Celeriac Remoulade

Celeriac is not a beautiful vegetable. It arrives at the market looking like something pulled from the ground by force, which it was, covered in root hairs and caked mud and a general air of not caring what you think of it. This is part of the appeal. The flavour is hidden inside all that ugliness: clean, celery-bright, with a nuttiness that only shows itself once you've taken a knife to it.

Remoulade is a French word for something that doesn't need a French word. You cut the celeriac into matchsticks, dress it in mustard and crème fraîche, and leave it alone for a while. The dressing softens the raw edges. The mustard does the talking. It's the kind of thing that gets better the longer it sits in the fridge, which makes it invaluable if you're feeding people later and want one less thing to think about.

This is a winter salad in the truest sense. Celeriac comes into season around October and stays good through to March, and during those months there's very little I'd rather have on the table beside a piece of cold meat or a slab of smoked mackerel. I wrote it down in the notebook the first time I made it, years ago: celeriac, mustard, lemon, Tuesday, rain. I've made it most weeks since, and the note hasn't needed updating.

The knife work is the only real task here. Fine matchsticks, as thin as your patience allows. Everything else is stirring and waiting. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract, and this one doesn't ask much of you. A sharp knife, a steady hand, and the good sense to use more mustard than seems reasonable.