Author Nigella Lawson connects with memories through cooking

After writing 12 cookbooks, it would be understandable if Nigella Lawson feels pressure to be ever-more inventive with her dishes.

Surely the cover photo for her latest project, “Cook, Eat, Repeat,” should be something grand, ambitious and fittingly dramatic for a British author who has built a successful career as an award-winning food journalist and international TV cooking show host.

Except that the featured dish on the cover is fish sticks — yes, the humble food usually reserved for children, not even handmade here, but acceptably baked straight from a freezer box. Because as Lawson’s message for this book reminds us, sometimes the most simple, nostalgic foods make us happiest.

“The point of cooking is to use what you have on hand and create something that gives joy and sustains you,” she said in a recent Zoom interview. “It isn’t about whether this is the sort of ingredient I think is elegant enough. It’s about real life.”

Of course, Lawson has an unusual take on fish sticks. She makes them into bohrta, a Bangladeshi dish usually made with mashed eggplant, mustard and chiles. She tosses the crispy planks with sauteed onions, lime, ginger, spinach and fresh coriander, then tops it all in crisp, pickled pink onions.

Elsewhere in “Cook, Eat, Repeat,” she admits she flat out loves fish sticks, often tucked between store-bought sliced white bread, or for a fancier bite, slabs of her home-baked loaf made with white bread flour and spoiled milk.

“Two pieces of this old-fashioned sandwich loaf, both spread with squirty Japanese mayo and my fermented hot sauce, the crunch of iceberg lettuce and fish sticks between them, is my idea of heaven when I’m harried, hungry and have no time to cook,” she writes. “If you’d asked me any time up until recently whether I’d ever thought I’d bring out a book with a fish finger recipe in it, I’d have been fairly certain the answer would be no. (But they are) my absolute go-to when the need for vibrant sustenance and delicious comfort hits.”

On Wednesday, Nov. 16, Lawson comes to Luther Burbank Center for the Arts in Santa Rosa, where she’ll share more of the stories behind the 150-plus recipes she created and the inspiration for her narrative essays about her relationship with food.

“Cooking is a personal, intuitive and connecting process,” she said. “It’s such an important part of communicating with people.”

We interviewed Lawson in advance of her 16-city U.S. book tour, which kicks off Nov. 7 in Boston.

Question: With so many cookbooks in your collection, what inspired this latest?

Answer: Everyone always thinks this is a lockdown cookbook because of its title, since after all, cook-eat-repeat was exactly what people were doing when they couldn’t go out.

But actually this is a pre-pandemic project, even though I wrote it mostly during lockdown. I had put together many of the recipes before, but I had to get rid of some and create other ones, because you have to write about the time you’re in. This was my way of talking to people — the words on the pages and the memories of the dishes kept me company for months.

Q: You lace so many delightful, extra recipes throughout, casually presented as suggestions. For example, in your “A Is For Anchovy” chapter you write, “Eggs and anchovies are the perfect union. I am always happy to add my breakfast poached egg to toast slathered in butter and striated with anchovy fillets ... and dotted with a jaunty sprinkle of capers. But you could go one step further and whip some butter, pepper, a little lemon zest and anchovy fillets together in a small bowl, if you’re feeling fierce in the morning. Spread this over hot toast (I recommend rye, or really any bread that’s tangy and hearty) and top with a poached egg or a peeled and smushed boiled one.” What made you think to write this way?

A: I know that my books tend to be slightly idiosyncratic, and chapters are often based on an idea or an ingredient or an argument, not necessarily according to where they fit in the course of a meal. But I think that’s a way we can only ever have our voice, and that’s important for those like me who write about our own food. I’m not a chef, you see. I came to it as a journalist, and it’s the writing and the words I like. I want to chat about the food, not just list instructions.

Q: Anchovies — you call them the bacon of the sea. The little fish are so popular in America all of a sudden. Why do you think it’s taken us so long to discover them?

A: I think it’s largely because we often didn’t get very good anchovies in America and the U.K. And that perhaps people often felt that using things out of tins or jars wasn’t what real cooks did. But actually that’s not true, and cooks nearly always love anchovies because they’re accessible and they create such flavor. They do bring saltiness but not as much saltiness as people dread. In fact, what they bring is depth. There’s a real richness they can lead to a dish. They can be quite transformative.

Q: You wrote a chapter declaring “Death to the Guilty Pleasure.” What made you think about that?

A: People always ask me — nearly all women — what is your guilty pleasure? And I just feel, why are you making me feel guilty? If I want a fried chicken sandwich, I want to feel inordinately blessed that I can eat that, and it’s wonderful, and I love it. I’m not going to eat 3 pounds of mac and cheese every day. It’s not about that mindless overeating; it’s about really enjoying each opportunity of eating, and not banishing things because you feel someone’s going to judge you.

Q: And tell me about the chapter titled “A Loving Defence of Brown Food,” for dishes like your Oxtail Bourguignon with mushrooms. Why do you write that you “gladly concede that so much of my favorite food is not picture-book pretty?”

A: I’ve always loved brown food, but it needs defending more now because I think Instagram has made people often shy away from the unphotogenic dish. But brown food is wonderful, and it’s the food that makes us feel happy and safe and warms us up from the inside.

I’m not just talking about because it’s fuel, but also because it’s food that we perhaps have emotional connections with, like your grandma’s stew. You might cook it slightly differently — you might want it to be more highly flavored — but it has quieter charms and really grows on you as you eat, and it calms you.

The following two recipes and narratives are from Nigella Lawson’s latest cookbook, “Cook, Eat, Repeat: Ingredients, Recipes, and Stories” (2021 Nigella Lawson, excerpted by permission of Ecco, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers).

This is not exactly the same as perhaps the most precious recipe in my repertoire, My Mother’s Praised Chicken, which found a home in my eighth book, “Kitchen,” but it owes a lot to it. A family favorite, it’s a simple one-pot dish which brings comfort and joy, and it is my pleasure to share that with you.

It’s not in the spirit of things to be utterly specific with this kind of cooking: if you’re feeding small children, for example, you may not want to add the red pepper flakes. Similarly, you may want to use just 1 lemon, rather than the 2 I like. Your chicken may weigh more or less: the ones I get tend to be around 3½ pounds. And although I have specified the Dutch oven I always use, you obviously will use the one you have, which will make a difference to how quickly everything cooks, how much evaporation there will be and so on.

Don’t let these things trouble you unduly; this is a very forgiving dish.

It doesn’t rely on precision timing: the chicken, leeks and carrots are meant to be soft, and I even like it when the orzo is cooked far beyond the timing specified on the package. It’s also open to variation, owing to what’s in your kitchen.

You can, for example, replace the orzo with rice if you prefer, although you need to know that it will be slightly pudding-y cooked this way; I don’t mean this disparagingly, but to indicate the soft, swollen texture. Barley works well, too, though will need to go in sooner, or you can use ditalini or any other small pasta you want.

If you prefer to use dried thyme in place of the dried tarragon, by all means do; I also like it with dried mint. I could go on, but there is no need to add complications: This is a simple recipe that brings deep contentment.

A final note: although this isn’t easily scale-downable, in light of the fact that a whole chicken has the starring role, I do often make a version of it for a soothing solo supper (see directions after main recipe). For this, you don’t need the oven, as it’s frankly easier to cook it all on the stove; you could, of course, cook the recipe proper on the stove and not in the oven, but I find there is more evaporation of the flavorsome liquid that way.

Chicken in a Pot with Lemon and Orzo

Makes 4 to 6 servings

1 chicken (approximately 3½ pounds)

3 fat cloves of garlic

2 medium carrots (approximately 10 ounces)

2 medium leeks (approximately 5 cups sliced, white parts only)

1 tablespoon olive oil

2 lemons

2 teaspoons dried tarragon (or dried thyme)

2 teaspoons flaky sea salt or kosher salt (or 1 teaspoon fine sea salt)

½ teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes

6 cups cold water

1½ cups orzo pasta

⅓ cup finely chopped Italian parsley, plus more to serve

Fresh grated Parmesan, to serve

Untruss the chicken, if it comes trussed, and remove all the string. If time allows, let it stand out on a board for 40 minutes or so to let the chill come off it. Heat the oven to 350 degrees.

Peel the garlic cloves, and peel and cut the carrots into three lengths across, and then into sticks. Wash the leeks to remove any mud, if needed, and cut into approximately 1-inch rounds.

Heat the oil in a large heavy-based Dutch oven with a tightly fitting lid; I use an enameled cast-iron oval Dutch oven 12 inches long, in which the chicken fits neatly, leaving just a small space all around it to fit the vegetables later. Place the chicken in the hot oil breast-side down to color the skin; I do this over high heat for 3 to 5 minutes, or until the skin is richly golden. Then turn the chicken the right way up.

Take the pan off the heat and, aiming for the space around the chicken, finely grate in the zest from the 2 lemons, then grate or mince in the garlic (obviously some can end up on the chicken itself). Add the dried tarragon (or thyme) and give a quick stir into the oil as best you can.

Scatter the vegetables around the chicken, followed by the salt and red pepper flakes (if using), and squeeze in the juice from your zested lemons.

Pour in the cold water — covering all but the very top of the breast — and put back on high heat, then bring the pot to a boil. Once it’s bubbling, clamp on the lid and carefully transfer to the oven to cook for 1 hour, though check to make sure the chicken is all but cooked through and the carrots soft.

Take the pot out of the oven, and add the orzo all around the chicken, and push it under the liquid, giving something as approximating a stir as you can manage in the restricted space. Put the lid back on, and return the pot to the oven for another 15 minutes, by which time the orzo should be soft and swollen.

Let the Dutch oven stand, uncovered, out of the oven for 15 minutes before serving. The orzo will continue to soak up the broth as it stands.

While you’re waiting, chop the parsley. Stir in ¼ cup, and then sprinkle over a little more. You could shred the chicken now, but it looks so wonderful in its pot I like to bring it to the table whole.

Place a dish by the Dutch oven, and then pull the chicken gently apart with a couple of forks, removing any bones and skin that come loose to the dish. (For me, these bits are a particular treat: I live for the cartilage.) I find it easiest to do this while the chicken’s still in the pot but, if you prefer, you can try and remove it to a cutting board; go carefully as it’s likely to fall to pieces a bit as you do so. Stir the chicken and orzo again and ladle into bowls, sprinkling with parsley as you go.

You may also want to offer Parmesan to grate over: I prefer it without, but there is a strong pro-Parmesan contingent in my house.

For a smaller, solo supper: Get out a small saucepan that comes with a tightly fitting lid, heat 1 teaspoon of olive oil and put a large chicken thigh (bone-in and skin-on) in it, skin-side down, and let it fry for a good 10 minutes over medium heat until it’s golden brown.

While that’s happening, peel and finely dice a smallish carrot, slice a small leek or half a large one and peel a fat clove of garlic. Once the chicken skin has browned, take the pan off the heat, turn the chicken thigh skin-side up and finely grate the zest of half a lemon into the pan, then mince or grate the garlic in as well, followed by ½ teaspoon of dried tarragon or thyme.

Add the prepared carrot and leek, and pour 2 cups of light chicken broth over, though this doesn’t have to be homemade. (You don’t get enough flavor from one chicken thigh cooked for a relatively short time to be able to use water alone.)

Add a pinch of red pepper flakes, (plus) ½ teaspoon of flaky sea salt or kosher salt (or ¼ teaspoon of fine sea salt) unless the broth you’re using is salty enough. Give a bit of a stir and put back on the heat, this time at high, and bring to a boil. Once it starts bubbling, clamp on a lid and turn the heat to low (or medium-low, depending on how big the burner is) and cook at a firm simmer for about 40 minutes.

Check that the chicken and cubes of carrot are cooked through; it is as essential that the carrots are soft as it is that the chicken is well-cooked. Add ¼ cup of orzo to the pan, making sure it’s all submerged, replace the lid and cook over medium heat for 10 to 12 minutes until soft.

Leave the pan on the stove, with the lid still on but the heat off, for another 10 minutes or so, and then shred the chicken thigh with a couple of forks (the skin will be flabby, so you may want to remove it along with the bones) and decant to a large bowl, adding freshly chopped parsley (and) some leaves and sprigs of thyme or feathery fresh dill.

While I don’t go in for appetizers, even when I have friends over for supper, I am — as I mention often — a dips-with-drinks devotee. This is a new addition to my stable of regulars: the beets not only turn the chickpeas a quite ridiculously uplifting pink, but help you create a soft, slightly fluid texture (though it will thicken on standing), all the better for sticking a tortilla chip or a baby carrot into.

I admit that I call this dip Beet Hummus at home, although perhaps it is too mutant a version to be worthy of the name. Still, I eat it just as I would a traditional hummus; I love it spread thickly on black bread, toasted or not, topped with slim wedges of avocado, spritzed with lime and sprinkled with flaky sea salt and those fairy fronds of dill. And it makes a fabulous light supper (or lunch) too, splodged vibrantly on a plate of dry-fried halloumi slices lying on a tangle of arugula leaves dotted with capers, with fresh mint scattered over the lot.

I use a large jar of Spanish chickpeas to make this; indeed, I always use these rather than canned chickpeas, which tend to be pebbly. The jars are quite a lot more expensive than the cans, so you can easily and affordably ape their soft and creamy texture by soaking and cooking 1⅔ cups of dried chickpeas. Do keep some of their cooking liquid to add while blending. It’s not hard to roast the beets yourself, though it certainly adds time. I don’t, I’m afraid, recommend using ready-cooked beets. And don’t throw away the trimmed beet stalks and leaves: the offcuts from a 1-pound bunch of beets can be cooked rather like chard, though I leave out the anchovies, and toss them through 4 ounces of spaghetti for a solo supper.

Finally, I advise you to seek out the more fluid and less claggy tahini from a Middle Eastern store (or online), if you can.

Beet and Chickpea Dip

Makes approximately 3¾ cups

2 medium raw beets (approximately 8 ounces)

1 25-ounce jar of chickpeas (or 1⅔ cups dried chickpeas, soaked, cooked and cooled)

2-3 fat cloves of garlic

2 teaspoons flaky sea salt or kosher salt (or 1 teaspoon fine sea salt)

2 tablespoons tahini

2-3 lemons

A few ice cubes, for blending

Heat the oven to 425 degrees. Cut the stems and tails off the beets, and wrap each beet loosely in foil. Seal the parcels tightly, and roast for about 2 hours, though be prepared to go up to 3 hours.

Open up and pierce each beet with a knife to make sure it’s tender. When you’re satisfied your beets are cooked, unwrap the parcels and leave to cool.

Peel and break apart the beets, and drop the pieces into the bowl of a food processor. Tip the chickpeas out of the jar, helping them loose with a bendy spatula or spoon. Make sure you get all the gloop, too; it’s this that will help make it all so gorgeously creamy. If using chickpeas you’ve cooked yourself, add a couple of tablespoons of the liquid they cooked in, or more as needed.

Press on 2 of the garlic cloves with the flat of a knife to bruise them and release the skin. Peel it away and add the cloves to the processor. Add the salt, tahini and ¼ cup of lemon juice. Process patiently — it will take a while to combine. Once it’s well-mixed, scrape down the bowl, add a couple of ice cubes and blitz again until gorgeously smooth and radiantly, improbably pink. You can add another ice cube or 2 and go on for longer if you feel it needs it, until you have a light, super-smooth texture.

Taste to see if you would like any more lemon juice, garlic or salt, adding as necessary and blitzing again, then scrape into a serving bowl.