Blood in the Snow

On the way home, I am drawn into the covered market, bustling and at full capacity although it's only half past nine on a very cold morning. As I duck into the entrance, I notice a few tiny snowflakes have fallen onto my shoulders.

Inside, the stalls groan with produce that glistens and glows. The scent of fresh bread wafts through the crowds and mingles with salty oysters and the heady perfume of freesias and narcissi. Wandering from stall to stall - handsome cuts of meat, glowing orbs of citrus fruit, freshly pressed apple juice, fifty different kinds of olives and twice as many cheeses - I am surrounded by the comforting, transporting hum of market chatter.

Women "d'un certain age" question stallholders over the freshness of their goods, raising their eyebrows over prices, splitting hairs. A man spends an age choosing three avocados: one for today, one for tomorrow and one for the next day, gently squeezing each one for a different degree of ripeness. Fishmongers hurl jokes at each other over the clatter of shells, and small groups of men stand smoking, huddled over tiny coffees, nudging and winking.

Suddenly I am distracted from this sensory smörgåsbord by one small stall, tucked away in the corner. Lemons, limes, some fine lemongrass and perky herbs and then, piled majestically high, the treasure I have been waiting for all year; February's finest reward. Blood oranges. They are stunning, orange swirled and speckled with crimson; Arabian sunsets. I can barely steal myself from clapping my hands with glee, and rush forward to buy as many as I can carry. When it's blood orange season, I can't resist bringing bagfuls home to put in bowls around the house; aside from their beauty, they make the best, hot-pink juice, intense sorbet and alluring cakes, and they bring much-needed bright smiles and sunshine to the dreariest month of the year.

Stepping out, laden with heavy bags, I stop still. Everything is white. Within fifteen minutes, what started as a few tiny sequins of snow has become a glittering blanket over the whole town, with snow still falling softly. The striking contrast of atmosphere and especially colour is surprisingly poignant; at once sad and achingly romantic. Blood-speckled oranges; pure white snow.

Social Security

The French have many, many strengths. They make the best bread and the prettiest cakes; have perfected insouciance; and ostensibly have even made infidelity acceptable - with Monsieur le Président leading by example. France is the land of the paradox: meals are rich and abundant whilst waistlines are anything but; there are rules and laws for everything but most are fervently ignored; and although the French love paperwork like nothing else, they don't seem to know quite what to do with it.

Don't expect to get anything official done quickly here. The Holy Grail is the dossier, a weighty portfolio of personal information, and a requirement for most daily tasks. Equipped with this, indefatigable persistence and skin as thick as a rhinoceros, you are ready to take on French administration.

Nowhere is a steely resolve more vital than at Sécurité Sociale, the organisation responsible for health insurance. The system here is incomparable to the NHS, being more similar to the American arrangement whereby people have to pay up-front for any medical care, before being reimbursed by the 'sécu'. This providing that you have survived the process of joing this organisation (a term I use loosely) without a succesful suicide attempt; you see, it can be rather soul-destroying.

First, you have to skip along with your dossier, sit in line for a few hours, and explain your intentions to a disinterested receptionist. No matter how fluent your French, you will undoubtedly be asked to repeat yourself several times. Then, perhaps, you will be transferred into the hands of a dedicated officer, for whom you will need to wait a good hour at least. Staring vacantly at the neon number - the like one finds at a supermarket deli counter - it is amazing how your resolve can slip away.

Assuming you make it into the office, have the patience to repeat yourself another few times, and have a steady enough hand to fill in the relevant forms, your dossier will be checked. And provided you've paid your 50 euros to have your birth certificate translated, have photocopied everything you own, and have included the name of your mother's first pet in this personal directory, they might just shake your hand and begin the process of immatriculation.

Trudging home, any sense of triumphance is hard to muster, the fact of the matter being that none of your tenacity, charm and graciousness will pay off for at least six weeks: if you get ill before that, consider homeopathy.

Spanish Roast Chicken with Almonds and Paprika Potatoes

Few things beat a roast chicken, it is the epitome of homeliness. It is a bear-hug at the front door; it is your washing done for you; it's second helpings and early nights. With the punchy flavours of Spain, though, it becomes just a bit racier. I serve it with paprika roast potatoes and a kind of piperade - melted down red peppers, onions and garlic with some sherry vinegar. Olé!

a free-range (preferably organic) chicken

chorizo - the cooking variety, sliced relatively thinly

butter

salt and pepper

half a lemon

Season the inside of the bird and put the lemon in the cavity. Then gently free the skin from the breast with you fingers, taking care not to tear the skin. Push the slices of chorizo and some butter inside so that the breast is covered in a single layer of chorizo under the skin. Season well with salt and pepper and drizzle with a tiny bit of oil.

big roasting potatoes, cut into chunks

salt and pepper

olive oil

paprika

garlic cloves, whole, squashed

whole blanched almonds, halved

Pile these ingredients together, and put into an oiled roasting tray. Nestle the chicken in the middle and put into a 200c oven for about an hour - skewer the thickest part (the thigh) and the jucies should run clear when it's ready. Let it rest under some foil for about 15-20 minutes.

Tear great hunks off the chicken and serve (not forgetting the oysters underneath and some crispy, salty skin) with the roast potatoes and the roasting juices drizzled over.

Rose and violet macarons

Vietnamese prawn cakes

These are fabulous. There is something very satifying about fried food; here, the way the crisp outside gives way to succulent prawn is divine, especially with spiky Thai flavours. A superb new year's slap around the mouth. The dipping sauce and cucumber salad are indispensible.

Crossing continents, the best possible thing to drink with this is a well-made (eg. very sour and very strong and perilously drinkable) caipirinha: chopped up whole lime muddled with sugar syrup, cachaça - or white rum if you don't have cachaça - and a lot of crushed ice.

raw, peeled prawns

ginger - finely chopped

garlic - finely chopped

bird's eye or other hot chilli - finely chopped

spring onions - chopped

coriander stalks - finely chopped

lemongrass - finely chopped

salt and pepper

Pulse this mixture together in a food processor; if it's too liquid, add a little bit of flour or cornflour. Let it rest in the fridge while you make the dipping sauce:

tamarind paste (a little bit) - if not add more lime juice

rice wine vinegar

sugar

some of the finely chopped chilli and ginger and some spring onion tops (the green bit)

fish sauce (nam pla or nuoc mam depending on whether it's Thai or Vietnamese)

a splash of water

Mix this all together to taste; you want a balance of salty, sweet, hot and sour. Use a vegetable peeler to shave thin strips off a section of cucumber, add it to some shredded spring onion and dress with a bit more rice vinegar and salt. Set this aside too.

Fry spoonfuls of the prawn mixture in about a 1/2 cm of oil until crisp and golden brown on one side, then flip them over and do the other side. Don't overcrowd the pan - make four or so and keep them warm on kitchen paper in the oven whilst you do the rest.

Even better, though, is to eat them as you go, with a friend, in front of the hob - dunking the hot cakes in that spiky sauce with a bit of crunchy salty cucumber after a bit of fiddly chopping and preparing makes for an incredibly satisfying mouthful indeed. Seriously good.

Two ways with duck

Hot and sour duck salad with a passionfruit dressing

Please, please try this recipe. It came to me in a flash of inspiration earlier today, standing in front of a very handsome duck breast. Although in winter what is most welcome is food as a duvet; rich, creamy, hearty food to bolster us through the frosty days and nights, sometimes we need some respite in the form of something light, hot and zingy.This salad has it all - it satifies the winter carnivore's carnal need for red flesh, and it delivers the inimitable smack in the mouth of South-East Asian cooking, while the honey and passionfruit make it just a bit more elegant and special. I urge you to try it.

1 duck breast, fat on

Mixed interesting leaves

shredded crunchy veg - whatever is to hand; I used mangetout

an avocado, sliced

a fat red chilli, deseeded and finely sliced (or less of a smaller, fiery one)

fresh ginger, in matchsticks

the juice of a lime

dark soy sauce

honey

one passionfruit, seeds and all

Mix the chilli, ginger, lime juice, soy, honey and passionfruit juice together to make a sharp dressing. There needs to be a balance of hot, sour, salty and sweet. Heat a frying pan with only a tiny bit of oil, so it's hot. Score the duck fat in a criss-cross pattern and put the breast fat side down in the pan. Leave for 5 minutes, or until the fat is crisp and golden. Turn the breast over and cook for just a couple more minutes - or more if you don't, unlike me, like your duck rare.

Meanwhile, combine all the salad ingredients in a bowl. Take the duck out of the pan and rest for five minutes or so, while you dress the salad, reserving a little bit of the dressing. Slice the duck breast quite thinly, then arrange over the salad on a plate. Drizzle over the rest of the dressing and dive in.

Spiced seared duck with aubergine, pomegranates and sumac

This is perhaps even better than the previous duck recipe. Stunning Middle Eastern flavours and colours make this so fabulous, and even quite Christmassy. If you haven't already fallen in love with food from this part of the world, try this; you'll soon be seduced. There might seem like a lot of ingredients, but there is very little effort; besides, the point is to evoke the sights, scents and tastes of the souks and bazaars, like belly dancers shimmying across your tastebuds.

duck breast, fat on and scored in a criss-cross pattern

aubergine, halved and sliced thinly lengthways

cumin seeds

salt and pepper

olive oil

lemon

chicory

a pomegranate

spring onions, sliced

tomato, seeded and diced

half a chilli, deseeded and finely chopped

flat parsley

bulghur wheat (cracked wheat - like big couscous)

chicken stock

pomegranate molasses

honey

olive oil

lemon

salt and pepper

sumac - this is a red spice (actually a crushed berry) found at most good supermarkets and all spice shops, and gives a sour, lemony flavour. It is fabulous but lemon alone will do if you can't get it.

Lay the strips of aubergine out in a single layer on a baking tray, and drizzle with oil, a bit of honey and lemon, salt and pepper and a few cumin seeds. Grill until lightly burnished and softened, then turn and do the other side. Take out and let cool.

To the bulghur wheat, add enough hot stock to cover by a centimetre. Put on the heat - without stirring - for a couple of minutes, then take off the heat, cover and leave to let the bulghur soak up the stock. When it has fluffed up and is soft but still with a nubbly texture, it's ready. Set aside.

Put the spring onions, chilli and tomato into a bowl along with most of the parsley - chopped stalks and all - and the seeds of half the pomegranate. To get the seeds out easily, cut it in half across the middle and, holding one half cut side down over the bowl, tap it hard with a wooden spon or similar implement. The seeds and juice will shower down leaving you with the pith, which is bitter and not good to eat - pick any out that has fallen into the bowl. Shred up the aubergine - which will be divinely smoky - and add that too. Pick leaves of chicory and pile them in as well.

Make a dressing to taste out of the pomegranate molasses (which you can buy at any supermarket now and is fabulous, with a sweet-sour flavour - just brushed over meat before grilling is amazing), oil, lemon juice, honey and salt and pepper. Add to the salad, and what you have is a version of a Turkish Spoon Salad, sort of like a Middle Eastern salsa.

Sear the duck in a hot pan, tipping off most of the fat that comes out of it. PLEASE don't throw it away - keep it for roast potatoes or suchlike. Turn when the skin is browned and crisp, and cook for as long as you like - I like mine rare so I give it about 5 minutes. Take it out of the pan and rest it for a few minutes, while to fluff up the bulghur, stir some parsley through it and check the seasoning, then serve everything together, tipping the resting juices from the duck back over the sliced meat. Sprinkle over a good pinch of sumac, scatter with more pomegranate jewels and and drift off to the Casbah.

Roast Beef and Frogs' Legs

France has forever been viewed as the world's centre of gastronomy. Boasting more Michelin-starred restaurants than anywhere else in the world, this is the country that wrote the rulebook for the food we admire today, and it is the country to which any ambitious chef comes to cut his culinary teeth. It is a nation full of gourmands, self-appointed experts on everything from fine wine and artisan cheeses to the perfect baguette. Everyone, it seems, has an opinion; indeed, go to any market, epicerie, boulangerie or boucherie and you willl soon find yourself caught up in an often-heated food-related debate. In short, the French take their food seriously.

What they do not take seriously, however, is our food. In fact, it is openly derided as being utterly inferior to its counterpart across the channel. Among the reasons for this is - as is often the case - a great lack of understanding, as to what British food actually is. Equally to blame, though, is a rather narrow-minded attachment to old stereotypes; disparaging quips about how all Britain has to offer is dry roast beef and Mother's Pride.

However, lift the cloche and you'll soon discover the full extent of the misconception. Investigate a bit, and it soon becomes apparent that British cooking is fast producing some of the most diverse, innovative and rapidly developing food in the world. And the British public has just as quickly become completely obsessed by it all. Not only do we view TV cooks and food writers as glittering celebrities and national treasures, who get prime-time slots every night of the week, but also we suddenly really care about what we are eating. Everywhere we care to turn our trolley we are confronted by issues of provenance, sustainability, food-miles, the ecosystem. We demand organic, free-range, Fairtrade.

France may have old Proust with his dry madeleine, but we have the voluptuous, smokin' hot Nigella who gazes all come-hither into our eyes whilst licking a spoon; the adorably pukka Jamie who we all watched grow up, Hugh who campaigns for the humble chicken, and Gordon F***ing Ramsey.

France may well be a nation sated on sauces, satisfied on soup and stuffed on shellfish. But Britain is the birthplace of the foodie, and we are all still very, very hungry.