Recipes for four new year treats inspired by Italy

New Year in Italy means lentils. In Rome, they say those who eat lentils and grapes at New Year conta quatrini tutto l'anno (count coins all year long). It is the magic of their form. Shaped (a bit) like coins, lentils are an augury of wealth and happiness: the more you eat, the better your fortune the following year. It is a tradition upheld in much of the country, although different regions have different ways of eating lentils and have different accompaniments – particularly good are the fat cotechino sausages of the north.

As a boy growing up in Sicily, my partner Vincenzo remembers the promise of fuochi e lenticchie a mezzanotte (fires and lentils at midnight), meaning that everyone went up on the roof and watched the fireworks that illuminated the Bay of Gela at midnight, then ate lentils or grapes. Some believe that you must eat the lentils while the clock is striking for them to be truly fortuitous, others that one chicco (grape) should be eaten with each of the 12 strokes, a challenge happily accepted by an eight-year-old boy with an elastic mouth.

It was in a room full of eight-year-olds where I first ate New Year lentils. I had foolishly gone to a party even though I wasn't well. Realising I wouldn't make it to midnight, I borrowed a hooded top that smelled of cigarette smoke and lay on a quiet sofa in a study, which turned out to be not so quiet when a dozen children arrived to watch a film. I couldn't move, so lay with one child on my legs, another hitting me with a light sabre, listening feverishly to Madagascar in Italian. At midnight, the kids rushed off to throw party poppers and themselves around the garden and I listened to voices and glasses in the other rooms feeling like a melancholy teenager. Eventually I went through, at which point someone gave me an effervescent pill fizzing in a wine glass and a brown splodge of lentils. Each seemed bizarre, but welcome, especially the lentils, which were soft, warm and floury, also dull in the way that lentils are, almost muddy, but in a good way – pure comfort.

It isn't just at New Year; Italians cook this most ancient legume all year round. Lentils are simmered for soups and stews, some of which are as beautifully spiced with cumin and coriander seeds as an Indian curry, braised as a side dish, often to go with pork and game. There are several prized varieties; the slate-coloured ones from Castelluccio in Umbria, roof-tile red ones from Santo Stefano in Abruzzo, and pale green-grey from a Sicilian island called Ustica, all of which are relatively expensive, but very good to eat. There are also lots of everyday lentils, the small green or brown ones being the best for today's recipe, I think.

It is true that many recipes we make often are not really recipes at all but ways of doing things. Over time, taste and habit shape them. I am nosy and like the domestic details and culinary gossip that comes free when you ask someone how they make something. Even though I have my way, I will happily listen to another way to make lentils. While buying a packet the other day, I met my friend's neighbour, an elderly lady who has spent her life cooking for many, who told me she simply cuts a stick of celery, onion and tomato into pieces the size of her fingernail, adds a handful of lentils per person, a bay leaf for flavour and good fortune, and enough water to come three fingers above the lentils, then simmers all this until the lentils taste as her late husband liked them. For others it is even simpler, lentils boiled with a whole carrot and a stick of celery until tender, then olive oil or butter is added at the table.

You might serve the lentils and cotechino sausages with the poached quince, in which case I suggest a tray of baked apples that requires nothing more than lots of cold cream and a hungry crowd, and a chocolate and chestnut cake that pleases almost everyone.

But recipes, lentils and grapes aside, whatever you cook or don't cook, however you choose to celebrate, auguri di buona fine e buon principio – best wishes for a happy ending and a good beginning.

Recipe for chicken liver and quince paté

The secret to a relaxed New Year's Eve, if you're doing the cooking, is the same one that applies to any laid-back dinner party: it's all about the planning. That may sound a bit dull, but even I, the original fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants cook, have to accept it's also true. If you can spend any time at weekends or midweek preparing food in advance, you'll always have treasures to pull out of the fridge or freezer when friends come round and you're short of time.

And no dish is greater proof of this than today's luxurious, silky chicken liver paté. I've taken pots of the stuff on half-term trips to the Isle of Wight, to parties up north and even on holiday to Mull. For something so simple, it's remarkably versatile and can act as both the most delicately sophisticated starter (paired with a chicory salad, say) and as a crowd-pleasing addition to a less formal lunch table. It also freezes well, which means you can make it way in advance; or just make double the amount and freeze half for another get-together at a later date.

Chicken liver and quince paté
Leave out the bacon, if you prefer, but otherwise follow the recipe slavishly. It will keep for up to 10 days, though it's unlikely to last that long. Serve with good bread and pickles or a crisp salad dressed with olive oil and sherry vinegar. Serves six to eight.

500g chicken livers
8 rashers streaky bacon
500g softened butter
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
8 shallots, peeled and finely chopped
3 garlic cloves, peeled and finely chopped
1 handful thyme sprigs, leaves stripped
2 fresh bay leaves
2 tbsp brandy
2 tbsp port
1 tbsp quince (or redcurrant) jelly

Cut off and discard any white membranes from the livers. Cut off and discard the bacon rind, and cut the meat into 3cm strips. Gently melt 75g butter in a small saucepan, then skim off any foam and pass through a fine sieve (lined with muslin, ideally) to get rid of all the solids: you now have clarified butter.

Season the livers generously. Put a large, heavy-based frying pan on a high flame until it is smoking hot. Add a small (ie, 10-15g) knob of butter, then sauté the livers in three batches for 40-50 seconds a side, until the outsides are caramelised and coloured, but the insides are still pink. Tip into a food processor, then repeat with the remaining livers, making sure you bring the pan back up to smoking-hot heat and adding a knob of butter between batches.

Once all the livers are cooked, melt another knob of butter in the same pan and fry the bacon strips until the fat has rendered out and the rashers are cooked. Tip the bacon into the food processor, too.

Add another knob of butter to the pan, then gently sauté the shallots on a medium heat for five minutes and season generously. Stir the garlic, thyme and bay leaves into the onions, and fry for a further five minutes, by which time the onions should be soft and translucent. Pour over the brandy, bring up to a simmer, stir to deglaze the pan, then tip the lot into the food processor.

Add the port, jelly and remaining softened butter to the food processor bowl, then blitz until you have a very smooth paté. Check for seasoning and adjust as necessary, then transfer to a bowl. Pour over the clarified butter, then put in the fridge for at least four hours to chill and set. Serve with toast (sourdough is my preference) and a green salad. Alternatively, put the cooled paté in a freezerproof container, cover and freeze: it will keep for months.

And for the rest of the week…
I like to use quince jelly in my paté, because that way I know I'll have some left over for the cheeseboard. I buy lots of streaky bacon at a time from the butcher, too: it keeps well in the fridge for pancakes and maple syrup – they're a must for Christmas holiday brunches round our house – and freezes very well, too. If you have any excess port, use some up in port and orange jellies: they're ethereally light and incredibly good. Finally, raw chicken livers also freeze well, so buy lots and freeze the extras for use in quick, healthy January salads with bitter leaves and a sharp dressing.

Roast lamb with anchovy butter recipe

The recipe
Season a 350g lamb neck fillet with salt and pepper. Heat 2 tbsp of olive oil in a shallow pan over a high heat, then lower in the lamb. Let the meat colour on the underside, then turn and brown the other sides.

Remove the pan from the heat, cover it with a lid and leave it to rest for 20 minutes. Bring a pan of water to the boil. Wash and trim 140g of rainbow chard. When the water is boiling, lower in the chard and cook briefly, for 2 or 3 minutes, then remove the leaves and plunge them into iced water.

In a small pan, melt 70g of butter. Chop 4 anchovy fillets finely, then add them to the butter. Chop 2 tbsp of lemon

thyme leaves, then add them to the butter. Warm the butter, then drain the chard and add it to the pan, turning the leaves over in the anchovy butter. Lift the leaves out on to 2 warm plates. Roll the lamb in any butter that remains in the pan then cut it into 8 thick slices. Serve with the chard, adding a little more salt and pepper should you wish. Enough to serve 2.

The trick
Browned and adequately rested, the lamb here will be rare and perfectly pink. Should you like it a little more well done, then leave it in the pan with the heat lowered a notch or two, for a further 5 minutes. The browning should be both thorough and even. I like mine a little charred here and there as a contrast to the pink interior.

The twist
Rosemary leaves, finely chopped, make a perfect seasoning for the lamb. Include them instead of, or as well as, the thyme. A little garlic, a single, juicy clove sliced as thin as paper, can be lightly cooked in the butter before adding the herbs.