No-churn matcha latte ice cream


As I write this, it’s an impossibly beautiful, crisp, bone-cold winter day outside. The sun, low on the horizon, fills the quiet suburban street with deceivingly golden light which masks the bitterly cold temperature.

It’s glove weather. Scarf weather. Soup and takeaway bright orange curry weather. And here I come, with an ice cream recipe.

But do people’s cravings for ice cream really depend on the temperature? Aren’t its creaminess, the tongue numbing coldness, the syrupy toppings best enjoyed in winter, in a room so warm that the windows steam up, perched at the edge of the sofa while nursing a stew or getting lost in a book or simply watching re-runs of Friends?

You may disagree. That’s fine. Just serve this alongside some warm chocolate cake. You’ll thank me later.

Let’s talk about the magic word. No, it’s probably not what you’re thinking. It’s ‘no-churn‘.


If you love cooking and food and are as lazy as I am, you’ll know that little spark of excitement you get when you see this word printed on a magazine, or perfectly enunciated by Nigella Lawson.

Yes, Nigella is back. Her kitchen looks a little different and she does too, but everything she makes is still quintessentially her, the soft focus close shots of her snow white skin and dark hair, the perfectly spoken alliterations in her recipes, the leftovers secretly eaten from the fridge at night.

Her recipes have lost a little bit of indulgence -less bacon and lard, more avocado and protein-packed oat bars – but she’s still there, under a surface of green food.

And speaking of green foods, this recipe makes the most perfect, impossibly green matcha ice cream. It’s a quintessentially Nigella recipe: surprisingly simple, indulgent, and utterly delicious. The aromatic, slightly bitter note of tea goes perfectly with the dense, thick, sugary creaminess of condensed milk, and it tastes exactly like a matcha latte – hence the name.


The recipe is so easy you’ll want to tell everyone: a can of condensed milk, some double cream, green tea powder. And that’s it. What you get is spookingly similar to proper ice cream, minus all the effort, and it’s opened a world of possibilities. Could I make this with instant coffee powder? What about normal tea? Can I basically turn every powder into luscious ice cream? Stay tuned.

I buy my matcha powder from Amazon – cooking grade is cheaper and will do just fine. I tweaked Nigella’s recipes a little as I found hers too sweet – however this may depend on the intensity of your green tea, so I would probably start with two tablespoons of powder and then add according to you taste. You could also try and add sesame seeds before freezing – I used mine as a topping, their subtle roasted nuttiness is a perfect match to the creamy sweetness of frozen condensed milk.


No-churn matcha latte ice cream

One can of condensed milk (150 ml)

300ml double cream

4 tablespoons matcha powder

Put the condensed milk in a bowl, and stir to loosen. Add the cream and whisk until it begins to thicken. Whisk in the green tea powder until you have a thick whipped green cream.

Decant into an airtight container and freeze overnight. Before serving, top with sesame seeds.

You could serve this alongside a dark chocolate cake, but for me it’s best enjoyed on its own, in a sturdy bowl, a secret childish pleasure in spooning up creamy, dense and sugary ice cream, speckled with dark sesame seeds. As well as the sesame seeds, you could grate or even melt some very dark chocolate on top.

Original recipe:



Salon, Brixton, and brunch.

I first got into brunch when I lived in Berlin. I must admit that before then, I just did not understand the concept. At the time, American-style brunch was starting to catch on in Rome, and it normally consisted of soggy pancakes drowned in cheap, pale maple syrup, eggs that had been scrambled into a rubbery mess, overpriced dry bagels with cream cheese that cost as much as a lunch.
But Berlin is where brunch became a necessity. I was lodging in the most beautiful flat, with its eclectic antique furniture, incredibly high ceilings, curtains so thin they were practically transparent, and then my room, long forgotten: a small single bed in the middle of a bare room, its simple IKEA furniture never quite capable of filling it. But so much light: even in the dark depths of the bone-cold winter the room would be inundated with light, forcefully bypassing the see-through curtains and waking me up way before I should have woken up.

And I remember waking up, lying in bed for hours, my mouth dry, the memory of icy cocktails and generous glasses of red, always half spilled, that had turned into a headache, and lazily getting into the shower, standing under the steamy hot water for too long.
We always seemed to have brunch plans. We would plan to meet around one in the afternoon but actually meet at two and often we would not be served until three. I remember having to wait forty-five minutes for an omelette in a cutesy pink-walled candy striped little cafe in Prenzlauerberg. But it was fine, because by then brunch had become a finely tuned ritual and the food was a small part of it.

First there was the hot drink -weak tea; black, bitter coffee- and then the cold drink -a juice; a creamy, frothy milkshake – and then maybe a second cup of coffee and perhaps a latte, and that’s before sweet, spongy pancakes and silky runny yolks would be presented on our table. Brunch could take up a good part of a day, and as someone who loves rituals, I enjoyed every aspect of it. Whether it was American-inspired, a more German mixture of sturdy cheese and fat-speckled salami on dark rye bread, or an all-you-can-eat Russian brunch buffet with devilled eggs, jewel-hued caviar and a spanking fresh salmon with a piercing pink beetroot sauce, brunch was the perfect mixture of hot drinks, delicious food and tranquillity.
A lot of things have changed since then – I live in a different city, I have an actual full time job that makes spare time feel very precious and rare, and because keeping up with the London food scene feels like a lost cause, I often find myself eating in a rush. If you get there before 12 there will be a huge queue, they sell out of their best thing before three, etc etc. But not in Salon, Brixton.

Salon lets you book a table, which may seems like a very simple thing you find yourself taking for granted, but it’s a rarity in London. It feels like a privilege to simply show up and have a table waiting for you.
The place itself is adorable, with Scandinavian-looking minimalistic furniture, cosy wooden tables, and suffused, warm natural light. A creamy espresso comes in a powder blue china mug, a black teapot, ever so slightly chipped, materialised itself on the table. Then come the little speckled sugar cubes, white and brown, and a miniature glass of milk that I pour into my tea to create soft white patterns before I mix it with a spoon. Then there’s freshly squeezed orange juice and a generous jug of cucumber water. And that’s just the beginning.
There is just something about a small, wonky table covered in little china mugs, bowls and jugs that have to be skilfully re-arranged when the food comes. And what food.

I go for three cheese cornbread with shredded ham hock and a poached duck egg. It’s appealing and comforting, the subtle cheesy kick of beautifully soft corn bread, mouthfuls of salty ham hock, and the creamy yolk tinting everything orange.

And the ‘nduja scrambled eggs, the silkiest, creamiest eggs imbued with bright, coral-hued ‘nduja, a soft spicy Calabrian salami, served on crusty sourdough bread with fragile, tender green leaves scattered on top.
We shared a side of smashed avocado, so creamy and buttery that it barely needed any dressing up, covered in crunchy poppy seeds and thin slices of piercing bright red chillies.


At Salon, time seems to go slowly, and you find yourself tempted to go for just another drink, to be drunk slowly from beautiful pastel mugs, taking in the light and, in the distance, the hustle and bustle of Brixton market.