Ken’s Traditional Christmas Ham – The Proper Showstopper That’ll Have Everyone Fighting for Seconds

 

Listen, Christmas isn’t Christmas without a proper ham on the table. Not one of those sad, pre-sliced things from the supermarket that tastes like wet cardboard – I’m talking a glorious, glistening, smoky gammon joint with a fat cap so thick it’s practically begging to be glazed. This is my go-to recipe, handed down and tweaked over the years, and it’s stupidly simple but looks like you’ve spent all day slaving over it. Spoiler: you haven’t.

The secret? Gentle simmering with proper aromatics, then a sticky, mustardy, breadcrumb crust that turns golden and crunchy. It’s the ham that gets the “how the hell did you make this?” looks every single time.

Serves 8–12 (with leftovers for epic sandwiches)
Prep 15 mins | Cook 2–4 hours simmering + 15 mins baking
Cost about £1.50–£2 per person (depending on the joint)

Ingredients (Amazon affiliate links for the bits I always use – cheers for the support)

• 1 large smoked gammon joint (4–5kg ideally, with a good thick layer of fat – get it from the butcher)
• 6–8 bay leaves
• 1 tbsp juniper berries
• 1 tbsp black peppercorns
• 1 tbsp cloves (for studding)
• 4–5 tbsp Demerara sugar
• 1 egg yolk
• 2 heaped tsp English mustard powder (this one is the proper Colman’s)
• 100g fresh breadcrumbs (make your own or buy decent ones – none of that orange sawdust)

Method – Dead Easy, Maximum Wow

1. The simmer. Grab your biggest saucepan and chuck an upturned heatproof plate in the bottom (this stops the gammon scorching on the base – old-school trick). Add the bay leaves, juniper berries, and black peppercorns. Pop the gammon on the plate, fat side up, and fill the pan with cold water until the meat is just covered. Bring to a gentle simmer (not a rolling boil – you want it to bubble lazily). Cook for 20 minutes per pound (450g). For a 4kg joint, that’s about 3–3.5 hours. Top up the water if needed.

2. Check it’s done. The ham is ready when a skewer slides in easily and the fat is soft. Lift it out (careful – it’s hot and heavy) and let it cool slightly. Reserve a splash of the cooking liquor if you fancy making a sauce later.

3. Skin it. Once it’s cool enough to handle, peel off the rind, leaving the fat layer intact. Score the fat in a diamond pattern with a sharp knife – go deep enough to cut through the fat but not into the meat.

4. Stud it. Push cloves into the intersections of your diamond pattern. It looks posh and smells like Christmas.

5. The glaze. In a small bowl, mix the egg yolk, mustard powder, and Demerara sugar into a thick paste. Smear it generously over the fat – get it into all the scores. Then sprinkle over the breadcrumbs, pressing them down lightly so they stick.

6. Bake. Preheat the oven to 180°C fan (200°C conventional, gas 6). Pop the ham in a roasting tin (line it with foil to save washing up) and bake for 15 minutes until the crust is golden and bubbling. Keep an eye – you want it bronzed, not burnt.

7. Rest and carve. Let it sit for 15–20 minutes before carving. The fat will firm up a bit, making it easier to slice into perfect, juicy slabs.

Why This Ham Is Bloody Marvellous

• That smoky, herby flavour from the simmer is next-level
• The mustard-breadcrumb crust is sweet, tangy, crunchy perfection
• Leftovers are gold: sandwiches, pea and ham soup, quiche, the lot
• Freezes beautifully (sliced or whole)

Serve it hot with roast potatoes and all the trimmings, or cold with pickles and chutney. Either way, it’s the star of the show.

Voila! Bloody marvellous!

My Amazon kit for the perfect Christmas ham
→ Colman’s English mustard powder – the only one worth using
→ Good quality cloves – these are fresh and potent
→ Heavy-duty roasting tin – mine’s been going strong for 15 years
→ Sharp carving knife – makes slicing a dream

Get that ham on the go, you legends. Your Christmas table will thank you.

 

Proper Homemade Sausage Rolls – The Ultimate British Classic You’ll Never Buy Again

 

Right, let’s cut the faff. You’ve had enough of those cardboard-tasting supermarket sausage rolls that taste like regret and sawdust. It’s time to make your own – proper, flaky, buttery, herby, and so good you’ll be hiding them from the kids. These are the sausage rolls that make people go quiet when they bite in, then immediately demand the recipe.

This is dead easy if you’ve got a bit of patience (and a fridge). We’re making a rough puff pastry from scratch – none of that shop-bought nonsense that tastes like plastic. Trust me: once you’ve made these, you’ll never look back.

Makes 12–16 decent-sized rolls (or 24 cocktail ones if you’re feeling generous)
Prep 45 mins (plus chilling) | Bake 18–20 mins
Cost about £5 for the lot – bargain

Ingredients

• 250g plain flour (sift it, don’t be lazy)
• 250g unsalted butter – proper cold, straight from the fridge (I use this Kerrygold)
• 250ml ice-cold water (keep a jug in the freezer for 10 mins)
• 450g good sausage meat (I get mine from the butcher – proper pork, not 60% filler)
• 1 heaped tsp dried sage (or mixed herbs if you’re feeling fancy)
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper (be generous)
• 1 beaten egg for glazing (this is the one that makes them golden)

Method – Step-by-Step, No-Nonsense

1. Pastry time. Sift the flour into a big mixing bowl with a good pinch of salt and a crack of pepper. Cube the cold butter into small chunks and chuck it in. Get your hands in and rub roughly – you want big lumpy bits of butter, not breadcrumbs. This is rough puff, not shortcrust. Leave it rustic.

2. Bring it together. Slowly pour in the ice-cold water with one hand while mixing with the other (use a knife or your fingers). Stop as soon as it forms a shaggy dough ball – don’t overwork it. Wrap in cling film and shove in the fridge for 30 mins minimum. (This is where the magic happens.)

3. Sausage prep. While the dough chills, mix the sausage meat with the sage (or mixed herbs), a decent pinch of salt and plenty of black pepper. Fry off a small spoonful in a pan, taste, and adjust seasoning. You want it properly herby and savoury – this is your only chance to get it right.

4. Lamination time. Flour your work surface generously. Roll the dough into a rectangle about 1cm thick. Fold it into thirds like a letter (bottom up, top down), then give it a quarter turn. Roll out again into a rectangle. Repeat this folding and rolling twice more (three turns total). This is what gives you those beautiful layers. Pop it back in the fridge for 10–15 mins if it’s getting sticky.

5. Assembly. Flour the surface again. Roll the dough into a long rectangle about 30cm x 20cm. Roll the seasoned sausage meat into a long sausage shape with your hands (divide into two if it’s easier) and lay it down the length of the dough. Brush one long edge with beaten egg, then roll the dough over the sausage meat like a giant sausage roll duvet. Seal the edge firmly with a fork or your fingers.

6. Cut and glaze. Slice into your desired size – 8–10cm for big ones, 4–5cm for cocktail bites. Place on a baking tray lined with baking paper (this one is non-stick and reusable). Brush the tops with more beaten egg for that glossy finish.

7. Bake. Preheat the oven to 180°C fan (200°C conventional, gas 6). Bake for 18–20 minutes until deep golden brown and the sausage is cooked through (no pink). You’ll smell them before they’re ready – pure heaven.

8. Serve. Let them cool for 5 mins if you can bear it (I never can). Eat warm with HP sauce, ketchup, or just on their own like a civilised savage.

Why These Sausage Rolls Are Worth the Effort

• Flaky, buttery pastry that shatters when you bite
• Proper sausage meat that’s seasoned to perfection
• Freezes brilliantly (uncooked or cooked) – batch them up
• Cheaper and tastier than anything you’ll find in a packet

Go on, make a double batch. Your future self will thank you when you’re raiding the freezer at 11pm.

My Amazon kit for perfect sausage rolls
→ Kerrygold unsalted butter – the gold standard
→ Reusable silicone baking mats – no more burnt paper
→ Sharp paring knife for clean cuts (this set is a steal)
→ Rolling pin that actually works (I use this one)

Get stuck in, you beautiful bakers. Share a pic if you make them – I want to see those golden beauties.

Farewell to Casalingo: Brighton's Proper Italian Institution Calls It a Day After 37 Heartwarming Years

 

Blimey, talk about a proper kick in the guts. Here we are in mid-December 2025, and Angelo and Geri Martinoli drop the bombshell: Casalingo Ristorante Italiano, that cosy Preston Street legend slinging authentic Northern Italian grub since 1989, is retiring come Sunday 1st February 2026. Thirty-seven years of turning simple, fresh ingredients into plates that transport you straight to Lake Como (where Angelo hails from). Born near those misty shores, trained in Swiss kitchens, he rocked up in Brighton in '79 and built a family-run haven that's outlasted every flashy pretender on the strip. "Casalingo" means homely, and crikey, it was – relaxed vibe, candlelight, attentive staff who treat you like one of their own, and food so genuine it draws Italians from miles around.

I've been a regular for donkey's years, popping in several times long before 2021 (though I never got round to blogging about it back then – too busy stuffing my face, probably). Then the pandemic hit, and when things eased, I finally put pen to paper: October 2021 for that post-lockdown antipasti platter and sea linguine that felt like a proper rebirth, followed by a February 2022. Tucked at 29 Preston Street, it's minimalist and welcoming, no fuss, just big-hearted classics: prosciutto e melone, snails in garlic butter, seafood linguine packed with mussels and clams, salmon risotto, veal medallions in sage and Frascati, and that legendary panna cotta or tiramisu to finish. Reviewers on TripAdvisor and The Argus rave about it being "simply the best" Italian in Brighton – generous portions, reasonable prices, and service that's warm as a Nonna's hug. It's hosted countless birthdays, first dates, and raucous celebrations, with walls once scribbled with punter love notes.

Angelo and Geri's announcement tugs at the heartstrings: mixed emotions, time to relax with family and chase dreams after cherishing all those friendships and feasts. They're bowing out gracefully – open as normal till 20th December, festive break, then back 8th January for the final hurrah, including cabarets with Jason Lee's vocals on the 9th and drag icon Dave Lynn on the 25th from noon. If you're anywhere near Brighton, book now for one last plate of that linguine pescatore or carbonara – raise a glass of Barolo and say ta-ra properly.

Losing Casalingo is like losing a friend who's always got your back with a cracking meal. In this world of here-today-gone-tomorrow eateries, family-run gems like this are gold dust. Angelo, Geri, and the crew – you've fed us body and soul. Enjoy the retirement, you absolute legends. We'll miss you something fierce.

Fancy recreating a bit of that magic at home? Here's my Amazon picks to tide you over:

→ Marcato Atlas 150 Pasta Maker – the proper Italian one for fresh sheets at home

→ Homemade Pasta Made Simple cookbook – easy lessons for restaurant-worthy noodles

→ A cracking Italian cookbook with classics like tiramisu and risotto

Slurp responsibly, folks. Share your Casalingo memories below – what's your go-to order?

 

Roasted Carrot & Chicken Stock Soup

Right then, you lot asked for it: the posh-but-still-cheap version of my famous roasted carrot soup, now turbo-charged with proper chicken stock. Same lazy method, same ten-quid kitchen, but suddenly it tastes like you’ve been simmering bones since last Tuesday. Ridiculously good, ridiculously easy, and it’ll have your mates swearing you’ve secretly enrolled at Le Cordon Bleu.

Serves 4 very happy people or 6 with dainty portions
Prep 10 mins | Cook 45 mins
Total cost still under a fiver if you’re not daft with the stock

Ingredients (affiliate links = stuff I actually use and earn a few pennies from, cheers ducks)

• 1kg carrots (wonky ones, the sweeter the better)
• 1 large onion, roughly chopped
• 4 fat garlic cloves, unpeeled
• 3 tbsp olive oil (this one – decent but won’t bankrupt you)
• 50g butter (real butter)
• 1 heaped tsp ground cumin
• 1 heaped tsp ground coriander
• Salt & loads of cracked black pepper
• Juice of ½ lemon
• 800ml–1 litre proper chicken stock (homemade if you’re smug, otherwise this one is my store-bought cheat and it’s bloody lovely)

Method – Still Brain-Dead Simple

1. Crank the oven to 200°C (180°C fan, gas 6). Foil-line a roasting tray unless you enjoy scrubbing.

2. Chuck the carrots (peeled or not, I still can’t be arsed), onion, and unpeeled garlic into the tray. Drizzle with olive oil, scatter the cumin, coriander, tons of salt and pepper, then toss like you mean it.

3. Roast 35–45 mins, shaking once. You’re after proper blistered edges and that “someone’s cooking something filthy” smell wafting through the house.

4. Tip the lot into a big pot. Squeeze the now-soft garlic from its skins, add the butter and 800ml of hot chicken stock. Blitz with a stick blender (still using this absolute legend of a machine after 13 years) until it’s smoother than a Tory’s excuse.

5. Slosh in more stock if you like it thinner, then hit it with the lemon juice. Taste – it’ll probably want another pinch of salt and a heroic crack of pepper. Adjust until it makes you go “blimey” out loud.

6. Serve scalding hot with crusty bread drowned in butter, maybe a swirl of cream if you’re feeling rock-and-roll.

Why this version is even better

• Chicken stock turns it from great to “shut up and give me the recipe” territory
• Still freezes brilliantly – your future self will want to kiss you
• Proper restaurant depth for about 90p a portion

Go on, make a massive pot. Your January self (and your wallet) will thank you.

My Amazon kit for this exact soup
→ The stick blender that refuses to die
→ My emergency decent chicken stock (no shame)
→ Odysea PDO Kalamata Extra Virgin Olive oil I actually buy by the crate
→ Real butter (because spreadable is for quitters)

Slurp, swear, repeat.