides. Raise the heat another notch, add the wine and let it bubble for two minutes.

Add the tomatoes, remaining whole herbs, chilli and a good pinch of salt, lower the heat, cover and simmer gently for an hour and a quarter, lifting the lid to stir from time to time and adding more wine if it seems dry.

Toward the end of cooking time, cook the pasta in plenty of fast-boiling salted water. Drain, tip into a bowl, sprinkle over a handful of grated pecorino, tip on the sauce, toss well and serve immediately, handing round more cheese to top.

Rachel Roddy’s recipe for mushroom and herb tagliatelle

My brother was more or less the age my son is now – six – when my friend and I fed him mushroom soup. As eight-year-old foragers, we had found a cluster of mushrooms under a tree in the wild untended bit at the bottom of the garden. Seeing no red cap or alarming spots, we deemed them edible and picked them. We had also found a handful of blackberries and something suitably herby, so we put all three in warm water, stirred, then fed our soup to Ben behind the sofa. Ben went yellow and cried for mum, who asked us calmly what we had done while her eyes gave away her pure and absolute panic.

It turned out they were only mildly nauseating, and Ben was fine. The adults, though, were not. So traumatised were they that they didn’t even shout. Instead, we were given the most earnest talking to. Did we know how serious this was? Had we any idea what could have happened? I did. Despite our sibling rivalry, I did not want to murder my younger brother; a crime sure to make the front of the local paper. We were made to promise we would never pick mushrooms again. As yet, I haven’t.

I know a man who does, though. At this time of year, as autumn seeps slowly into the air and I celebrate my birthday, I hope to get a call from a friend telling me her dad has been on one of his quiet and determined hunts in the chestnut woods just outside Rome. The Boletus edulis, or porcini, arrive wrapped in a cloth, their swollen stems like fat babies’ legs, their caps the colour of ruddy chestnuts. The flesh is quite unique – thick and nutty with a rich, almost custard-like quality about it, which is why they are so good when fried or grilled. Porcini dry beautifully, and make superb wild gifts preserved and stored in packets ready to be soaked back to life, and give flavour and moral support to meals or cultivated mushrooms.

Despite the sofa incident, I am very fond of mushroom soup, especially the Jane Grigson/Elizabeth David recipe, also mushroom risotto and anchovy, and mushroom eggs. For all these recipes, I use cultivated mushrooms, bolstering with wild when I can, either fresh or from a packet. A favourite way to prepare mushrooms, though, both wild and tame, is to fry them in a mixture of olive oil and butter, along with garlic and plenty of finely chopped herbs. It is a straightforward way, but one that seems to bring out the flavour and texture of mushrooms most beautifully. It is a dish for the whole year, but autumn is when it seems most appropriate, as cooking slows down, and the olive oil rich dishes of the summer demand a little butter. Or in this case, a lot of butter! Mushrooms take and give: soaking up fat, but then giving back in the form of intensely flavoured gravy, which you can reduce. Mushrooms prepared this way are delicious on toast, but also stirred through pasta for an extremely satisfying and tasty supper dish.

The ideal pasta for these mushrooms is pappardelle – wide ribbons of fresh egg pasta that cook into an almost fabric-like silkiness and so wrap themselves around pieces of mushroom while collecting buttery sauce and flecks of herbs. Alternatively, tagliatelle works well, too. In either case, homemade – I use 100g of flour and one egg per person – or dried pasta both work.

If you are lucky enough to know how to forage, collect as many edible varieties as you can. Alternatively, buy a selection of cultivated mushrooms – button, chestnut, oyster – and bolster with a packet of dried porcini. In their recipe for mushroom pasta, Oretta Zanini De Vita and Maureen B Fant note the herbs should remind you of being lost in the woods, and suggest a mixture of parsley, thyme and oregano, which do indeed seem like somewhere wild and bosky rising up out of the pan. They also describe mushrooming in autumn in Italy, the quiet clamber on inhospitable slopes, the torn skin and clothing that arise from getting the best specimens. I like these words around a recipe, they remind me of my own childhood adventure – however misguided – and make me wonder if this is the year I might try mushroom hunting again.

Pasta with mushrooms and herbs
Serves 4
25g dried porcini
800g mushrooms, mixed varieties, wild or cultivated
4 tbsp olive oil
120g butter
2 garlic cloves, peeled and finely chopped
Salt and black pepper
Parsley, oregano and thyme, finely chopped
450g dried long pasta (ideally pappardelle or tagliatelle)
Parmesan, grated

1 Soak the porcini in warm water for 30 minutes, then drain, reserving the liquid. Clean the other mushrooms by brushing away any mud and then wiping the cap and stem with a damp cloth. Cut all the cleaned mushrooms into slices; not too thin. Put a large pan of well-salted water on to boil in preparation for cooking the pasta.

2 In a large frying pan, heat the oil and butter. Once the butter is foaming gently, add the garlic and fry for a few minutes. Add the porcini and cook for another minute to combine the flavours. Add the fresh mushrooms. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and cook, stirring occasionally, for 5–6 minutes, or until the mushrooms have released their water and are tender and glistening. Add a little of the porcini liquid and let it all bubble for another minute to reduce, then sprinkle with the herbs.

3 Meanwhile, cook the pasta until al dente. Drain and toss with the mushrooms. Divide between bowls and serve, passing around grated cheese for those who want it.