Fried in pancakes, braised with duck, pickled with a roast chicken or baked for pudding, apples are one of autumn’s star ingredients

Few ingredients are as familiar as apples, yet few carry such symbolic weight. Peaking just as the season’s begin to turn, they are the ultimate symbol of nature’s abundance, imbued with a sense of nostalgia for the retreating sunlight. The symbolism became unexpectedly tangible to me during a recent autumn apple-picking trip with my family: surrounded by branches heavy with fruit, I found myself seeing the humble apple with fresh awe. It looked nothing short of nature’s miracle. Native to the mountains of central Asia, near the modern Kazakhstan-China border, it has travelled further than perhaps any other fruit, becoming at home in cuisines from Normandy to New York, Caucasus to Kashmir. Sweet or savoury, everyday or celebratory, the apple is truly universal. Its versatility always reminds me of the simple joy of cooking with the seasons.

Baked pasta, gnocchi, chicken, meatballs and greens – all perfectly served straight from the oven

• Sign up here for our weekly food newsletter, Feast

As I have mentioned before, we live directly above a takeaway pizzeria and tavola calda (a canteen-like spot that translates as “hot table”). My desk is by the window, so the writing and editing of my next book (a collection of regional recipes that is only two years late) has been accompanied by the smell of whatever is cooking in their kitchen downstairs, before being arranged, in big roasting trays, behind a glass counter. Occasionally, I have to shut the window, but mostly the steady stream of pizza, baked pasta, braised meat, meatballs, roast potatoes and green vegetables shining with olive oil inspires me. And that is the inspiration for this newsletter: ideas for easygoing dishes that are best served straight from their rectangular roasting tins.

As I write this, it is almost lunchtime, so, driven by my own hunger, I would like the first serving from a roasting tray to be Angela Hartnett’s macaroni cheese: al dente pasta mixed with béchamel and various cheeses, then baked until golden brown and bubbling at the edges. Just as welcome would be a plate of baked pasta inspired by one of my friend Cinzia’s dishes: meze maniche, rigatoni, penne or macaroni with a rich tomato sauce, basil, lots of mozzarella and pecorino. Or a slice of Meera Sodha’s vegan sweet potato, miso and wholemeal lasagne, which, she promises, takes 15 minutes to put together and uses good, flavourful, ready-made ingredients such as miso, sun-dried tomato paste and passata.

Baker Helen Goh’s fridge is chock-full of far-eastern flavours – but with a few fusion surprises

Curry leaves
I used to freeze fresh curry leaves, but then [the chef] Romy Gill said you lose all the aroma when you do this. So now I fry them and you get curry leaf oil, which keeps them fresh. You can then crumble them into things like dal.

Tofu
I’m addicted to tofu – I have firm, medium, soft, and puffy. But this is my breakfast tofu in ginger syrup; it’s like junket but made with soya beans. Someone taught me how to make this, but the secret ingredient was plaster of paris, so I get it from the Asian grocers. I’m not a big breakfast person, but I could easily eat a whole tub of this.

A deep and ingredient-busy take on the classic, constructed with four layers of pasta and a little geometric thinking

Bearing in mind that lasagne is a construction, it pays to start with some easygoing geometry. That is, think about the size of the dish you want to fill in relation to the size of the sheets you are using and the number of layers you want the lasagne to have. For four to six servings, I use a particular ceramic dish, because its 20cm x 29cm proportions mean that, broadly speaking, two fresh sheets of shop-bought egg pasta or four dried ones make a single layer (homemade pasta can be rolled and cut with scissors to whatever size you like, so is less relevant here).

Having calculated how many sheets are needed for each layer, the next question is: how high do you want your lasagne building to be? Height depends on the density of the filling, which, in the case of this week’s recipe, includes sausagemeat rolled (using wet hands and speed) into small, grape-sized meatballs that act like height-boosters in shoes. This elevation, along with tomato sauce and three cheeses, means that, even with just four layers, this lasagne has depth and cuts into satisfying squares. All this emphasis on the dish is also fitting because the word lasagne seems to derive from the Latin lasanum (cooking vessel), which in turn derives from the ancient Greek λάσανον, which signified either a cooking vessel or a tripod set over a fire.

A Japanese fusion-fuelled garlic mushroom doria, an aromatic Malay chicken and squash curry, a rich Rajasthani papad ki sabji, and a Caribbean curry crab with roasted corn and dumplings

Curry runs through Malaysia’s veins; it’s in every kitchen and at every food stall, whether run by Malays, Chinese or Indians. We tend to cook curries using either a wet spice paste (rempah) straight from the morning market, or a good curry powder – every household keeps a pack of Adabi or Baba’s in the cupboard as a fallback; we have no shame in this at all. Only when you’ve got time on your hands, or you’re cooking to impress, do you build a rempah from scratch.

An eclectic selection that will take you on a culinary journey – make room on your shelves

Kitchening by Jeremy Lee (4th Estate, £30)

Converted from Victorian buffet bars, ticket offices and waiting rooms, these station pubs offer beautifully restored interiors, real ales and a slice of railway history

No prizes for guessing what this pub used to be… The Old Ticket Office has high ceilings, walls painted shades of locomotive green and booths resembling train carriages; there are outdoor tables on Station Square. A live train departures board theoretically prevents passengers lingering too long, and a canning machine means any draught beer is also available to take away (the hatch on platform 4 also does takeaway orders). There are five handpulls plus Young’s usual spritz menu and other drinks, plus light bites and pizzas. The pub is currently closed for roof repairs and expected to reopen by the end of October.

Scots have a rich food history that’s been passed down through generations. Here are my modern takes on traditional Celtic staples

There is a depth and history to Scotland’s food that reaches far beyond deep-fried Mars bars or urban myths about haggis. Kitchens were humble and full of life – recipes passed by word of mouth, scraps of paper shared between friends, generations stitching together simple meals. I’m lucky enough that my mum taught me how a potato, a handful of oatmeal and a bit of salt and butter could make a meal and hold a story, but life changes – new ingredients arrive, we move away, time grows shorter – and, sometimes, those simple, comforting recipes drift out of reach. Today’s dishes began as a keepsake for my children – to save old recipes, to record a feeling of home – but also as an invitation to discover what happens when memory meets invention.

Cook up mushrooms, leeks and foraged chestnuts, pick fruit, sow broad beans for spring and harvest squash

Quince
Hard as a baseball and initially unpromising, quince are at their best cooked until beautifully aromatic. To save the torture of peeling (thank you, queen of preserving Pam Corbin), poach whole until soft, cool, then discard the core and blitz.

Leeks
Try cooking these sweet, oniony joys in a moderate oven, wrapped in foil with just a dash of olive oil and a sliced garlic clove per leek, until soft and luscious – about 40 minutes, depending on thickness.

What’s good and what’s going off this autumn in the world of food

Manchester

The cookbook author shares a trio of lighter pasta recipes for the warmer months ahead

(Pictured above)

Transform two tins of baked beans into this creamy curry

Masala baked beans, tadka baked beans, curried baked beans, spicy baked beans; all avatars of spice-laced baked beans are a mainstay of British Asian kitchens. We were raised on this stuff – use as a toastie filler, to smother jacket potatoes, or scoop them up with roti. Enter baked beans butter masala. With a sharp sweetness, a versatile tin of baked beans already has all the foundations required to build a brilliant butter masala, so all we’re doing is dressing them up. I like to think of it as though the beans are donning a frock made of all the good stuff: butter, cream and spices.

This recipe is an edited extract from Modern Masala, by Sanjana Modha, published by Quadrille at £25. To order a copy for £22.50, go to guardianbookshop.com.

‘Kölsch is not a drink, it is a religion’ in Cologne, and it’s only brewed in and around the German city. But which of the many beautiful, storied beer halls serves up the best?

There’s a saying in Cologne, repeated with the mild smugness of people who know they’re right: kölsch is the only culture you can drink. It sounds like a line lifted straight from the tourist board’s brochure. Then you spend a day working your way around the city’s traditional brewhouses and realise it’s a statement of fact.

Since 1997, kölsch has held a protected geographical indication within the EU, guaranteeing that any beer bearing the name is brewed within 50km of the city and made strictly to the Kölsch-Konvention. That agreement, signed in 1986, defined the style as “a light, highly attenuated, hop-accentuated, clear, top-fermenting ‘vollbier’ [full-beer]”, restricting production exclusively to the local area. It is, in effect, the champagne of pale ales: locally adored and tied to a city that has always insisted on doing things its own way.

Spoons at the ready for 83-year-old Maria’s rustic risotto with pork and saffron, and Rita’s polenta-style rice with a punchy sauce

If I were to say “Italian rice”, you might well think “risotto” and “the Po Valley”. However, these two recipes come from Sardinia and the Marche, mainly because I wanted to share a few easy, not-laden-with-rules Italian rice dishes.

While it’s ideal for mopping up chilli and soup, this Southern US staple can be made substantial enough for a main meal with a few simple additions

Like banana bread, a rather less ancient North American creation, cornbread isn’t a loaf in the conventional sense. Though it’s perfect for soaking up chilli, brothy bean soups and the like, it’s actually substantial enough to be the main event, rather than something you might reach for to mop the plate after it. (It’s also gluten-free, should that be a consideration.)

Prep 10 min
Soak 2 hr
Cook 25 min
Serves 6

It has taken me decades to get over the vegetarian cookbooks of my past

It would be unwise to overstate things, the world being as it is, but what happened in the UK with stuffed peppers is a tragedy. You know the ones I mean: traffic light bell peppers stuffed with a cupboard raid of rice, breadcrumbs, lentils, nuts and veg – 70s stuffed peppers. The kind you might find in a wholefoods cookbook, cheerfully distended and jaunty of cap, with the physiognomy of PC Plod. I used to make them at university sometimes, my sensibilities being, as ever, several decades out of touch. I think I was trying to channel the vegetarian cookbooks my parents once had – in the years before discovering pesto, these peppers were the vegetarian’s lot. The recipes I concocted bore things like buckwheat groats, curly leaf parsley and yeast extract. To this day, I cannot hear “stuffed vegetables” without flashbacks to such peppers and their generous cargo of junk.

It’s a shame, because stuffed vegetables so obviously do not have to be this way. Take chiles rellenos: think about what it takes not just to stuff a poblano, but to blacken it over flame, then to peel off its skin, fill with cheese, secure the seam with a toothpick, coat in flour, dip in fluffy whisked egg, and fry until the batter is crisp and puffed.

She prepared a miraculous feat for my celebration. The very thought of it still makes me smile

Though we were nurtured by Mum’s cooking daily, my parents’ brood thought little of the effort required, though we devoured the efforts made. It wasn’t until later in life, having donned the mantle of cook as a career, did I begin to appreciate quite what was required to feed a large, boisterous family well. For the most part, we ate simple Scots fare – lentil soup, mince and tatties, suet puddings – but, on occasion, Mum would sit at the counter, trawling through her favourite books, cigarette in hand, and, indicating a find, would duly pen a shopping list.

One such instance was for a birthday feast – Mum’s and mine, for I was born on Mum’s birthday – and the date was the 21^st. And this particular birthday was my 21^st. Birthdays for the most part were celebrated by just the family around the table at home, and, usually in both Mum and Dad’s hands: the triumphant entrance of a splendid cake, made in whichever child’s favourite flavour (chocolate for my sister, while I adored a spiced fruit cake, thickly iced). I always felt that mum’s birthday was overshadowed by mine, which seemed somewhat unfair. So, for this celebration, I volunteered to bake a cake – an offer she kindly accepted. And so Mum graciously relinquished her kitchen – in itself quite something, for the kitchen was her domain – but more of that anon.

Little bits of loveliness from Sauchiehall Street to the Silk Road, from a chef who wants to deliver maximum joy

Sebb’s is a basement restaurant on Miller Street in Glasgow with a door that’s perilously easy to miss, even though it’s bright red. The first time I tried to find it, I waltzed past and almost ended up in the pants department of TK Maxx. I was luckier the second time around, and soon found myself descending a set of stairs into a room with the distinct vibe of a beatnik diner inside a bowling alley: there’s no natural light, there are booths that are perfect for conspiring in, a DJ playing psychedelic rock and food served in brown paper bags. The 13th Floor Elevators at noon on a Thursday?! Absolutely – as well as the globally ranging delights of sobrassada and ancho honey pitta, tandoori pork belly with tamarind chutney, barbecued squid with zhoug and preserved lemon aïoli, and trout ceviche with habanero, mango and tequila. It’s as if the Big Lebowski took up cooking.

Sebb’s opened in late 2024, and just over a year later, head chef Danny Carruthers’ food had already snagged the place a Michelin bib gourmand – to my mind by far the most interesting part of the whole tyre company’s advertising hoopla. Bibs are designed to reward places just like Sebb’s: odd, informal, intriguing – the type of place where you can pop out to for lunch without needing four spare hours, a booking months in advance and a decorative Patek Philippe watch on your wrist.

The star chef demystified the restaurant scene with his love of a welcoming pub. Now he explains why hospitality is in crisis – and how to make a sublime venison chilli

Tom Kerridge is the king of meat: first as a chef, transforming pub classics like pork belly into Michelin-starred fare at The Hand and Flowers in Marlow 20 years ago, and later opening The Butcher’s Tap and Grill in the same village; then as a cookery writer: his Outdoor Cooking – The Ultimate Modern Barbecue Bible of 2021 is well named, being both as comprehensive and as worshipful as a holy book; and recently as a “meat-fluencer”, making gorgeous skills videos on Instagram and YouTube.

That was just destiny, he says (more or less). “When you’re cooking in a classic brigade system, the sections are like a larder: you’ve got starters, you’ve got garnish, you’ve got meat and fish, you’ve got pastry. The meat is the lead section, where the most experienced chef is, because that’s where you land when you’ve learned to treat vegetables with love and respect. If you fuck up cabbage, it doesn’t cost a lot.” It’s true, it doesn’t, but if you saw the care Kerridge puts into dicing an onion – peeling its layers apart like he’s making a mosaic, assiduous even about half an inch of waste – of an onion – you’d know that love and respect aren’t really about money.

As Britain goes mad for yam, shortage of planting material and concerns over control of crop prompts sales halt

In a corner of north London on a weekday morning, Filipino cuisine is thriving: diners at Mama & Sons in Kentish Town are making their choices, and one of the most popular items on the menu is the ube ice-cream sandwich. It’s easy to see the appeal of the light, fluffy bun encasing a purple scoop of ice-cream.

The owner of the cafe, Omar Shah, says ube – a vibrantly purple root vegetable long-beloved in the Philippines – has exploded in popularity in the UK. Just when he thinks it has reached its peak, it becomes “even more popular”. And this year, he says, has been no exception.