November Peels (2025)

leftovers; nostalgia comes in forty-eight-hour sprints; i love november skies the most

hi, and welcome to The Onion Papers. i’m so happy you’ve come. Peels are a writer’s almanac featuring bread, soil, reading and sky updates that comes out on the first Monday of each month. happy reading and clicking,
margaux

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Bonjour, you. It’s good finding you here. Isn’t November the most generous month of the year? Frosty, slippery, cosy; an unexpected hug with a stranger at the corner of the narrow river path, running towards the sunrise and catching the heron flying above the wobbly bridge just before ten past eight. Browning leaves, everyday rainbows, temperatures below the zero mark, then up, drenching and drenching, the river high, the current strong, a little snow here and there, crystal-crunching ground, then in France. I spent forty-eight hours sinking into the landscapes of my childhood, from woods to cement and tower buildings, riding the train from the banlieue into Haussmann’s Paris. Sometimes a newsletter takes you places, so I visited Victor Hugo’s flat in Place des Vosges, and sometimes it is your practice that carries you, so I walked to the Picasso museum (six escargots and an onion soup for lunch along the road). ‘La Femme qui pleure,’ for a finale as the outskirt of Paris makes me theatrical, this backstage as big as a pocket tissue. Another forty-eight hours, step stepping steps in London, dinner table catch-ups, little sleep but plenty of wonders, wandering around, looking up and still cursing at the district line. Affogato on a cold night because there is always more to a story. Back in Glasgow, November is for walking into a café under the cold sun and walking back outside in the chill of the blue night with a friend. Thinking, rethinking, doubting and drafting, redrafting and seeing and thinking and thinking, drafting and drafting, ah! One album on repeat, to be listened from first to last song in order as, I am afraid, I am a stubborn Capricorn baby and do not play shuffle as close to the end of things:

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bread update

Might I recommend keeping leftover doughs from routine recipes to experiment? Snails, swirls, drops, wee pitas, punch the dough down and let it rise, roll, push back, bounce—play-dough!

As for the sourdough, November was in rye. Denser doughs, tartines and crostini on repeat. Tuna and leek; artichokes, lemon and chives; rocket, pesto, hazelnut; crispy cavolo nero and tahini sauce; capers and tomatoes.

For the levain:
60g white flour
60g sourdough starter
60g water

For the dough:
levain, as per above measurements
220g eight cereals flour
180g rye flour
100g white flour
250g water

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reading, listening

Isn’t it magical to pick a favourite so close to the end of the year? Jennifer Croft’s The Extinction of Irena Rey is a thriller about the marvels of language and identity. Eight translators arrive at the house of the world-renowned author Irena Rey to translate her magnum opus but, within days of their arrival, Irena disappears without a trace. The eight translators share the same dedication for their beloved author and begin to investigate where she may have gone, while starting to translate her masterpiece. The Extinction of Irena Rey is clever and entertaining, and a brilliant reflection on integrity and artistry.

‘It often happens when I translate that I reword a phrase over and over, unable to get it quite right, only to realize that the problem lies earlier in the sentence, or even earlier in the paragraph, and that if I go back and solve that, the troublesome phrase will suddenly become perfect without requiring any alteration at all, and I thought perhaps that was the case here. Maybe we’d been searching for the wrong Irena.’
– Jennifer Croft, The Extinction of Irena Rey

Then, continuing my 2025 journey in re-reading classics, two re-discoveries. In praise of tidal sentences and seizing the rare occasion of reading in-situ, from a lighthouse overlooking Skye, I swallowed To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf. Then, walking, I listened to The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy, which took me all the way to 1969 Kerala. The story of Rahel and Estha, two twins growing in the shadow of their blind grandmother’s factory and the consequences of their mother’s forbidden love, it is a story about hope and love indeed—about the inevitable.

If you are after the intensity of a swift and tender novel, I recommend Anthony Shapland’s A Room Above A Shop. Wales, late 1980s. On the backdrop of the Section 28 bill forbidding the promotion of homosexuality in education, in a close-knit community, M has inherited his family’s ironmongery business and B is younger by eleven years. When M offers B a job and lodgings, B accepts, and the two quiet men begin working side by side in the shop, and a love affair hidden in the one room above the shop. Written in a succession of short paragraphs and arresting sentences, the prose is poetic but not romantic. A Room Above A Shop is beautiful, luminous.

‘Bright light glimmers on days that slump like mud by night, when sleep is dragged out of reach by hot air. Muggy dreams suffocate movement and propped-open windows only let in heaviness.’
– Anthony Shapland, A Room Above A Shop

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in the kitchen

I was grateful for the neighbour who left apples fallen from their tree inside a cardboard box on top of the small wall up the road, consistently on Monday mornings—‘free :)’—then for the compote de pommes I spooned straight from the pot, used to top up a porridge, spread on toast, anything to please the tip of my tongue.

Peel and chop the apples roughly. Transfer them into a casserole with enough water to cover them. Bring to the boil, add some aniseeds and fennel seeds. Reduce to a low simmer and cover. Leave for 15 minutes or so, until the mixture has thickened, and reduce to a purée with the help of a hand blender. Store in the fridge.

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Not sure what to do with a gifted pumpkin? Roast, then a gratin with cavolo nero, mushrooms and cannellini beans:

In an oven-proof casserole, gently fry some garlic (crushed) and sage (roughly chopped). Add some chili powder and ras el hanout spice. Cook for a few minutes. Add the cavolo nero (stem removed and roughly chopped), as well as the peeled and cubed pumpkin. Swirl, cook for 5 minutes. Add a small cup of boiled water with a veggie stock cube melted inside. Simmer for 10 minutes. Add a handful of chestnut mushrooms (sliced) and keep simmering until the pumpkin is tender enough to your bite. Add a can of cannellini beans, including the water from the can, and reduce the heat to a low temperature. Pre-heat the oven to 180c, fan. When ready, grate some parmesan and black pepper on top of the mixture, then bake for ten-ish minutes, or until bubbling and golden.

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If the oven is already warm, you may as well make use of that tagine dish! Fish tagine with tomatoes and peppers:

Start with preparing a chermoula sauce by pounding 2 garlic cloves to a paste using a mortar and pestle. Add a handful of chopped parsley and 2 teaspoons of each paprika, ground cumin, cayenne pepper. Add 1 tsp of lemon juice and 2 teaspoons of olive oil.

For the tagine, you will need:
2 white fish filets
3 peppers, sliced lengthwise
1 can of tomato sauce
1 tbsp of tomato purée
1 tsp sugar
1 tbsp lemon juice
olive oil

Preheat the oven to 200C. Rub some of the chermoula sauce on each side of the fish. Place the fish in a dish, cover and leave aside to marinate. In a casserole, heat up the tomato sauce on a low heat. Add the tomato purée and sugar. Simmer.

Brush the tagine dish with some olive oil. Place a layer of pepper slices at the bottom. Put the fish on top. Add the tomato sauce, then toss the remaining peppers at the top and leftover chermoula sauce. Drizzle some lemon juice and grind some black pepper. Cover the tagine and bake in the oven for 40 minutes. Remove the tagine lid and bake for a further 10 minutes, or until the fish and peppers are tender.

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And a friendly reminder that a lasagna is a crowd pleaser. Creamy mushrooms; asparagus and crab; tuna and tomato sauce; red mushroom ragù, etc. etc. nobody’s left behind.

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from the Onion Papers

I wrote about re-reading French classics, in French, in 2025 and why I love reading as much as I do. This one is about language and the ‘canon’, too.

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And I had a flirt with Virginia Woolf’s To The Lighthouse, writing at the lighthouse myself:

The night fell and the lighthouse beamed over the sea below the kitchen. The room had yellow walls and was furnished with feather duck cupboards, plenty of colourful teapots and cups and plates shuffled over the shelves, a real fanfare on a bloody Remembrance Day, a cacophony that was forbidden to dislike as it was warm and nutritious, and welcoming with a large wooden table at the centre. It had been painted in grey, four chairs covered in childish drawings that gave Guest chills as they poured flour inside a bowl.

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thank you <3

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Or, since I am back from France, I am resharing this newsletter from May 2023, featuring conversations with Maman and Mamie about the difference(s) between bistrot and brasserie, as well as recipes for oeufs mimosa and ratatouille.

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looking ahead (Glasgow, GMT)

29th November, 16:26:59

December is a nuclear battleground for good family behaviours. Promise me you won’t forget the teaspoons that cook miracle before it gets too much in those kitchens, OK? Red peppers, onion, dill, tuna frittata + 1tsp (perhaps more) of oat cream; brussels sprouts, spring greens, sundried tomatoes, shallots + 1tsp of paprika; lettuce, mozzarella, cannellini beans, red onion, basil salad + 1tsp of bottarga; mixed leaves, tuna, celery, sundried tomatoes + 1tsp of colatura di alici; minestrone + 1tsp of harissa. And check on friends. Trust your estranged-kid friend on this one: crêpes are your ally, whether you are cooking for one or three or plenty. Same batter for savoury or sweet fillings. Same formula, which you can grow proportionately – one egg per person, so it begins. Grab a coffee cup: one full cup of water; three quarters of the same cup for the flour. A pinch of salt or a tablespoon of vanilla extract or rum, as you like. Trust your instinct, too. As for the stars, the moon will be full and cold on the fourth day of the month, then new on the twentieth. Anyways, if you ask me, December is about the sun, which is at its lowest point in the sky in the north hemisphere, at arm’s length, passing the year on, onwards. Confessions by the candlelight for the wishful thinkers, too and too, but no big deal as, in the end, the new year too will begin with the sun rising.

margaux

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thank you for reading The Onion Papers. i’m margaux, a writer adrift, and this is my hybrid newsletter. if you enjoy my work, remember to subscribe and/or invite friends to the party as you keep me going. read more about TOP here.

PS. I write novels too.