The February Edition
Rhubarb and pistachio upside-down cake, cavolo nero gnudi with a citrus brown butter cream sauce, vanilla & cardamom marmalade + many more recipes!
Welcome to the February edition of Seasonal, our yearlong celebration of the seasons. This month's newsletter brings you produce recommendations, a full menu of recipes, thoughtful flavor pairings, and, for our In Conversation feature, a chat with low-waste chef and author Max La Manna.
This is a rather long post, so if your email cuts out, you can view it in full on the website or app—or perhaps print it out and enjoy it like a food supplement from the weekend paper.
Winter resists. The earth sets like stone, the days collapse early, and cold seeps into bone, settling deep, refusing to leave. Time warps—mornings stretch thin and brittle, afternoons slow and heavy, then without warning, night falls swallowing the last of the light.
On my way to the market, my shoulders creep toward my ears, breath tight in the cold. The ground in January gives nothing willingly. But in February, the earth begins to loosen its grip.
Celeriac - knotted and rough, smelling of damp earth and anise, its pale flesh hidden beneath tangled roots.
Turnips - lilac shoulders crisp, with a bite of pepper.
Blood oranges - rinds dimpled, their jeweled flesh, deep garnet veined with gold. Flavor tart and sweet, a whisper of warmth fresh from the Italian winter sun.
And there - forced Yorkshire rhubarb, flushed pink, tender as a secret, its sharpness aching for sugar. Beside it, kale, dark and crinkled, ink pooling at the edges, its bitterness waiting to soften in heat. I cradle my finds. The season lingers on the edge, not yet turned—but here, in these small offerings, the first murmur of change.
Today’s menu is built around the warmth of the stove. Whether it’s the rhubarb and pistachio drizzle cake baking, its citrus fumes escaping from the oven, or the cavolo nero gnudi bubbling in a pan, bathed in citrus brown butter. These are life-giving recipes, crafted to leave you feeling centered, plump and happy.
They ask for patience, for effort, for a quiet faith that something good will come of it. They belong to this season—shaped by cold mornings and early dusks—and are completely yours to make your own.
Citrus &...
Kumquat and vanilla
Kumquats are citrus turned inside out—their skins honeyed and sweet, their flesh sharp and bright, a very welcome burst of sunshine in the depths of winter. Vanilla, warm and fragrant, softens their sharpness, rounding the edges without dulling their vibrance. Together, they are a study in contrast: sharp and mellow, bright and deep, each enhancing the other.
I’ve brought this pairing to life in the form of a orange blossom and vanilla yoghurt blancmange with candied kumquats—silky, slightly tangy set cream infused with rose water, its richness cut by spoonfuls of syrupy, jewel-like kumquats. This is a dessert of balance and restraint, where sweetness lingers, citrus sings, and the last spoonful always comes too soon.
Orange and pistachio
Bright, floral orange meets the rich, nutty sweetness of pistachio—a pairing best celebrated in Middle Eastern cakes, where ground pistachios add buttery softness and citrus infuses every crumb. The orange lifts, the pistachio grounds, their flavors entwined in a balance of sharp and mellow, crunchy and tender.
For this recipe I was inspired by a visit to Fortitude Bakehouse, where they served a Bostock crowned with a delicate line of chocolate and crushed pistachios. My reimagined version is a marmalade, rose and pistachio Bostock. Stale brioche is soaked in orange rose syrup then topped with vanilla cardamom mixed citrus marmalade and then slathered with spiced frangipane before baking to golden, caramelized perfection. Crisp at the edges, soft within, perfumed with citrus and flowers, it’s the kind of breakfast that makes winter mornings feel a little warmer.
Blood orange & vanilla
My kitchen is currently overflowing with bowls of citrus—blood oranges, Seville oranges, lemons, bergamot, pomelo grapefruit—so rather than let anything go to waste, I set to work to create a lovely recipe for mixed citrus marmalade, infused with cardamom and vanilla. This requires minimal effort, in fact, nothing more than cracking open a few cardamom pods, splitting a few vanilla beans, and letting everything—fruit, sugar, spice—bubble away until it is transformed into a golden, unctuous and versatile preserve. The vanilla is what coaxes warmth from the citrus by adding a creaminess that softens the sharper edges, mellowing the bitterness of the Seville orange, as well as tempering the camphorous, musky heat of the cardamom.
Blood orange & sparkling wine
Blood orange and sparkling wine are a natural pairing—sharp meets effervescent. The blood orange adds depth, with hints of raspberry and pomegranate beneath its citrus punch. For the simplest breakfast-friendly cocktail (though, honestly, I've never met a cocktail that isn’t breakfast-friendly), squeeze a blood orange, strain out the pulp, and pour a splash into a chilled glass. Top with pink prosecco or champagne. No need for anything more—though a twist of peel never hurts.
Blood oranges & rose
Rose is a divisive presence in the kitchen—some, captivated by its heady floral aroma, swoon, while others recoil as if they've just inhaled a gallon of their grandmother's cloying, twenty-year-old perfume. Used primarily as an extract or distilled into rose water, its culinary history spans thousands of years, perfuming everything from Persian ice creams to Indian sweets. In Middle Eastern cookery, it’s practically a staple, weaving its heady, floral presence through dishes as varied as Turkish delight and saffron-laced rice.
Handled with restraint, a drop or two in shortbread or custard can evoke a leisurely walk through a spice-laden souk, but overdo it, and suddenly you’re licking the inside of a soap dish. The key is balance; always pair rose with something bold enough to temper its headier flavor and fragrance. Blood oranges, with their bittersweet depth, balance the tendency of rose to teeter on the edge of being overpowering - together, they strike a rich and nuanced balance. I particularly enjoy this combination in the form of a blood orange and prosecco layered jelly with a rose and vanilla- infused yoghurt panna cotta. Recipe below.
Blood oranges & radicchio
I love nothing more than a strong Negroni as an aperitif. And as an after dinner sweet treat? A few lemon slices dipped in sugar do the trick! So, it’s no surprise blood oranges with their deep, bittersweet complexity paired with radicchio—especially the Jackson Pollock-esque Castelfranco—are exactly my kind of thing. However, like an impassioned debate teetering on the edge of a full-blown fight, they need something to pull them back before they tip into acrimony. A touch of soft creaminess is definitely required—enter burrata: cool, lush and the perfect counterpoint. I like to tear it open, letting the creamy center spill into the salad, softening its edges. And finally, a simple vinaigrette made from blood orange juice, salt and good extra virgin olive oil ties everything together.
Rhubarb &
Rhubarb and pistachio
Does studying art for four years at university qualify me to declare pink and green one of the most beautiful color combinations? Probably not! Although, Monet’s water lilies and the candy-striped awnings of The Beverly Hills Hotel can’t be wrong. It’s probably the first time Monet and The Beverly Hills Hotel have appeared in the same sentence, nevertheless, I’ve taken inspiration from both to create a lovely rhubarb and pistachio upside-down loaf cake recipe.
Buoyed by the success of my bergamot and cardamom drizzle cake in last month’s newsletter, I’m offering a February take on a classic drizzle cake - a rhubarb and pistachio upside-down loaf. Whilst rhubarb’s syrupy juices seep into the sponge, creating something tender, tangy and gloriously sticky, you will find that pistachios add just the right amount of crunch.
Rhubarb and pork
Forced rhubarb grows in darkness, which sounds like the start of a gothic novel, but is actually just clever farming. With no sunlight to produce chlorophyll, the stalks remain a delicate blush of pink, rather than the murkier pinky-green of garden-grown variety. The result is a flavor that’s sweeter, silkier—much less of a tongue-lashing than its tangier counterpart.
And rhubarb is not just for tarts and crumbles! Last month, in my seasonal newsletter, I mentioned I’d be experimenting with a rhubarb hot sauce—well, here’s where I’ve landed. A frankly unhinged but glorious pairing: crispy pork escalope with a fiery, hot-sweet-and-sour rhubarb jam—part hot sauce, part conserve, all punch. And because one sauce is never enough, I’ve thrown in a black garlic vanilla caramel, plus a spicy crisp celeriac and turnip slaw to keep things fresh. The pork’s mild, buttery richness takes rhubarb’s tart snap like a dream, while black garlic drags the whole thing into dark, complex, smoky territory. The Brontë sisters would approve.
Turnips &
Turnips and pork
The old-fashioned uncomplicated pairing of pork and turnips makes for a meal of understated harmony that doesn’t shout for attention, but always delivers in terms of flavor and comfort. The richness of the pork meets the sharpness of the turnips, and together they create a balance that’s greater than the sum of their parts; the fat from the pork softens the bite of the turnips, whilst the turnips lend the pork a hint of earthiness and spice.
To make a quick dinner, heat the oven to 200°C (or 180°C fan). Boil halved turnips for five minutes, then drain. Sauté a chopped shallot and a few fat garlic cloves in olive oil with a healthy pinch of salt and transfer to a baking dish together with the turnips. Sear the pork chops in the same pan, then, place them on top of the turnips and onions. Scatter sage leaves around the chops, pour over the juice and zest of two blood oranges, drizzle with olive oil and roast for 20 to 30 minutes until the pork is cooked through and tender. Enjoy with a generous hunk of sourdough to mop up all that lovely sauce.
Turnips & reblochon
Turnips, with their subtle peppery bite and gentle sweetness, pair beautifully with rich, melted cheese. When darkness falls at 4:30 p.m., rain tapping against the windowpane, and spring feels impossibly far away, I crave a comforting supper to see me through. Turnip tartiflette is my go-to Friday dinner—simply swap potatoes for turnips for a lighter, slightly spicier take on the classic. Layer thinly sliced turnips with softened shallots, crisp bacon lardons and plenty of Reblochon (or a good, ripe substitute), then bake until bubbling and golden. Comfort, sealed under a bronzed crust.
Turnip & parmesan
Pesto - that verdant, summery garlicky elixir of Liguria, owes its existence to Genoese sailors, who, keen to fend off scurvy, took to pounding basil with garlic, pine nuts and Parmesan, emulsifying the lot with that good golden Italian olive oil. Thus, a sauce was born—one so beloved that the Genoese have spent the centuries bristling at any variation that dares stray too far from the original.
Which brings us, delicately, to turnip top pesto. Hardly an obvious understudy for basil, yet surprisingly effective, turnips are known as cime di rapa in Italy (where they shine in Puglia’s orecchiette con le cime di rapa). These peppery, slightly bitter greens have enough backbone to stand up to garlic without wilting in submission. Their assertiveness lends pesto a thrilling, almost mustardy heat, making it an excellent addition for robust pastas, roasted vegetables, or a thick slice of griddled sourdough slicked with melted butter.
Lashings of butter aside, nutritionally, turnip tops are practically smug with vitamins A, C, and K. Think of them as pesto’s equivalent of trading a silk scarf for a leather jacket—a classic with a bit more attitude.
Brassicas &...
Cavolo nero and brown butter
You can see why Italian cavolo nero—its dark, crinkled leaves packed with deep, iron-rich earthiness—pairs so beautifully with rich brown butter. The butter, cooked until golden and nutty, softens the kale’s slight bitterness, bringing out its sweeter side. It’s a combination that feels as comforting as the damp chill of February evenings, when the rain taps against the window and the only sensible thing to do is stand by the stove. I have a recipe I return to on nights like these: cavolo nero gnudi, light and pillowy, tossed in a citrus-spiked brown butter cream pan sauce, and finished with toasted hazelnuts, or fried sage leaves for crunch. Simple and decadent, without the fuss—just the right supper to keep you suitably warm and happy.
Purple sprouting broccoli and vanilla
Bear with me on this combination. It is a truth universally acknowledged that broccoli often carries the weight of traumatic childhood memories that feature a soggy pile of overboiled, unappetizing bland vegetation. But wait a moment. Did you know that purple sprouting broccoli, with its richer, nuttier profile, is a whole different story? Tempura-battered, it becomes something special—crispy, delicate and full of flavor. The real magic, however, lies in the accompanying dip: a black garlic vanilla caramel—rich, deep and subtly sweet (full recipe below). The caramel’s dark umami from the black garlic, paired with the smooth, aromatic sweetness of vanilla, perfectly balances the broccoli’s slight bitterness. There would never have been any childhood tantrums if broccoli had been served like this!
Kale and lemon
For a simple kale pesto: Blanch a handful of kale leaves, then blitz them with a clove of garlic, a handful of toasted nuts (walnuts or almonds work well), a generous grating of Parmesan and enough olive oil to loosen it into a thick sauce. Season to taste, then add a generous squeeze of fresh lemon juice along with its zest. Stir the sauce through hot pasta, or smear it onto a slice of toasted sourdough. While you’re at it, boil an egg for a few minutes until it’s jammy in the middle. Top your toast with the egg, slice it open and let the yolk spill over the pesto. You’ll be surprised by how something so simple becomes the best breakfast you’ve had in years.
Kale and chili
For a quick supper try cavolo nero pasta. Whilst you bring a pot of salted water to a boil, peel the garlic and wash cavolo nero or any kale variety you prefer. Add both to the water and allow to simmer for 5-6 minutes. Remove the kale and garlic and transfer to a blender together with olive oil, lemon, Parmesan and seasonings (I favor dried chili flakes or a pinch of cayenne) then blitz until smooth.
Cook the pasta for 2-3 minutes less than the package suggests, then drain, reserving some of the cooking water. Toss the pasta for a minute or two in the green sauce, then slowly add enough of the reserved water to loosen the consistency. For a creamy finish, stir in crème fraîche or mascarpone, or top with a quenelle of mascarpone and a drizzle of chili oil.
Watermelon radish
Vivid, almost shockingly pink at the center, fading to pale green at the edges—watermelon radish is a study in contrasts. The flesh is crisp and sweet, but the heat, lurking in the skins, has a wasabi-like sharpness that builds with each bite. Watermelon radish takes beautifully to a quick pickle: thinly slice 4 radishes and pack them into a small jar. Bring ½ cup each of vinegar and water to a simmer with 2 teaspoons of kosher salt, 2 teaspoons of sugar, 3 peeled garlic cloves and 1 teaspoon of lightly crushed peppercorns. Pour over the radishes and allow to cool before sealing. They’ll be ready in an hour, better after a day, and excellent with anything that needs a sharp, crunchy lift.
Jerusalem artichoke
These knobbly little tubers are neither artichokes nor related to them. Instead, they belong to the sunflower family, their name a tangled misinterpretation of girasole, Italian for ‘sunflower’—which might also explain their other alias, sunchokes. Native to North America, they crossed the Atlantic in the 17th century, quietly embedding themselves into European kitchens.
Often overlooked, but never unwelcome, Jerusalem artichokes have a nutty, sweet earthiness, somewhere between a potato and an artichoke heart, with a whisper of hazelnut. Roast them, and they turn caramelized and fudgy; raw, they’re crisp and bright, almost like water chestnuts. But despite their charms, they can be perplexing—oddly shaped, tricky to peel, not the sort of thing you instinctively know how to prepare.
Nigel Slater’s creamed artichokes with chard and crisp garlic is a simple yet clever way to bring out their best. The tubers are boiled until tender, then mashed into a velvety purée with butter and Parmesan. Chard, wilted in garlicky butter, adds a touch of bitterness, while shards of crisp, golden garlic lend crunch and warmth.
Celeriac
Don’t be intimidated by celeriac's rather rugged appearance; beneath its rough exterior lies a vegetable full of potential. It pairs beautifully with bright flavors like lemon, fresh herbs and mustard, and can be prepared in a variety of ways—raw, roasted, or mashed. Although you will find a detailed recipe for celeriac and tunip slaw below, it’s worth knowing that you’ll need celeriac and white turnips julienned, mayonnaise, lemon juice, fresh herbs like mint and parsley, a little green chili for heat, and a spoonful of wholegrain mustard. You will find this side dish paired with a crispy pork escalope, but it works just as well with roasted chicken or grilled fish.
Finger limes
Finger limes, native to the rainforests of Australia, are small but mighty, delivering a surprising punch of flavor. With their elongated shape and vibrant, jewel-like pulp, they’re almost too beautiful to eat—yet somehow, I always manage. You’d never guess from the tough, wrinkled exterior what’s hiding inside, but on slicing through with a sharp knife and giving the fruit a quick squeeze, out spills bright, citrusy pearls of pulp—like little bursts of fluorescent, translucent caviar.
Finger limes are now, fortunately, available in select markets worldwide, including parts of Spain. Their favor is bright and clean with a hint of tartness so they’re perfect for adding a citrusy burst to seafood—my favorite being seared scallops with finger lime and herb butter. Simply sear the scallops until golden, then finish them with a quick pan sauce of butter, fresh herbs and a spoonful of finger lime pulp. I also like adding a generous amount of the pulp to a makrut lime margarita—just shake up some tequila (or better yet, mezcal), lime juice, agave syrup, and a good spoonful of finger lime pulp for a refreshing twist.
I recently had the pleasure of catching up with low-waste chef and author, Max La Manna. During our conversation, Max shared his favorite seasonal ingredients for February, his top spots for coffee and food in London, and his practical tips on reducing food waste in the kitchen.
What’s your favorite seasonal produce to cook with and are there any underrated seasonal ingredients that home cooks should pay more attention to, especially during February?
I'm currently really loving cauliflower in these cold winter months. For me, cauliflower is like tofu - it's a complete blank canvas, there's so much you can do with it. Fried, baked, roasted, blended into a puree etc. Then you’ve got the hearty leaves and core that shouldn't go to waste. There are so many creative ways to use every part of this humble ingredient, making it incredibly versatile and also sustainable.
I’m also really enjoying experimenting with produce like swedes, celeriac, chicory and Jerusalem artichokes - even Seville oranges. Currently, I'm standing over a large steaming pot, cooking down some oranges to make my own homemade marmalade.
What are some of your favorite ways to reduce food waste in your kitchen? Any simple actionable tips?
Cook the food you already have - it's a no brainer! The next time you think you need to buy more food - go and rummage around your fridge, freezer and cupboards to see if you can pull together a meal. You may only have a few ingredients, but really, it's about cooking with less so you don't have to buy more.
We currently waste roughly a third of the food we bring home, so why not take on this challenge, have fun with it, and see if you can reduce waste and save money at the same time! I guarantee you'll appreciate the results.
Is there an ingredient people often throw away that you think could be repurposed into something delicious?
Tons! Stale bread can be revived by running it under water for a few seconds, then baking it in the oven on medium heat - it will come back to life and be as good as new. Leafy greens - like spinach and kale - can be frozen if you don't get to them in time. Then, when you’re ready, blend them up into a smoothie or use them for your next pesto or pasta sauce.
Chickpea water is also a great replacement for eggs - you can make meringues or even homemade pasta. The key takeaway is that there's always a way to repurpose ingredients; it just takes a bit of time and creativity. Next time you're unsure, ask yourself: what would Max do?
What’s your favorite lunch/dinner spot in London, and what do you order?
I'm currently really loving Akub - it's a Palestinian restaurant with a modern twist. Chef Fadi Kattan is a friend of mine. The staff are incredibly welcoming and the restaurant feels like home. From the homemade pickles and spiced focaccia to the red lentil moutabal, mafghoussa and shish barak - it's all really delicious! I’d recommend you take a shot of the olive oil and have a glass of Palestinian wine!
Any bakery or coffee shop recommendations in London?
There are so many, but my favorite spots are: St. John Bakery, Toad Bakery and Monmouth Coffee Company.
Are you hungry yet? Good, because it’s time to cook!
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