Three ways with Moro

Long before we visited their restaurant, my Ma and I developed a deep-rooted affection for Sam and Sam Clark. Their cooking, inspired by the food of Southern Spain, North Africa, and the Eastern Mediterranean, was faithfully recreated in our Nottingham kitchen. We debated their take on paella, aspired to make our own sourdough and the monkfish rice was cooked for one of Mr F's first visits to our family home. Since then, we've shared one much-thumbed and oil-splattered copy, which is the subject of occasional negotiations about who gets to have it next. The spine may have given up and the pages of rice recipes may be stuck together, but we still love it.

Before long, we acquired their second book, Casa Moro, which made its home in my first post-student flat. There it guided me through my first forays in grown up entertaining; including an infamous New Year's Eve dinner at a friend's far-nicer flat, preceded by an afternoon of gin and tonics and rolling dough for gozleme. However, it didn't stay in one place and, amongst its trips to Nottingham, a visit to South Africa saw it help to prepare a night-before-family-wedding dinner for a legion of hungry South Africans: chicken fattee all round.

More recently, we acquired Moro East. Charting the Clark's experience of tending an East London allotment, it led to an abortive windowsill garden in Clapham and inspired a plethora of simple meals based on unfussy meat dishes and inventive salads. The ideas for interesting seasonal dishes quickly established it as my favourite and, unlike the others, it never left London.

It should, therefore, come as no surprise that I didn't hesitate to accept when offered the chance of a sneak peek at the new editions of all three books. Released to mark the 10th anniversary of the publication of the first Moro book, all three have been slipped into snazzy new soft covers, with the substance of the books left untouched.

Although the Moro books cover a wide range of ingredients, their strength lies in the Clark's handling of simple vegetable dishes, pulses and salads. With all three books to hand, I decided to recreate something from each Moro. Armed with some veggies from my parents' garden, Mr F and I relived the past with Moro East's beetroot borani; first eaten at the restaurant itself on my twenty sixth birthday. However, it was time to try something new: blanched chard as directed by the original Moro, dressed with lemon juice and a grassy olive oil from the stall on Broadway Market. Mum's yellow and green courgettes were given a quick blast in boiling water and dressed with hand-crushed chermoula a la Casa Moro. We gorged on vegetables and slathered the borani on grilled fish. It was a flavoursome but virtuous feast.

Despite all best intentions, my new books are already lightly glazed in a mistimed sprinkling of lemon juice and a poorly aimed drizzle of oil. All except Moro East, which was carefully preserved for my Ma. After all the years of selfishly hoarding the hardback, it was the least I could offer.

All three will be available from 4 August. Even if, like me, you already have more books than is wise, I'd heartily recommend them.