A broth for

cookery writer Catherine Brown offers some stirring recipes for

a traditional

winter warmer

MATCHED against the visual charms of green olives and deeply red sun-dried tomatoes, stodgy grey porridge and creamy brown stovies might signal a gastronomic bore. Unless, of course, the less visually attractive foods also have flavour punch. Then colour matters not. Restoring warmth and curing ills is the thing. And northern people who practise the healing art when winter bites are the ones to be celebrated. People like our Mary, a perky little woman in her fifties with a slight figure which belied her capacity for hard work. She cleaned, tirelessly, in the college in Elgin where I worked and lived alone in a flat just a few doors from my bedsit. One day, during my first disabling winter in the Arctic (north-east) shoulder of Scotland, when I didn't turn up for work, she appeared inquiring about my health and clutching a deep enamel bowl with a plate on top.

``I've brought you some broth.''

Mary's broths, it turned out, were a legend in the neighbourhood. She had made potfuls all her life, and when her large family left home, she had continued making enough to feed herself, and many more besides. The leftovers were put into a large bowl and taken to whoever needed restoring.

She had an inventive way with broths, making them with anything which was available, though her method varied little. The meat or poultry went in first - for a long slow simmer along with barley, lentils, dried peas and robust vegetables - then the more delicate greens and herbs were added nearer the end of the cooking. Rice went with chicken, barley with beef, lentils with ham.

Though several decades have passed since she turned up on my doorstep that night with her broth, I still remember it vividly. Hens for her broth were mature matrons which had spent many years scratching the farmyard. Tough, maybe, but they had chicken flavour with kick. At the bottom of the bowl, buried amongst the rice, was a chunk of breast attached to a bone. On top, was the clear golden broth with green leeks floating in it. I swear it cured me of my ills.

As the cold November celebration of St Andrew's Night approaches in a swirl of ceilidhs and warming meals, here are a few thoughts on that most reviving draught.

Early Eighteenth Century

n The first written mention of this colourful Scottish broth appears in the Ochtertyre House Book (1737) when dinner included `cockie leekie fowlls in it'.

But this is the earliest recipe, from Meg Dods' Cook and Housewives Manual, the early nineteenth century Scottish Mrs Beeton:

Boil from four to six pounds of good shin-beef, well broken, till the liquor is very good. Strain it, and put to it a capon, or large fowl, trussed for boiling, and when it boils, half the quantity of blanched leeks intended to be used, well cleaned, and cut in inch-lengths, or longer. Skim this carefully. In a half-hour add the remaining part of the leeks and a seasoning of pepper and salt. The soup must be very thick of leeks, and the first part of them must be boiled down into the soup until it becomes a green lubricious compound. Sometimes the capon is served in the tureen with the cock-a-leekie . . . Some people thicken cock-a-leekie with the fine part of oatmeal. Those who dislike so much of the leeks may substitute shred greens, or spinach and parsley, for one half of them. Reject the coarse green part of the leeks. Prunes and raisins used to be put in this soup.

Twentieth Century

n Attempting a modern cock-a-leekie with an immature battery chicken is akin to attempting cassoulet without confit. Mature birds with flavour are sometimes available from farm shops where they have genuine free-range hens, or sometimes from fishmongers or butchers. Failing that, from October 1 (until the end of February) there is always the possibility of a more flavourful pheasant or other game bird - cock or hen - which has roamed freely.

Of course, the broth's success depends as much on the leeks as the poultry. Because of its sweeter, more delicate flavour, compared with onions, the leek is often described as king of the soup onions. Small to medium sized leeks have the sweetest flavour. The chicken and leeks marriage is thought to have developed its national reputation as a classic dish of the eighteenth-century Edinburgh tavern. It developed largely as a result of the very fine leeks from market gardens along the fertile Lothian coast, which supplied Edinburgh with vegetables and fruit.

A variety of the Common Long Winter Leek, raised in this area, and possessing a long, thick stem and broad leaves, is described as Poireau de Musselbourgh by William Robinson in The Vegetable Garden (1885) when he says that ``the fine qualities of this vegetable are much better known to the Welsh, Scotch and French than to the English or Irish.''

Scots leeks continue to be distinguished from other leeks, particularly by their long leaf (green flag) and short blanch (white). The large amount of green is required to give broths a good green colour. A traditional Scottish leek will have almost as much green as white, while ``long-blanched'' leeks with only a very short green flag are more typically English.

Though the Musselburgh leek, which was grown for winter hardiness and which was most probably the original variety in cock-a-leekie, is no longer grown commercially it continues to be grown by some amateur gardeners.

Leeks are now grown commercially from September to April starting with the early varieties of Perlina, Verina, Tilina, Argenta, Startrack, Pancho, Jolant. Mid-season varieties: Perlina, Verina, Tilina, Startrack, Proibleu, Wintra, Cortina, Porino. Late varieties: Cobra, Porino, Kajak, Pinola, Derrick.

In 1995, 230 hectares of commer- cial leeks were grown on around 106 farms.

To make two meals, first roast the chicken or game birds and then make the remains into a broth, with sausages.

In the broth, potatoes are used instead of rice, and instead of onions a fennel-bulb adds its fresh, aniseed twang. Prunes add sweetness, balancing any bitterness in mature leeks.

Ingredients

To roast the chicken or game birds:

1 x 2kg (4lb) chicken or game birds

4 tablespoons olive oil

Salt

To make the broth:

Sprigs of fresh herbs, parsley, thyme and bay leaf (tied together)

Water to cover

4 medium or 8 small Maris Piper or other similar all-purpose, not too floury potatoes, peeled

500g (1lb) leeks, split and washed

1 fennel bulb, very finely sliced

500g (1lb) pork sausages

Salt and pepper

2 tablespoons chopped parsley

50g (2oz) small bite-sized, ready-to-eat `breakfast' prunes

Method

Cooking the chicken/game birds:

Rub oil over the skin and season with salt. Roast in a hot oven, Gas Mark 8/230C/450F, turning every 20 minutes. For chicken, allow 20 minutes per 500g (1lb), game birds 15 minutes.

Making the broth:

Remove the bird from the oven and serve. Reserve the remaining roasting juices and put into a large pot. Remove all the edible meat and chop coarsely. Reserve.

Put the carcass into the pot with the juices, cover with cold water and bring to simmering point. Add the herbs, and simmer for about an hour. Add the potatoes and simmer for another 20 minutes or until they are just soft. Strain. Remove the potatoes. Press all the juices through the sieve and discard debris.

Return the broth to the pan and add the fennel, cook for five minutes. Add the remaining meat, the leeks and parsley. Simmer for two minutes. Season.

Meantime, grill the sausages until crisp and well-browned.

To serve as a main course in deep (1 litre/2 pint) Japanese noodle bowls or equivalent: put a potato and two sausages into each bowl along with a few prunes and some chopped parsley. Ladle over the hot broth. Serve with crusty bread.

THE patron saint first of Pictland and eventually of all Scotland is honoured every November 30 at St Andrew's Night dinners when the toast is: ``To the memory of St Andrew, and Scotland Yet!''

Andrew was a doer-behind-the-scenes. A quiet, self-effacing apostle who went off and found the loaves and fishes for the gathering on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. He was martyred on a cross decussate, X-shaped rather than the usual T-shaped cross, which eventually become recognised as the Scottish national emblem, first appearing on the royal seal in 1290.

Sanct Andra's Day, Andyr's Day, or Andermas is celebrated as a patriotic festival at home and abroad by expatriate Scots. Dinner menus usually consist of a selection of national dishes, though not always haggis.

There was no haggis on the menu at the Parklands Hotel in St Andrews when St Andrews University launched their Scottish Studies Institute in 1993, with a gathering from a' the airts. Scottish poets, Liz Lochhead, Edwin Morgan and Don Paterson, along with Communicado Theatre and Lammas band, performed with a night of poetry readings, drama and music, while Scottish chef, Brian Maclennan, orchestrated a special dinner for the event.

The doer-behind-the-scenes had gathered donations of food from his local suppliers. There was Finnan haddock from Kerracher's of St Andrews, gigot of Angus lamb from Kennedy's of Carnoustie, while the cheeses were from Howgate of Dundee.

The meal began with potted hough, which he had made the day before. Two slices on a white plate with crimson red slices of baked beetroot and a bunch of delicate green lamb's lettuce, the well-seasoned, thick, meaty jelly providing a light start to the meal. Then there was contrast in the intense richness of a creamy fish-flavoured sauce coating a small portion of Finnan haddock. The gigot of lamb was roasted and served with tureens of Scottish winter vegetables and a dish of potatoes and crunchy oatmeal skirlie.

If this seems like a gastronomic overload, it has to be said that the portions were not large, and the streets outside were covered with snow - calories were not a worry but a priority. The penultimate course of brown-burnished, spicily aromatic clootie dumpling was served with a Drambuie flavoured whipped cream, followed by Howgate cheeses and dumpling-maker Pat Russell's oatcakes.

n Extracted from Catherine Brown's A Year in a Scots Kitchen (Neil Wilson publishing, #14.99)