Recipes for fried party snacks for new year and beyond

Room for one more party, yes? Just one more slice of cake and one more glass of wine? New Year's Eve marks the line between one year and the next, of course, but for many of us it also marks the cut-off point between indulgence and abstinence. What better way to tread this fine line, then, than to have friends over and serve them some snack food rather than one big feast. This sort of food often makes for my favourite kind of get-togethers, anyway: hanging out while eating various nibbles over the course of an evening, rather than the ready, steady, go of a big sit-down number.

One or two or all three of today's snacks will indulge your guests far more than any little party canape, but at the same time they are all just about abstinent enough not to weigh everyone down, which is the last thing any of us needs right now. That's why I'll be treading this very line tomorrow night, to see out the old year and bring in the new.

Panelle
If you're going to make only one snack to serve with the drinks tomorrow night, these are the perfect make-ahead choice. They are made with chickpea flour and cooked like polenta, and you can prepare and chill the mixture today or tomorrow morning, then cut it into slices so the panelle are ready to cook when your guests get hungry and you get frying. I was introduced to these little fritters, a tasty street food snack from Palermo in Sicily, by my friend Ivo Bisignano. Traditionally, they're served hot, straight out of the oil, in a soft white bread roll with just a squeeze of lemon by way of accompaniment, but I like to snack on them just as they are before a meal; they're also lovely dipped in decent mayonnaise or aïoli. To me, panelle are the epitome of indulgence, rather than abstinence, in the New Year's Eve equation. Makes about 30 fritters, to serve four to five generously.

225g chickpea (aka gram) flour
½ tsp rosemary leaves, finely chopped
Flaked sea salt and black pepper
750ml water
500ml sunflower oil
1 lemon, halved

Sift the flour into a bowl, then stir in the chopped rosemary, a teaspoon and a half of salt and plenty of freshly ground black pepper.

Pour the water into a medium saucepan and bring to a boil. Take the pan off the heat, then add the flour in three or four stages, whisking continuously with each addition to stop too many lumps forming (though there's no escaping the fact that some will). Return the pan to a low heat and cook the mix for five minutes, stirring frequently with a spatula, until it starts to come away from the sides of the pan, then turn off the heat.

Cut out two 35cm-wide x 80cm-long sheets of greaseproof paper, lay one out on a worktop, then spoon the panelle mixture on top and spread it out into a roughly 20cm x 30cm rectangle that's about 1cm thick (again, use a spatula). Lay the second sheet of paper on top, then roll out with a rolling pin until the batter is 0.5cm thick and about twice its original surface area (don't worry if it loses its shape a bit).

Set aside for half an hour to cool and set properly, then lift off the top layer of paper and cut the panelle batter into long, 4cm-wide strips. Cut each strip into 10cm-long pieces (so you end up with 4cm x 10cm rectangles). Don't worry about trimming the edges: any frayed bits will go nice and crisp when fried.

Put the oil in a large saute pan on a high flame. Once the oil is good and hot (about 200C), carefully drop in four or five slices of panelle and fry for five to six minutes, turning them once halfway through, until golden brown and crisp. Lift out with a slotted spoon and transfer to a wire rack lined with kitchen paper, to drain. Sprinkle with a pinch of salt and repeat with the remaining panelle mixture. Once all the panelle are fried, squeeze over some lemon juice and serve at once.

Chorizo, banana and prawn cakes with harissa yoghurt
These are what I'd sell if I ever jacked it all in and set up a street stall somewhere tropical. I'm probably not going to do that any time soon, but in the meantime, these will transport you there. Makes about 15 fritters, to serve four as a snack or first course.

3 cooking chorizo sausages, skin removed and discarded, meat finely chopped (150g net weight)
100g Greek-style yoghurt
1 tsp rose (or regular) harissa
2 ripe bananas (but not so ripe that they have brown bits), peeled and cut into 2cm pieces
80g sustainably caught ready-peeled raw king prawns, roughly chopped
1 green chilli, deseeded and finely chopped
1 small garlic clove, peeled and crushed
2cm piece ginger, peeled and finely grated (to end up with about ½ tsp)
2 limes – zest finely grated, to get 2 tsp, then cut into wedges
¼ tsp ground coriander
10g coriander leaves, finely chopped
2 tbsp plain flour
Salt
2 large egg whites
3 tbsp vegetable oil

Put a large nonstick saute pan on a high flame. Once hot, fry the chorizo for four minutes, stirring regularly, until nice and crisp, then tip into a large bowl (including any oil that leeches out) and leave to cool a little.

In a small bowl, fold the harissa into the yoghurt – don't mix them together so much that they turn into a uniform mass, but rather just swirl the harissa through the yoghurt, so it ends up with attractive red marbling. Cover with cling-film and refrigerate.

Add the bananas, prawns, chilli, garlic, ginger, lime zest, ground and fresh coriander, flour and a quarter-teaspoon of salt to the chorizo and stir to combine. Whip the egg whites to soft peaks, then gently fold into the fritter mixture, taking care not to knock out too much air.

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.