In the UK, the doctorate examination procedure is pretty simple and, I would argue, preferable to those in Europe and the US. Elsewhere, candidates often submit what amounts to a near-publishable book before being grilled by a panel of academics. If it couldn’t get any worse, members of the public - or at least, the university - are usually allowed to drop in to watch the roasting.

Thankfully, the Brits have far less appetite for such sadism. Here, the thesis resembles a glorified essay (but good luck publishing it without a major rewrite), and the exam itself usually takes the form of an intense but private academic Q&A between you and two examiners. There are many things to bemoan about doing a PhD in the UK, but the Viva isn’t one of them. Your examiners generally want you to pass, and the lack of an audience means they’re less likely to turn the process into a showcase of their own brilliance in contrast to your idiocy.

That said, when I submitted my thesis around February 2023, I was still bricking it. I had three months to ‘have a breather’ before revisiting my work with fresh eyes ahead of the Viva in May. You’d think I’d be overjoyed - the end was in sight! I wasn’t. I wasn’t feeling the happiness I was expecting. I was exhausted, in shock, while also feeling empty. Mostly, I was actually pretty fecked off that I wasn’t deliriously joyful and that no one was throwing confetti at my feet as I walked through the streets. Or, more accurately, around my tiny apartment where I’d confined myself like a feral animal. Picture the kids finding their mum in 28 Weeks Later. I was her - with even less sex appeal.

One particularly listless day, I invited a friend over in a bid to rejoin the world. She, unluckily (or luckily for me), was also going through a bit of a bad patch so I felt confident she wouldn’t trigger further existential collapse by thriving in front of me. She was bringing wine - two bottles, which we obviously finished - so I figured I should provide food. Something that looked vaguely impressive but required minimal effort. I wasn’t in a nurturing mood, but I also didn’t want to come across as totally miserable.

I landed on Ottolenghi’s courgette and cobnut salad from Plenty (p. 70).* It looked beautiful - fresh, summery, and with that perfect “oh this? Just threw it together” vibe. The problem, as with many of his recipes, was the ingredient list. Some items I was unwilling to buy and others I had never seen let alone tasted (cobnuts, that’s you). So, I made my own version. I’ve cooked it many times since, refining it into something simpler but still delicious. Granted, it doesn't look as good as Ottolenghi's, but maybe it's the fault of the artist, not the art.

It also happens to be phenomenal tossed through pasta. Keep it in your back pocket for those days when you need to feign functionality - with flair.

A few notes on the recipe:

The quantities below make one generous serving. Scale up as needed if you're cooking for more than one, or as multiple starters/sides - just note that you may need to grill the courgette in batches. The amounts of pine nuts, basil, and Parmesan are deliberately plentiful, as they’re key components of the salad, not just garnishes. That said, feel free to adjust the ratios to suit your taste. Oh, and a tip: tongs are your friends here. Treat the courgettes with care to keep them intact. 

*Ottolenghi, Yotam, Plenty (London: Ebury Publishing, 2010).