Life, Style and everything NICE

More than just an appreciation of Delia, the BBC2 programme has also shown how food TV has changed - and not always for the better

Interactive: four decades of Delia

In my kitchen I have a row of hardbacks with the odd food-spattered page and well-loved recipe. And then I have my complete Delia – battered, grease-stained, annotated; with a cover where the writing's fading, and a corner that's been ripped clean off. She might not have much glamour – and recently displayed an alarming fondness for tinned mince – but Delia's still the woman to turn to when your mayonnaise starts to split.

IWhich does not mean, however, that I thought a set of five programmes about her contribution to cooking was going to be a good idea. Delia Through the Decades sounded rather like a fine hour-long programme gone very, very long. Instead, with the final instalment looming this evening, I don't want it to stop.

Partly that's because Delia has been on something of a screen break and it's lovely to have her back (I prefer to wipe How to Cheat from my mind and pretend it never happened – I imagine that once Delia saw the reviews, she rather did too). Partly, it's because Stephen Fry's narration of the series has been absolutely charming. And partly it's because the programme has functioned as a history of British cooking as much as a celebration of Delia – and all without her having to get dressed up and drunk on 70s liquor with Giles Coren.

But mostly, Delia Through the Decades has been essential watching because it shows how far food television has diverted from its original path: of showing people how to actually cook. Delia might not be as glossy, as shouty, or as aspirational as some of her more recent counterparts, but she will actually show you how to make something from your existing supplies that you could have for tea tonight.

Other TV chefs might do that too of course – some of them with more gimmicks than others. But Delia will tell you how to do it precisely and properly. As Nigella Lawson told the programme: "She's like a home-economics teacher who wants her class to do better." Delia isn't factual TV that's also about selling you an unattainable lifestyle – it's about folding in egg whites with a big metal spoon you can imagine her mum gave her, in a kitchen that doesn't look too unlike your own, without any added embellishment. Glossy cooks are all very well – but without a Delia figure, food TV does rather appear to be missing a vital ingredient.

• Delia Through the Decades, BBC2 tonight 8.30pm

Watched by millions, the Super Bowl's commercial breaks were filled with explicit mockery and derision of women

In between the beer and auto adverts during last night's Super Bowl, CBS television spared 30 seconds to address its female audience, with New York Jets' quarterback Mark Sanchez urging female viewers to learn more about the symptoms of heart attacks.

"You're important to me," he said, as the prerecorded sound of his heart beat in the background. "Especially if you watch football. CBS cares."

If CBS cares so much about women, an estimated 40% of the Super Bowl audience, why am I again writing about the blatant, juvenile sexism of the adverts that last year earned the network more than $200m in ad revenue? Instead of having a cute footballer tell women he doesn't know how much he cares about them, perhaps Rupert Murdoch's Fox network (airing the 2011 game) should screen out the mockery and derision of women that was again so explicit in the breaks between the on-field action. The theme this year: women are nags who don't want you to have any fun, but through buying the right stuff, you can regain your manhood.

The Super Bowl is the most-watched television event on the US calendar, with an estimated 90m to 100m tuning in last night to watch the New Orleans Saints beat the Indianapolis Colts to notch their first victory in the big game.

The adverts are a cultural bellwether, with advertisers pouring money into creative development in an effort to keep Americans in their seats between plays instead of making for the refrigerator. Last February, when the economy was shedding jobs by the hundreds of thousands every month, and home values and portfolios were plummeting, "cash for gold" companies featured prominently. With the job market lurching into recovery, last night Careerbuilder.com, Monster.com and online brokerage E-trade hoped to cash in on the resurrection.

In contrast to the methodic, highly organised action on the field, the adverts were a dizzying display unhigned from any narrative context longer than 30 seconds. The iterations of self-reference send the mind reeling, an indication the advertisers expect viewers to watch impassively rather than try to keep up.
For me, the night's overarching message was clear: by choosing the brands (of television, tyres, soap and automobile) men can reassert their masculinity, escape their nagging, domineering wives and girlfriends, and be free. Buying the right kit, men, will make it easier to tolerate having to carry your girlfriend's lip balm or put up with her criticism of your slack-jawed buddies.
Bridgestone literally told men its tyres are so great, better to cede one's wife to highway bandits than the rubber (the gag: a creep shouts "your Bridgestone tyres or your wife! Stop, I said life, not wife!" before the unseen driver kicks a hysterical young woman out of his car, into the rainy night.

Automaker Dodge's "Man's Last Stand" spot shows bored, oppressed blokes staring vacant-eyed at the camera, as the narrator recites the litany of modern manhood's daily drugeries ("I will shave … I will sit through two-hour meetings"). Surprise: Dodge would have us complain about our girlfriends, and how they make us put the seat down after we pee, put our underpants in the laundry hamper, take our socks off before getting into bed. The escape? A Dodge Charger muscle car ("And because I do this, I will drive the car I want to drive").

Among the chores our girlfriends inflict on us, according to "Man's Last stand": separating the recyling. Manhood means the freedom to race a 19 mile-per-gallon crate down the highway and toss your beer bottles into the trash, where they damn well belong. Caring about the earth is an unmanly pursuit best left to your harpy arm-candy.

Elsewhere in the broadcast, mobile television brand FloTV offers a mock "injury report" on a man whose mate has "removed his spine" and forced him into a trip to a shopping mall, making him miss the big game. "Change out of that skirt," the narrator urges.

And in an effort to sell moisturising body wash to men, Dove tells us that, having jumped life's hurdles – convinced a woman to marry him, mowed the yard and helped his nagging wife to open a pickle jar – he's a man, and should enjoy "comfortable skin".

Next year, let's hope the $200m-plus Super Bowl advert show rejects misogynistic gags that insult men as much as they do women. That sign of respect, not 30 seconds of public service announcement pander thrown in among blondes, beers and beavers, will show they care.

Blackbirds winning the war of the bird balls

Winter at the summerhouse is all about birds. And binoculars! And foot-deep snow.

Spent hours watching the small birds feeding on the fat balls: Scandinavian coal and crested tits as well as the more usual blue and black headed birds, with the fat bullying blackbirds chasing the robins away from the seed that falls through the net.

Another half-metre of snow on Tuesday has transformed the frozen sea into a Tarkovsky scene. The bay now almost completely covered in a kilometre of ice maybe 20cm thick.

Gone now the cute crystals: this is volcanic, leaden, larval ice. The edge, though, is alive with hundreds of swans: Bering or Whooping we think (pronounced hoop or woop, anyone know). The Danes name them 'singing swans' and their excited calls carry far over the bay.

So lots of long walks trudging through the woods and along the shore before returning to the warmth and the wood stove. Won't return now till Easter when we hope the snowdrops will still be there. Hope your weekend worked?

After a recent surge of male 'pick-up schools', one has now started for women. Helen Croydon hones her seduction skills in the busy bars of central London

Five of us sit huddled round a notebook and a bottle of pink cava in a quiet corner of a busy bar in Leicester Square, central London. It is 6pm on a Friday and it is starting to fill with men and women in office attire.

"So who are you targeting, Helen?" Gulp.

"Erm, well, I haven't looked around yet."

I am immediately chastised. Concentrating on immediate company and not looking over shoulders to scan rooms is, in flirting school, a D minus.

Sue Ostler, a flirt coach and the author of four relationship manuals, has started a weekly learn-on-the-job flirting tour of the heaving bars of London's West End.

During our briefing, we are warned of our male rivals who operate in the same territory. The so-called Pick-Up Artists crawl Friday night bars in small tuition groups with a guide to talk them through pulling tactics. The phenomenon caught on in the UK after the success of Neil Strauss's memoir, The Game.

"You can smell them when you enter a bar," Ostler says. "They home in on anyone without a male by their side and come up with cringeworthy lines. We won't do that. We are focusing on our personalities and developing a sense of warmth and likeability."

Tonight, we are told, is not about getting a date, but about practising. It doesn't matter who we approach or if they are our type. We just need guinea pigs on whom to test Ostler's theory, which she is now explaining over a second glass of fizz.

Apparently, it's all about exuding a lively, approachable vibe. "It's Friday night, look like you're having fun!" we are told. Sitting down is not allowed, as that "puts us out of reach". We have to smile a lot and look confident, yet relaxed. We should take in our surroundings in case we want them to be conversation openers. Is there a jukebox? Is anyone drinking a cocktail that we can comment on? We should never embark on a night out without an accessory that could invite someone to open a conversation - a hat or a striking necklace, for instance.

Most importantly, we need to make plenty of eye contact: "We instinctively look away when our eyes lock with a stranger. Tonight you are going to hold it for five seconds, smile, maybe even wink, and see what happens," Ostler instructs. I am absolutely terrified.

At crowded bar number one, Ostler unleashes us into the crowd: "Go!" She follows behind to observe our amateur tactics.

Instead of staring straight ahead, as I would usually, I smile at a man to my left. Disastrously, the crowds prevent me from continuing forward, so I am stuck awkwardly next to him and don't know where to look. My smile worked, though, because he opens a conversation. I lean back, away from his vodka breath.

"No!" growls Ostler in my ear. "You need to lean inwards. Think friendly, warm, welcoming persona." I obediently endure three minutes of his slurring. It's practice, remember.

In the next - thankfully quieter - location, I select a clean-cut business type as my practice piece. He is deep in conversation, so I walk straight past. How can I infiltrate that?

Ostler is unimpressed: "You should have made a detour to walk past him. Why did you walk around that other guy? You could have tapped him on the shoulder, smiled and said excuse me and gently squeezed past. Go back."

I protest on the grounds that he has obviously seen us conspiring. But I am forced. Despite my flirting being under duress, it works again. On my return journey, the clean-cut suit stops his conversation and asks: "Are you looking for your friends?" Cue a conversation.

Ostler has a formula for the conversation stage: A-E-I-O-U. A is for ask lots of questions. E is for ears to listen, rather than talk. I is for the essence of 'I' - making sure your personality oozes out. O is for Oh my God - showing some animation and a human side. U is for you - the person you are talking to - making them the focus of conversation.

The theory behind girl flirt school is very different to the equivalent male camp. Groups such as puatraining.com, which teach wannabe Romeos on the ground in real bar settings, draw their technique from that described in Strauss's book. The core skill seems to be sickly sweet one-liners, and success is judged on getting a girl into bed.

I witnessed this theory put into practise when we bumped into a suspected group of trainee pick-up artists in our final bar. No sooner had I taken off my coat than a guy who looked about 12 approached me: "Your shoes match the colour of your dress exactly - I'm impressed." It was said with laughingly manufactured charm, but it was so assertive it was hard not to respond, so there must be something to the tactic.

Thankfully Ostler came to my rescue. "He's one of them. Stay away." The 12-year-old shrugged and moved on to a nearby brunette.

Ostler claims that learning to flirt should have a far higher-reaching aim than getting someone's phone number. "It is about lighting the spark to your personality and letting people see it shine through. Flirting opens yourself up to new people and opportunities. What I teach helps ladies socially and in work situations."

It seems then that flirting is more about learning to be liked, not learning to be fancied. From what I saw, the pick-up theory for the boys is far less advanced.

• Sue Ostler runs the Flirt Schmooze and Shimmy Tour every Friday in central London, £30. Book via flirtdiva.com

There's no reason why air-dried sausages can't be made in Britain. Here's our step by step guide to how to make your own salami

Rick Riordan's son, Haley, has dyslexia and ADHD. Aged nine, he refused to read, but loved Greek myths so Rick turned his boy into a latterday hero – Percy Jackson – in a series of bestselling books and now a Hollywood movie

Fifteen-year-old Haley Riordan's life has been utterly changed thanks to the young son of a Greek god who loves nothing more than going on quests and fighting with fire-breathing ­monsters. Percy Jackson is the ­creation of ­Haley's father, Rick, a former teacher from Texas. His Percy Jackson ­adventures (there are five in all) are huge bestsellers (the latest book, The Last Olympian, had an initial print run of 1.2m) and attract hordes of fans who queue at book-signings wearing togas. Now ­Percy's profile is about to rise even higher thanks to a new film starring Uma Thurman and Pierce Brosnan.

But Percy is an unlikely superhero: he has never scored above a grade C in his life, and he thinks he's a loser, until page 88 of The Lightning Thief (the first in the series). For Percy has ­dyslexia and attention deficit ­hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), just like Haley, on whom the character was based. At the start of his adventures, Percy discovers that his difficulties are not a weakness after all, but a sure sign of greatness: when he sees words jumbled on the page, it's because his mind is hard-wired for ancient Greek, and when the ADHD makes it hard to sit still in the classroom, it's just ­hyper-awareness that will keep him alive on the battlefield.

"Percy has changed my life," says Haley. "You read a lot of books and none of them have a hero who is ­dyslexic or has ADHD – it's always perfect people in a perfect world ­doing perfect things. Percy is, in fact, very flawed and he has to fight against that and at the same time fight monsters."

The character started out as a ­bed-time story for Haley, then nine. At the time Haley refused to read and hated school so much he would sit under the table and cry. But he was ­fascinated by Greek myths, and so his father would recount his favourite ones. When he ran out of stories, Haley said, "Why can't you just make one up?" And so Percy Jackson was born.

I meet Rick, 45, at his home in San Antonio, Texas, where he lives with his wife, Becky, 45, and their two sons, Haley and Patrick, 11. Rick cuts a neat figure in a clean-cut blue shirt and grey trousers. But this, like his simplified prose, is at odds with a deeper ­emotional drive. He gave up teaching five years ago, but still sees himself as an educator who wants to make a difference; a champion of the sidelined.

"I get an enormous number of emails and letters from families who have children who are ADHD or dyslexic. One of my favourites is a young girl who wrote to me and said she used to be ashamed that she had ­dyslexia, but now she has read the Percy Jackson books she wears that as a badge of ­honour. And that means the world to me. There are so many other ­children out there like my son who are ­struggling with these issues and feel there is something wrong with them, and there's not. It's simply a different way of processing information."

He says he isn't trying to preach to children, only seduce them into ­reading with humour, terror and excitement to keep them on the edge of their seats from page to page. "I have a great deal of sympathy for reluctant readers because I was one. I would do anything to avoid reading. In my case, it wasn't until I was 13 and discovered the Lord of the Rings that I learned to love reading."

But his books, even if they have no moral, do have a constant theme, which is the complexity of family life. Percy adores his mortal mother, Sally, who works in a sweet shop in Grand Central Station, hates his stepfather, Gabe, and is ambivalent about his ­father, Poseidon, aka Old Seaweed, who doesn't make himself known to Percy until he's 12 and only then ­because he wants something.

"We tend to think of divorced or complicated families as a ­modern invention, and that is not at all true," he says. "You only have to read the Greek myths to see broken homes, widows, divorce, ­stepchildren, children trying to get along with new parents."

His own family life is remarkably stable: the only child of two teachers, he grew up in San Antonio and met his wife, aged 15. "We were high-school sweethearts. We've grown up together and it's hard to get away with anything because she knows everything about me." After studying English and ­history at the University of Austin, Texas, Rick trained as a teacher, specialising in 11 to 14-year-olds. ­"Critical years when everything is in flux for the kids: emotionally, socially, academically, intellectually. I find it a very gratifying age group to work with because these are such formative years."

He started writing when he was 13, and published his first novel at 29, Big Red Tequila, about a private ­detective in San Antonio, and the first of what was to become the Tres Navarre ­mystery series for adults. Rick ­settled down to a routine of teaching and ­writing a book a year, but then gave up teaching in 2005 after selling the Percy Jackson series.

The books may be consistent best-sellers, but there is more than a passing similarity to ­another boy ­wizard, Harry ­Potter. Both attend boarding schools for children with special powers (Hogwarts; Camp Half-Blood); both use landmarks as magical gateways to secret worlds (King's Cross station; the Empire State Building); and both have faithful sidekicks (Ron and Hermione; Grover and Annabeth).

Is Percy Jackson similar to Harry Potter? "Yes, absolutely," he concedes, "but I don't think it's because Percy is modelled after Harry Potter. It's because they are both models of the same arche­type. A lot of what JK Rowling does so well is draw from Greek ­mythology: the idea of magic being in the world; of great forces that are not seen; a young protagonist who is outcast but then finds out that he actually has a great destiny; he has great abilities but needs to go to a trainer to get them recognised; he has to realise his destiny by taking on a quest and ­accomplishing a great task – well, I've just described Harry Potter. I've also just described Hercules, Percy Jackson, ­Perseus and Theseus."

However, he's the first to admit that JK Rowling was an influence. "As a teacher, I've never seen anything like Harry Potter. That's why I smart when people talk about the 'next' Harry ­Potter. There is no 'next' Harry Potter. There never was a Harry Potter before Harry Potter. It's completely ­unprecedented in children's literature. I had students who read these books 13, 14 times and I would say, 'Great book, but don't you want to try something else?' And they would say, 'There's nothing else this good.'"

So, he says he "took some lessons" in her blend of humour, mystery, ­adventure, action, character. But mostly, he says, Harry Potter opened doors. "It made publishers aware there was a market for children's literature, and it convinced me, as it convinced a lot of writers, that writing for children was a viable thing to do."

He is now a full-time writer, but says: "I'm afraid I'm very ADHD, much like Percy. There are days when I'll write for 15 minutes and have to give up and move around, and I'll write ­another paragraph and give up again. On other days I get intensely ­focused on the process, sit down at 8am and won't get up until 8pm."

The other difference is that Haley is more confident and is even writing his own novels – an achievement that he rates as an "in yer face moment" for all those teachers who ignored him. ­"Basically, I misspell stuff but that's about as far as the dyslexia hinders me. It's coming straight from your head!"

He is keen to point out that they are full length novels – longer even than ­anything his father has ever written. "As soon as I bypassed him, I was like, wow, it's longer than you!" He smiles at his father and Rick smiles back. He's seen it all before, of course. "Every Greek hero has to make his father proud and yet outdo him," he says.

"That's a very strong ­motivator, ­especially for young men."

Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief is released on 12 February, percyjackson.co.uk

Michael Drake's classic silk ties produce an 'English look the way the Italians imagine it'. But his is one of the few remaining companies making these items by hand

A new study claims that certain types of beer are a rich source of dietary silicon, and can help prevent osteoporosis

Beer is a rich source of a nutrient that can help prevent weak bones – but it depends what type you drink, claim researchers at University of California, Davis, today.

As one of the nation's favourite tipples, beer is a rich source of dietary silicon, which can help cut the chance of developing diseases like osteoporosis, they conclude.

However, not all beers are the same, with those containing malted barley and hops having higher silicon content than beers made from wheat.

Some light lagers made from grains like corn have the lowest levels of silicon while beers made from hops seem to come out on top, according to the study. The research, published in the Journal of the Science of Food and Agriculture, examined 100 commercial beers and their production methods.

The experts said beer was a major source of dietary silicon – roughly half of the silicon in beer can be readily absorbed by the body.

Charles Bamforth, lead author of the study, said: "Beers containing high levels of malted barley and hops are richest in silicon.

"Wheat contains less silicon than barley because it is the husk of the barley that is rich in this element.

"While most of the silicon remains in the husk during brewing, significant quantities of silicon nonetheless are extracted into wort and much of this survives into beer."

Dr Claire Bowring, from the National Osteoporosis Society, said: "These findings mirror results from previous studies which concluded that moderate alcohol consumption could be beneficial to bones.

"However, while the National Osteoporosis Society welcomes measures to improve bone health we do not recommend anyone increases their alcohol consumption on the basis of these studies.

"While low quantities of alcohol may appear to have bone density benefits, higher intakes have been show to decrease bone strength, with an alcohol intake of more than two units per day actually increasing the risk of breaking a bone.

"There are also many other health concerns linked with alcohol which cannot be ignored."

Catherine Collins, a dietician at St George's Healthcare NHS Trust in London, said there was no recommended daily amount of silicon people should be consuming.

She said it was hard to prove deficiency in silicon because so little was needed.

"Sources of silicon do include beer – either alcohol-containing or alcohol-free – and it's also added as an anti-caking agent to powders such as baking powder.

"It is found in different amounts in water, so contributes to beer's total silica content.

"Silica may well contribute to bone health but in a minor way.

"It is not really significant compared with nutrients that we know are essential for bone health and are potentially deficient in the UK diet – such as calcium and vitamin D."

What are the environmental merits, or otherwise, of petroleum-based cosmetic products?

I find Vaseline and similar petroleum products, including many sold for use in eczema, make for good, cheap moisturisers. But are these products environmentally sound? If I thought using them was contributing to excessive use of oil reserves I would try to find alternatives. What do you think?

Jane Green on email

Jane, thanks for the question. I must say that I'm a little concerned about how much of these products you apply to yourself that leads you to wonder whether you might be helping to deplete the world's oil reserves.

But I take your wider point, and will return at the end of the week to look into the environmental merits, or otherwise, of petroleum-based cosmetic products. Readers' views are, as ever, most welcome. Maybe we could expand it out to include coal-tar soap? I still love the childhood-evoking smell of that stuff, but what exactly is it?

Rhubarb's rose-red stalks and mouth-puckering juices are a perfect match for creamy desserts and even mackerel. This has been a lifelong love affair …

When I was a kid there was barely a garden without its clump of rhubarb, usually as far away from the house as possible, more often than not adjacent to the quietly steaming compost heap with its vegetable peelings and grass cuttings. Last year, happily trudging around the country's allotments, I came across many a canopy of leaves and startling red-and-green-freckled stems. In the shops right now are the first pretty pink shoots of rhubarb that have been forced into the world in the darkened sheds of Yorkshire's famous rhubarb triangle, just waiting to be baked under a sweet rubble of butter, sugar and flour.

I can't grow enough rhubarb for my own needs, so I carry the slender stalks, as pink as Blackpool rock, back from the farmers' market. Whatever else I do with it, there is always some that is chopped into pieces the length of a wine cork, tipped into a baking tin, sweetened with sugar, honey or maple syrup, then baked till they are soft enough to take the point of a knife. This becomes a template for breakfast or pudding.

Baked rhubarb, sometimes tarted up with orange, a splash of cassis (strange but true) or our British blackcurrant liqueur, is a good thing to stir into your breakfast porridge. It cuts the cereal's tendency to blandness. I add the soft, poached stalks to a smoothie too, blitzing it with yogurt to give a gentle start to the day.

It is easy to understand why this slender addition to the meagre supply of locally grown winter fruit and vegetables gets such a mixed reception. Any ingredient that dares not to be sweet is often greeted with short shrift. Gooseberries, damsons, blackcurrants and rhubarb – pretty much my favourite fruits – lack the instant appeal of a strawberry or a nectarine, but I know which I'd rather have on my plate on a winter's morning.

Even the most loyal of followers needs to take a little care with the beloved sour one. The leaves are poisonous in quantity and must be removed. Only heatproof glass, enamelled cast iron and stainless steel are suitable materials for cooking utensils that come into contact with the oxalic acid present in this pretty vegetable. Simmer your pink stalks in an aluminium pan and you will end up with a seriously nasty metallic-tasting – if not downright poisonous – pudding.

There is a suggestion that you can eat it raw. I certainly did as a nipper, poking chunks of it straight into the Tate & Lyle and then into my mouth. I recently saw a salad where it had been shaved off in thin slithers. Worth a try.

To those who treat a sting of sourness as a welcome quality in a dessert or pudding, the first stalks of rhubarb are like a ray of sunshine. That clean, bright hit of sour rhubarb, like a sherbet lemon, has an uplifting quality appropriate for the start of a new year.

Gooseberries, like a sharp applesauce, take the fatty edge off a plate of roast pork or grilled mackerel. Rhubarb works just as well. I sometimes make a purée of it with sugar and a little water, other times by roasting the trimmed and chopped sticks with sugar for 30 minutes or so till they will just take the point of a knife. Good on their own, a cinnamon stick, a flower of star anise, a few slices of ginger root or even the odd vanilla bean are all worthwhile additions.

Rhubarb fanciers might also like to know of a charming and useful little softback book, as pink as a stick of grandad's favourite, called Rhubarbaria (£8.99, Prospect Books). A collection of recipes both wacky and traditional, Mary Prior's book has hardly left my side since the season began. I warmly recommend it to anyone with a taste for rhubarb beyond the crumble.

CINNAMON PANNA COTTA WITH ROAST SPICED RHUBARB

A rich and subtle accompaniment for poached or baked rhubarb. Makes 4 x 200ml moulds or ramekins.

200ml full-cream milk
200ml double cream
a cinnamon stick
a vanilla pod
200ml crème fraîche
6g leaf gelatine (3 small leaves)
3 tbsp icing sugar

Pour the milk and cream into a small saucepan. Add the cinnamon stick. Cut the vanilla pod in half, scrape the seeds into the cream with the point of a knife and drop the pod in too. Bring almost to the boil, turning off the heat immediately the liquid is approaching the boil. Stir in the crème fraîche. Cover with a lid and leave for 15 minutes. This will give the vanilla and cinnamon time to subtly flavour the cream.

Put the gelatine leaves in a bowl of cold water and leave for 5 minutes to soften. When they are soft, stir them, together with the icing sugar, into the cream mixture. Stir till they have dissolved. Pour through a sieve to remove the spices.

Pour into the moulds and place them in the fridge for 4 or 5 hours till set. To release from their moulds, lower carefully into a bowl of tap-hot water for a few seconds, then upturn on to a small dish or saucer. Serve with the rhubarb below.

For the rhubarb:
400g young rhubarb
3 heaping tbsp honey
a small orange
a cinnamon stick
2 whole star anise

Set the oven at 160C/gas mark 3. Trim the rhubarb and cut it into short lengths. Put the pieces into a baking dish, then trickle over the honey. Cut the orange in half, squeeze it over the rhubarb and add the orange shells to the dish. Add the cinnamon stick and the star anise. Cover with a piece of foil or a lid, then bake for 30 minutes, or until the rhubarb is soft but has kept its shape. Serve with the panna cotta.

MACKEREL WITH RHUBARB AND SHERRY VINEGAR

Serves 2

For the rhubarb:
200g rhubarb
2 tbsp caster sugar

For the mackerel:
2 fresh mackerel, filleted
a little plain flour
olive oil
a small sprig of rosemary
sherry vinegar
a tbsp capers (optional)

For the rhubarb, preheat the oven to 180C/gas mark 4. Cut the rhubarb into short lengths and put in a roasting tin or baking dish with the sugar. Bake until just soft enough to take the point of a knife – about 20 minutes. Allow to cool, then drain, reserving the cooking juices.

For the mackerel, season the flour with salt and a little black pepper. Lightly coat the skin side of each mackerel fillet in the seasoned flour. Heat a little oil in a large, non-stick frying pan. Gently place the mackerel fillets in the hot pan, skin-side down. Chop the rosemary needles and scatter over the fish. Press the fish down with a palette knife to stop it curling.

As the underside of the fish starts to crisp lightly, carefully turn over and cook the other side. It shouldn't take longer than 2 or 3 minutes on each side. Lift the mackerel fillets out on to warm plates.

Pour a couple of tablespoons of sherry vinegar (or less to taste) into the hot pan. Add the cooked rhubarb and the rhubarb juices. Add the capers if you are using them. Let the rhubarb briefly warm through, then spoon over the mackerel and serve.★

nigel.slater@observer.co.uk