The decision to stop eating meat was far less difficult than I had imagined. I was introduced to the idea at university while living with two vegetarians, both of whom had equal respect for the planet and their stomachs. In a cramped student kitchen I tried tofu for the first time (I remember thinking it was subtle, silky and soothing) and realised that there was a whole world of cuisine out there that I had not yet experienced, one that was rich in variety and flavour and deserved more attention. Weekly flat dinners included a host of new and exciting dishes: tamarind-laced dhal, creamy laksa and scorchingly spicy Nepalese noodle soup. The food was interesting, satisfying (never once did I think 'this would be perfect with a lamb chop') and, crucially, delicious.

My curiosity and taste buds now piqued, I practically dismissed my student survival cookbook and began to research new chefs and recipes of my own. A host of what were once alien ingredients now started appearing regularly in my weekly shopping basket: broad beans, sesame oil, curry leaves and smoked paprika, to name but a few. Over time, I created my own little repertoire of meat-free dishes to which I returned again and again. Plenty of those initial experiments are best left forgotten (the parsnip tagine was a particular low point), but I was enjoying myself so much that by the time my final year rolled around, I was ready to give up sausages and steak for good.


No one else in my immediate family has renounced the pleasures of the flesh, and, while they have always respected my choice, they have not always been entirely convinced by it. Many of the iconic dishes of my childhood feature meat (stuffed vine leaves, kibbeh,  pasta al ragù, scaloppini Milanese), and it has been hard to assure my folks that a life without these dishes is not inherently lacking. I have worked tirelessly to prove that a meat-free diet does not mean a lifetime of nut cutlets and indistinguishable vegetable gratins. My aim remains to demonstrate that cutting out meat is not restrictive but enriching, opening the gateway to a whole new galaxy of gastronomy.

The trick, I've found, is to take vegetables from the supporting act to the star of the show, creating a selection of dishes so tasty and satisfying that no one notices the absence of meat. This summer's recipe challenge has been an ideal opportunity to try out new things on my suspicious guinea pigs, and so I have recently turned to three vegetarian cookbooks for inspiration: Plenty by Yotam Ottolenghi, River Cottage Veg Every Day! by Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall and A Modern Way To Cook, by Anna Jones.




There was a packet of green beans lurking in the fridge the other week, and I was sick of the sight of them. I tend to rely on beans as a last minute green fix, cooking them quickly and without much fanfare. It was high time to do something more interesting and Yotam Ottolenghi was the natural solution. His award-winning book Jerusalem marked a turning point in my kitchen: he taught me to be more adventurous with flavours (the spice rack has never recovered) and that it really is possible to 'make miracles' with vegetables. I can always rely on Ottolenghi to use ingredients in a way I wouldn't expect, and so to resolve the green bean conundrum I turned to Plenty, a book I purchased in a wholly selfish move for my mother last Christmas.


Plenty is a collection of Ottolenghi's vegetarian recipes, divided by ingredient. Luckily for me, there is an entire chapter devoted to green beans. This recipe involves blanching the beans, along with mangetout and peas, and mixing them in a bowl. Nothing new there, then. The twist is the dressing: you gently heat coriander and mustard seeds in oil until they 'pop', and toss them immediately with the veg. Among several extra seasonings are nigella seeds, a spice with which I am lately obsessed, but whose subtle flavour I still struggle to describe - it's lost somewhere fragrant between pepper, coriander and sesame. The final addition is tarragon, which I almost never use, as it only ever seems to be paired with chicken - not particularly helpful. I now know that it it lends a pleasing aniseed note to the potential blandness of the beans. Served alongside a simple tomato and bulgar wheat pilaf, the salad was an absolute hit. The whole dish is best described by Ottolenghi himself, as one that offers 'a good balance of clean freshness from the beans with the punchy complexity of the herbs and spices.' He's right: the sweet and crunchy greens were the perfect foil for such a hefty dressing. The flavour combination was utterly unexpected: spicy yet subtle, zingy and fresh. I'm now desperate to buy green beans so I can make it all over again.




This was the first vegetarian cookbook I owned. Unlike Ottolenghi, who maintains a careful distance from the diet debate, Whittingstall adamantly asserts the positives of cutting down on meat consumption. 'Call me power crazed' he says, 'but I am trying to change your life, here.' I can't say that the book has had such an impact on me, as I hardly needed convincing of the benefits of vegetarian food, but it has provided a useful bank of sturdy, reliable recipes, with comforting, uncomplicated flavours. Whittingstall also makes the valid point that vegetarian food becomes so much more interesting if you stop seeking to simply replace meat (ie. swapping your mince for TVP) and just ignore it instead - freeing you from the shackles of the 'meat and two veg' structure. Once you've done that, he argues, you 'can get on with the 'life-enhancing business of enjoying the extraordinary range of fresh seasonal vegetables we can buy... cooking them in a whole range of new and exciting ways.' Hear hear. 



Given that Whittingstall is, in his own words, 'a notorious carnivore' I felt the book was particularly appropriate for winning over vegetarian sceptics. I handed it to my sister, and asked her to pick out something that she'd be interested in eating. To my great surprise, she opted for one of the simplest recipes in the book, a 'store-cupboard supper' involving boiled potatoes (a paradigm shift as far as she is concerned) and yet more green beans. The process is straightforward: you boil new potatoes in salty water and throw in the beans for the last two minutes. In the meantime, you gently fry slivers of garlic in olive oil, adding in chopped black olives. You then mix the two together and dress with torn basil, lemon, salt and pepper. That's it. I'm not sure I agree that it tastes like a 'deconstructed tapenade' as Whittingstall suggests, but it certainly has a lovely Niçoise nuance to it. The flavours are simple, unfussy and aromatic: summer food at it's best. We ate it alongside 4-minute eggs and a crunchy green salad, and my sister had not a bad word to say. Result. 





A Modern Way To Cook is my latest vegetarian compendium. Clear, concise and uncluttered, Jones' recipes are full of interesting new ways to get the best out of veg, without spending hours slaving over the hob. Unlike Ottolenghi and Whittingstall, Jones is a full-time vegetarian, and you do get a sense that this is 'straight-up everyday food' that someone committed to meat-free eating would want to make regularly. I particularly enjoy her algebraic approach to staple recipes, providing a basic formula on which the cook can improvise - suggesting both a practical mind and a thorough knowledge of what makes a dish work. 


This was the first recipe I made from the book, when, at a last minute family get together, I needed to find a meat-free meal for me, while my relatives enjoyed beef-stuffed aubergines. Given the time and space restraints, it needed to be quick, fuss-free and economical with kitchenware, all of which Jones caters for brilliantly. This recipe is essentially an unorthodox ratatouille, created by charring grated courgettes under the grill, followed by onion, garlic, tomatoes and jarred red peppers. Meanwhile, you pan fry chickpeas in lemon zest until golden and crispy. Then you mix it all together and serve. Job done. The whole concept felt thoroughly 'modern': the reworking of familiar flavours with a time-saving, yet taste-boosting technique was a stroke of brilliance. Unusual, yes, but my, was it moreish. I put this down partly to the contrasting textures: crunchy chickpeas set against meltingly soft veg, but I had no complaints on the flavour-front, either. The faint hint of charcoal from the grill, combined with the sweetness of the peppers tasted like the quintessance of summer. I loved it, and the notable absence of leftovers (given that I'd followed a recipe for four) suggested that all the carnivores at the table did, too. They just couldn't keep their forks to themselves.

Now, I'm not under the delusion that any of these meals were enough to wean my family off meat for good, nor was that ever my intention. But I think they all served as a useful reminder that, when it comes to mealtimes, focusing on vegetables is hardly a sacrifice. In fact, it's bloody brilliant.