This year, I experienced February 22nd twice. The first time, I was flying from Auckland to San Francisco, crossing the international date line somewhere over the Pacific. I’ve never really understood what happens at the date line. There’s an explanation—something about a group of men in Washington deciding where one day ends and another begins, drawing a line through the middle of the ocean. But knowing that doesn’t make it feel any less strange. You fall asleep, and when you wake up, it’s still yesterday.
It was like Groundhog Day, except I was the groundhog, sitting in my plane seat, eating something the menu called a “warm pasta dish.”
I was in the middle of my Crowd Pleaser tour—four weeks of traveling, cooking, and talking about food across Asia, Australia, New Zealand, and now North America. I had left late summer in New Zealand, with cherries at the market and a sunset that lingered past nine o’clock. Then I stepped off the plane into a San Francisco February that should have felt like winter. Instead, it was warm and sunny. On top of regular jet lag, I had a case of seasonal jet lag.
We tend to think of eating seasonally as something marked by events—lamb at Easter, strawberries in summer, the first pumpkin soup in October. Holidays and occasions do a lot of that work for us, nudging us toward what’s ready, whether we notice it or not. But we all know the real thing is mostly physical: the signals your body quietly receives all along—the cold that makes you crave something warm, the heat that makes watermelon, eaten over the sink, taste perfect. Cross enough time zones and hemispheres, and those signals get scrambled. You’re hungry, but you don’t know what for.
Cooking for someone is only a small part of a bigger exchange—one of being present and showing up.
So on my second February 22nd, I took the train to Oakland to visit my friend Samin Nosrat—the best cure for a confused appetite. There was banana bread when I arrived, from her latest book Good Things, sparkling with sugar and cinnamon, with whole bananas caramelized on top. We had coffee in the garden, walked around the neighborhood, and popped in and out of small shops. I ignored Samin’s warning and bought ceramics I knew I’d have to carry for another two weeks.
For dinner, Samin bought chips and rotisserie chicken from a specialty restaurant. She also picked up some greens from the market, opened her fridge, and brought out a few bottles and jars with dressings she had made: a vinaigrette, a lemon and miso dressing, one with tahini and herbs, and something creamy and yogurt-based. We dressed the greens, pulled the chicken into pieces, and sat down to eat.
In Good Things, Samin writes about attention—how time, and its quick companion attention, are the most precious things we can give or receive. And that cooking for someone is only a small part of a larger exchange: one of presence and showing up.
I admit it took me a moment to get used to this idea. My instinct, when I arrive at a friend’s house for dinner, is always to do more—to offer help, to do something, to justify my presence with effort. There’s a certain kind of cook, and I’m one of them, for whom restraint doesn’t come naturally. We show love through hard work. So a store-bought chicken can feel like a small defeat.
My summer cooking plan: to accept a little help—store-bought birds or meringues, a perfectly ripe mango—and spend more time at the table.
But this is exactly what summer asks you to unlearn. Winter gives you cover—something in the oven, the kitchen full of steam, and the effort itself is the point. The darkness justifies the production. Summer is less forgiving. By June, tomatoes, zucchini, cherries, and nectarines are at their peak, and the best thing you can do is get out of their way. A tomato salad, lightly dressed, left to sit in its own juices until the plate is streaked orange-red and begging for bread. A good peach, oh…On its own, or grilled with a bit of brown sugar and a splash of rum.
The real cooking happens in the early decisions you make, so that by the time guests arrive, you’re actually sitting at the table with them. A few leftover condiments from earlier meals, or ones you’ve made when you had a spare moment—like a dressing, an oil, a quick pickle, or even a citrusy sugar sprinkle, such as the one I use in my mango mess—are really all you need for a certain kind of summer meal.
Eating what’s ripe, cold, and juicy in August isn’t about being virtuous—it’s about paying attention. And the reason summer cooking should be simple isn’t because simple is easy, but because simplicity is the only way to stay present enough to actually taste the food—and to be with the people you’re feeding.
My summer cooking plan: accept a little help—store-bought chicken or meringues, a perfectly ripe mango—and spend more time at the table. The second 22 February was much better than the first.
Vadouvan coronation chicken salad with lime yoghurt
Food styling: Ellie Mulligan. Prop styling: Max Robinson. Photograph: Steven Joyce/The Guardian
Coronation chicken sometimes gets a bad reputation, but this version—with lime yoghurt, sticky apricots, and cashews—makes a strong case for it. It’s built around a store-bought rotisserie chicken, and everything else comes together pretty quickly. It’s the kind of dish you put in the middle of the table for everyone to help themselves. Vadouvan is a mild curry blend with French influence, originally from Pondicherry. It has a sweetness from onion and garlic, but also a strong savory note from cumin and fenugreek. It’s worth seeking out, but you can substitute a mild Madras curry powder.
Prep 20 min | Cook 10 min | Assembly 10 min | Serves 4–6
– 150g Greek yoghurt
– 120g mayonnaise
– 1 lime (1 tsp grated zest and 1½ tbsp juice)
– Fine sea salt and black pepper
– 1 shop-bought rotisserie chicken (1kg), roughly picked into 3cm pieces (650g)
– 3 tbsp good-quality rapeseed oil
– 50g picked mixed herbs, such as mint, coriander, basil, tarragon, or parsley
– 50g pea shoots
– 3 spring onions (45g), thinly sliced at an angle
For the vadouvan chilli oil:
– 175ml good-quality rapeseed oil
– 50g cashews, chopped into roughly ½ cm pieces
– 100g dried apricots, chopped into ½ cm pieces
– 50g vadouvan spice blend (or mild Madras curry powder)
– ¼ tsp sugar
– 15g Aleppo chilli flakes (or 2 tsp regular chilli flakes)
– 1 tbsp cider vinegar
For the vadouvan oil, place the rapeseed oil in a small saucepan over medium heat. Once hot, add the cashews and apricots, and cook for 8–10 minutes, until the cashews are golden and the apricots are sticky. Remove from heat, let cool for two minutes, then stir in the vadouvan spices, sugar, chilli, and vinegar. Set aside to cool.
In a small bowl, whisk together the yoghurt, mayonnaise, lime zest, half a tablespoon of lime juice, and a quarter teaspoon of salt. Set aside.
In a large bowl, mix the chicken with one and a half tablespoons of oil, a quarter teaspoon of salt, and some black pepper. Add the herbs, pea shoots, and spring onions, along with one and a half tablespoons of oil, one tablespoon of lime juice, and an eighth of a teaspoon of salt.
Arrange the chicken and herb mixture in a single layer on a platter. Spoon over half the yoghurt, followed by half the vadouvan oil. Serve the remaining yoghurt and oil in bowls on the side.
Mango mess with yoghurt cream and lime leaf sugar
Food styling: Ellie Mulligan. Prop styling: Max Robinson. Photograph: Steven Joyce/The Guardian
This is basically an Eton mess, but with mango and a lime leaf sugar that’s worth making in larger batches and keeping on hand. Alphonso purée gives the mango mixture its depth—fresh mango alone won’t achieve that—and any extra is great swirled into yoghurt or spooned over fruit salad. Everything can be prepared in advance—the cream, the mangoes, and the zesty sugar—and then assembled at the last minute, or up to an hour before if you want the meringues to soften slightly into the cream.
Prep 30 min | AssemblePrep time: about 10 minutes
Serves 6
For the meringues:
6 meringues (store-bought are fine, about 70g total)
For the yogurt cream:
600ml double cream
100g Greek yogurt
1½ tsp vanilla bean paste
1 lime (1 tsp grated zest and 1 tbsp juice)
60g palm sugar or brown sugar
For the lime leaf sugar:
10g lime leaves, stems removed
40g caster sugar
2 limes (grate 2 tsp zest, save the limes for the mangoes)
â…› tsp flaked sea salt
For the mangoes:
3 mangoes, peeled and sliced into ½ cm slices (400g)
150ml sweetened Alphonso mango puree
15g palm sugar or brown sugar
2 limes (peeled, segmented, and flesh cut into 1cm pieces)
To make the yogurt cream, whisk together the cream, yogurt, vanilla, lime zest and juice, and sugar until soft peaks form. Refrigerate until needed.
Put all the ingredients for the lime leaf sugar in a food processor and blitz until the leaves are finely chopped and the sugar turns green. Transfer to a small bowl.
In a bowl, mix the mangoes with the puree, sugar, and lime pieces, and refrigerate until needed.
To assemble, spoon half the cream onto a platter, arrange the meringues on top, then haphazardly spoon over some of the mango mixture. Scatter some lime leaf sugar on top, and dollop over the remaining cream. Spoon over more mango mixture and finish with another scattering of lime leaf sugar.
Serve with the remaining mango mixture and lime sugar in bowls on the side.
Frequently Asked Questions
Here is a list of FAQs about Yotam Ottolenghis approach to easy summer entertaining based on his Bright and Breezy philosophy
BeginnerLevel Questions
1 What does Bright and Breezy mean in terms of cooking
It means food that feels fresh lively and effortless Think lots of citrus herbs and raw vegetables with minimal time spent over a hot stove Its about making dishes that look impressive but are simple to throw together
2 Do I need a lot of fancy equipment or hardtofind ingredients
Not at all While Ottolenghi loves ingredients like sumac zaatar and pomegranate molasses the core of Bright and Breezy is about using peakseason summer produce A good chefs knife a large platter and a sharp vegetable peeler are your main tools
3 Whats a good Bright and Breezy dish for a complete beginner
A simple chopped salad with ripe tomatoes cucumber red onion and a ton of fresh herbs Dress it with lemon juice olive oil salt and pepper Its crunchy aromatic and takes 10 minutes
4 Can I make these dishes ahead of time for a party
Yes many of them are designed for that Grain salads roasted vegetables and dips like hummus or baba ganoush actually taste better after a few hours or a day in the fridge Just add delicate herbs or dressings right before serving
5 Whats the easiest way to make a meal feel special without a lot of work
Use a large beautiful platter instead of individual plates Pile everything on in a colorful messy way A final sprinkle of flaky sea salt a drizzle of good olive oil and a handful of fresh herbs instantly elevates any dish
IntermediateLevel Questions
6 How do I balance the bright flavors without using too much acid
The key is layering different sources of acidity Use lemon juice for sharpness but also add a splash of pomegranate molasses for sweetness or a bit of yogurt for a creamy tangy base A pinch of sugar can also round out a very acidic dressing
