A Cook's Blog

April Spice

From Living Within, April

At about this time in a normal year I would be contemplating lightening up my wardrobe and bringing out the straw baskets for some spring shaped shopping but, as my paper reminds me this morning with news that mulled wine sales are up by 50% in Marks and Spencer stores this first week of the Easter holidays, this year is far from normal and we are still up to our ears in winter chill. Fatigue is setting in as we tire of our winter duds and of root vegetables and comfort foods; frankly, we have all had enough.

So what to do when the weather and the season are so out of step? In my kitchen I am headed on a spice trail; Moorish, Moroccan, Middle-Eastern or further to the great subcontinent of India, these cuisines don’t require exactitude of recipe based as they are on an understanding of harmony in aromatics, colour, texture and flavour, and are always welcome no matter the season or the outdoor temperature. For anyone interested in joining me, I am going to share here the elements of a generically spiced Indian curry.

The subcontinent is, of course, a big place and the influences on it many and varied. The Moghuls entered and conquered from the north bringing with them Persian influence and sophistication - an emphasis on meat is an important legacy from these powerful, manly invaders - and the paddy fields dedicated to that queen amongst rices, basmati, have from ages past been placed firmly around the foothills of the Himalayas, establishing this refined and scented grain as a regal staple here where biryanis and pilaffs are more associated with celebration than anywhere else. In coastal areas fish is predominant, and in the south, where coconut also often features, a more vegetarian ethos fits with the strictures of Hindu sensibilities (not to mention the prevalent poverty), and hot chilli peppers, introduced from the Americas by Portugese colonisers, are the most widely adopted form of heat and piquancy. So you can see that a generic Indian anything is not really going to be an easy task. Nevertheless I offer here a method for an easily adaptable curry that can accommodate fish, foul, meat, and even vegetable and, once learned, can be repeated and built upon as you make it your own without it ever becoming tiresomely familiar.

Spices are added whole or ground into the cooking pot and it is important to understand how they work. Nearly all spices benefit from some cooking to help release their flavour and crushed or ground that flavour is released more fully; however, ground spices lose their potency very quickly, which is why one must throw away ground spices that have been sitting in the cupboard for any length of time. The ready ground from the supermarket are fine for an everyday kind of meal, but if you want something truly special take the time and trouble to grind your own as and when you need them. Most whole spices will benefit from gentle toasting in a dry pan (over a lowish heat and for just long enough for them to start to smell fragrant) and then grinding them in either an electric coffee grinder (one that will never, ever be used to grind coffee incidentally!) or with a mortar and pestle.

The early building blocks of this curry include whole cardamom pods (split to expose their seeds), cloves, cinnamon stick and bay leaves toasted lightly in a heavy and wide based pan, otherwise empty apart from a little cooking oil. As soon as these spices have started to release some fragrance, and taking great care not to let them burn, add in copious amounts of finely sliced onions (at least two and three or four usually won’t go amiss). The onions need to brown in order to give the right flavour and colour to the finished dish and their volume will reduce considerably as they do so. Stir them regularly (constantly if your heat is very high and you want caramelisation to happen quickly) until they are an even shade of golden brown; again, you must be careful not to burn them for as soon as this happens the flavour will turn from fragrant to acrid.

Season the onions with a little salt, turn down the heat and add in some ginger-garlic paste - made by peeling a thumb sized piece of ginger and two or three cloves of garlic and either chopping them very finely, or grinding them to a paste (this can be done in an electric processor but is also achieved very effectively with a grater - a fine blade for the soft garlic and perhaps a slightly coarser one for the more fibrous ginger). This paste should be cooked and stirred for two or three minutes, enough time for a change in aroma from sharp and slightly harsh to something perfumed and having lost all raw edge; it absolutely must not burn, which it is inclined to do if the heat is too high or if it is allowed to stick to the bottom of the pan.

Add in some ground spices - a teaspoon of turmeric, a scant tablespoon of cumin and coriander and a half a teaspoon or so of chilli powder, hot or mild according to your taste and tolerance for chilli heat. These will also need stirring and gentle cooking for about a minute. If at any stage the mixture is in danger of sticking to the bottom of the pan, add in a little water - no more than a teaspoon or two at a time, the spices and aromatics should remain as a paste and toast or fry not boil.

To enrich the paste add some chopped tomato flesh (skin and seeds removed) and/or some plain yoghurt or coconut milk. Yoghurt has a tendency to “split” or curdle at high temperatures so add it gradually and stir it in carefully over a low heat; if it does curdle, don’t worry too much, the look not the flavour will be the main casualty. Once your base sauce is beginning to simmer and has a thick consistency, add in whatever you would like to cook in it. Choose from: diced stewing lamb; chicken pieces (skin removed); fish (choose something that will retain it’s shape once it has cooked), or prepared vegetables. Season your chosen main ingredient before you add it to the pot or just after you have done so and coat in the sauce. If you need more liquid at this stage, add in a small wineglass measure of water but bear in mind that the main ingredient is likely to give off liquid of its own. Simmer, stirring from time to time and covered if cooking is going to take more than a few minutes only for as long as the main ingredient requires to cook: fish, for example, will take minutes, chicken somewhere in the region of half to three quarters of an hour and lamb up to a couple of hours or longer depending on cut and how slowly you cook it; fish should be just cooked, meat should be tender and the sauce should be thick and well flavoured.

Toward the end of cooking time taste the sauce adjust the seasoning and remove any visible whole spices. Add some fresh tomato wedges if you like and garnish with finely chopped or sliced fresh ginger or chilli and fresh chopped coriander leaves. Serve with a salad of chopped cucumber and tomato, hand around plain yoghurt and maybe some chutneys and accompany with bread or with plain steamed long-grain rice (preferably basmati).

There is much you can do to alter and embellish this curry - other spices, herbs, vegetables and sweetening and souring agents will each add their own qualities - but this basic dish, I am prepared to lay odds, will taste like nothing you have tasted in any restaurant. You are at liberty to be as gentle or as heavy handed as you like with the spices and flavours and, once mastered, there is no going back!

Erica x
(www.acookinthekitchen.co.uk)

“The most important element of cooking is the taste you create.” ~Ismail Merchant

it’s not just about the soup

From Living Within, March 2013, page 21

At a friend’s house for supper a few nights ago our host had spent time, and no small effort, cooking a Jewish delicacy, one that is known by name pretty much the world over but not something that I have actually ever tasted before. Frankly, I have very little knowledge of Jewish food or the symbolism that surrounds it but it was a treat to be offered this wholly unexpected gem of traditionalism, a labour of love if ever I encountered one; I am of course talking Chicken Soup.

It sounds pretty simple but there is much more to it than I would have imagined - noodles and matzo balls, a broth rich enough to be considered therapeutic and accompanied, naturally, with tales of matriarchs and in-laws, discussion of the relative merits and densities of a matzo, and apocryphal anecdotes of Hollywood sirens concerned for the fate of the rest of the matzo animal. But I hear tell that the Chicken Soup debate is an emotional minefield within Jewish communities and, unqualified as I am to enter it, will offer no further critique other than to say that ours was delicious and the occasion very special.

It occurred to me that soup plays a role in many histories and traditions. It has achieved a level of immortality in popular culture: in song from the Mock Turtle to Carole King, and as comedy gold from a real-life New York soup stand in Jerry Seinfeld’s 90’s TV sitcom. Whether homely pottage, delicate consommé, smooth velouté or spicy mulligatawny, soup can be a comfort, a cure, a leveller, an appetite stimulant - but whatever else it is, it always feels familiar.

In a month when our thoughts are turning, almost desperately, to spring but in which we are still waiting for spring veg to become more fulsome and available, soup enables us to straddle the seasons with some ease; we can incorporate those vegetables that have taken us through winter and add in the vitality of spring as and when we see it.

Italian minestrone would be my soup of choice with which to make this almost seamless transition. There is no place for an overly prescriptive recipe for a minestrone as we have to allow for almost any vegetable to find some space in its allotted time in the calendar, and anyway, as for a Jewish bubbie, no two Italians are likely to agree on the exact details of how to achieve perfection in it. A minestrone requires a broth - chicken, vegetable or, at a pinch, plain water - a base of aromatics on which to build flavour, something starchy to thicken it and often a little splash of green with which to brighten its finish.

To go through the building blocks in a little more detail we should start, briefly, with the broth. Whether vegetable or light chicken in base, this should have been made from raw ingredients and not a stock cube. You can buy (at considerable expense) fresh stock in the supermarket, but better if you can to make your own with a left over carcass and/or some vegetable trimmings - simmer gently in enough water to cover for as long as it takes to extract the flavour (an hour or so for vegetables, upwards of 2 for chicken) skimming and straining the resulting liquid at strategic points along the way (namely as it comes to a boil before being reduced to a simmer, and when you have decided it is done). If all else fails, a minestrone can be made with water instead of broth, although you will probably have to go a little heavier on the seasoning to make up for the shortfall in flavour.

The base aromatics are traditionally a mix of onion, celery and carrot - the holy trinity of vegetables - diced finely and softened in a little oil or butter over a low heat. In Italy this is called a soffrito and acts as a flavour base for many different dishes. The soffrito should be soft and well cooked but never browned and will take, at least,10 minutes to cook down slowly.

Once the soffrito is ready, the other vegetables and broth can be added all in their time. Some sliced or chopped garlic might be added to the base to further enrich the flavour and when this has softened, any other vegetables (excluding anything that will take less than 3 minutes to cook) in order of how long they will take to cook through. These might include finely sliced leek, a chopped fennel bulb, chard stalks, potato (diced or whole), podded peas or green beans (broad or french). When all these vegetables are in, add a couple of litres of broth or water. Bring this to a boil and then lower the heat to a gentle simmer. The soup will be ready as soon as the vegetables in it are tender. Anything that only requires a little wilting in hot liquid should be added just minutes before serving; finely sliced spinach or chard leaves, for example, which should stay a vibrant shade of green; overcooking these will dull both their colour and their flavour

The starchy element can come from a number of sources. Potato; some pre-cooked chickpeas borlotti, cannellini, or other beans; pasta noodles or shapes (again pre-cooked), or a handful of raw rice are all candidates. Add enough to add some substance but be careful (especially with rice which will expand significantly on cooking) if you don’t want the soup to finish thick enough to hold a spoon upright. Anything that is already cooked will need no more than 5 minutes to absorb flavour but allow enough time for rice or potatoes to cook through.

Seasoning should be added gradually; it is probably best if you add a little salt each time you add a new ingredient (taste it before you season once the broth has been added). Use a light hand at the beginning and remember to taste the soup at the end of cooking so that you can make final adjustments.

Once the soup is ready, serve in warmed bowls. Garnish with any or all of some chopped tender herbs (basil or parsley), a drizzle of well flavoured olive oil, a handful of Parmesan cheese and some freshly ground black pepper.

The soup should be hearty but, for those who require more substance, you can always have to hand some fresh crusty bread; and the customary call to table? “Soup’s in!”.

Erica x

www.acookinthekitchen.co.uk

“This man sells the greatest soup you have ever eaten, and he is the meanest man in America. I feel very strongly about this, Becky; it’s not just about the soup.” ~Sleepless in Seattle (Nora Ephron)

there will be blood - a marmalade epic

(A little late in the day; this draft got held up in the finishing and is just making it into the end of February - it should really have appeared a month ago*)

A word of warning to those who choose to read ahead, this post is going to get detailed and a little technical (not to mention a little long) because, not having made marmalade in a while, I have done a fair amount of research for this project. For the sake of my future preserving self, I am recording a little of what I have found, so be prepared for what may be a surfeit of detail.

Marmalade, it seems, is pretty much an exclusively British obsession in the early months of each year. Seville Oranges - sour, coarse, pippy - arrive fleetingly on our shores from the beginning of January; the Spanish seemingly happier to sell their crop to us than to use their own harvest. No other oranges will really do to make proper British marmalade, the bitterness of a Seville being essential to a sophisticated marmalade palate. Some of us even become a little fanatical in our desire to perfect these bitter sweet preserves and to record the experience and compare notes and preferences.

American tastes, by and large, do not seem to run to marmalade; national palates there, so I am told, are attuned to sweeter or saltier preserves (grape jelly and peanut butter? ) and having, in any case no history with or crop of bitter fruit to use have no need to have acquired this particular foible. However, whether you consider a taste for marmalade refined, acquired or aberrant probably owes more to your geography and upbringing than to any absolutes of taste or sophistication.

Marmalade making, like all preserving, is a bit of a science. A certain proportion of fruit to liquid to sugar, the natural pectin of the fruit put to use to provide a set, but broad method and fine detail allowing the maker to exercise both choice and skill. The shred can be coarse and chunky or fine and delicate; marmalade can be very tangy with pith included in its body, or it can be clear gelled, pithless and shredded fine or, in extreme cases, shredless (although I think the fans of this last variety probably buy theirs off the supermarket shelf).

Tawnys and Vintage Oxfords lie at the heavier, tangier end of the spectrum and the more delicate, perhaps wimpy, Golden and Silver Shreds at the end where my taste buds were in childhood more comfortable (the alternative being my father’s Oxford thick cut for which I still have no fondness). My palette has developed and sharpened a little over the years; tangy is good, so long as not too thick and dark, and I prefer my marmalade with a little substance, more orange than tawny, with peel and never too sweet or syrupy.

So what else did I find out? I found that there are numerous techniques, preferences, and conflicting tips; there are those who boil whole oranges and then cool, peel and shred them before adding sugar; these fast workers will typically have their marmalade made in a day. There are others who slice the fruit first and then take a couple of days over the affair. There are those who swear by unrefined sugar to avoid “toxic froth” (although I think that this may in fact be toxic tosh and the unrefined and brown sugar contingent simply prefer their marmalade darker and more caramel tasting); the opposing camp profess a better colour and flavour will be created by white granulated (never caster or icing which will give you problems), and, finally, there are those who warm their sugar while others think that this is a waste of time.

I scoured my bookshelves and the internet and found an obscure and sketchy recipe that took three days to prepare and this time factor, to my mind, translated to a superior marmalade (although there is no other evidence than time taken to suggest that this is true). An idle comment from somewhere that water is not the only suitable liquid led me to believe my marmalade might be more “orangey” if I were to substitute the juice of sweet oranges for some of the water, and this, coupled with the appearance of blood oranges alongside the Sevilles, led me to believe, further, that I could make a luxurious product with a particularly beautiful colour if I mixed the two (although, quite possibly, I have only made it more expensive).

I am a week behind Nigel Slater, (*or at least I was when I started!) but then he has a column and a deadline to make while I am lacking not only discipline but an editor and a character limit.

Anyway, I will delay no further and provide you with the recipe and notes that I followed; a record for myself if there are no others game to take on a three day challenge. The three days involve slicing the oranges and soaking and part cooking and soaking again before getting round to the nitty gritty of adding sugar (always, always to pre-softened peel that will otherwise become tough as soon as the sugar hits it). The peel in the finished product with this method should be particularly tender (even if it is not always very fine) having benefitted from its prolonged bathing.

This method involves a little more sugar to fruit than is traditional (simply because it also requires a little more liquid). The flavour is supposed to be mild although mine has a definite tang - a level just above subtle - and it is not overly sweet. The set is good, the peel well distributed and prominent, and the colour a golden amber (the colour of the blood oranges, unfortunately, not particularly noticeable in the final product). The flavour is good and in this, I like to think the blood oranges have played some part, simply because, after slicing all those Sevilles, with their bothersome pips and strong orange aroma, the beauty and fragrance of the blood oranges was notable and in my mind, at least, will have added a little finesse to the finished project (although I could, of course, just be kidding myself).

This quantity of ingredients will make about 10lbs marmalade. Most extra large pans will have difficulty coping with this in one batch and I cooked mine in two.

3 DAY MARMALADE

Ingredients:

12 Seville oranges;
2 blood oranges;
2 lemons;
4½ litres juice/water or a combination of the two,
(I used 12 blood oranges which contributed just under 1 litre of juice);
Approx 3kg white granulated sugar (calculate exact weight as per instructions in the method;

Method:

Day 1

• wash all of the oranges and lemons with hot water.
• Thinly slice all of the oranges (except the blood oranges being used for their juice) and one of the lemons, teasing out all of the pips at the same time. Put the citrus slices into a large bowl and put the pips into a small one.
• juice as many of the blood oranges as you like and add enough water to the juice to create 4½ litres of liquid in total (or use 4½ litres of water).
• cover the citrus slices with about 4 litres of the liquid, weighing them down in the liquid with a large plate or similar so that they do not float above it, and cover with cling film; cover the pips with the remaining 500ml liquid and also cover with cling film. Leave all to steep, in a cool place, for about 24 hours.

Day 2

• put all of the citrus slices and their soaking liquid into a large, heavy-based pan. Bring to a boil, skimming off the surface scum/foam that rises to the top, and then allow to simmer gently for about 30 minutes;
• remove from the heat and leave to steep, covered, for a further 24 hours (or thereabouts).

Day 3

• sterilise jars and lids . (You can sterilise them in the hot wash setting of a dishwasher, remember the jars should be warm at the time you are ready to fill them.)
• sieve the pips from their soaking liquid and reserve both; divide the pips into two and put into two (small) muslin bags and tie the bags securely with kitchen string. Add the juice of 1 lemon to the liquid that the pips have soaked in;
• weigh the fruit and the liquid (including the liquid that has soaked the pips) separately from each other;
• put all of the liquid back into your original pan (keep the fruit pulp separate at this stage) and add sugar . To calculate the amount of sugar, bear in mind that the liquid will be about twice the weight of the fruit pulp and for this you will need about 1kg of sugar per 500g of fruit pulp - the ratios are: 1 part fruit pulp : 2 parts liquid : 2 parts sugar (for other methods, the fruit to liquid to sugar ratios are about 1:1:1);
• over a low heat, gently stir the sugar in the pan (preferably with a large metal spoon) until it is dissolved and there is no trace of grittiness - raise the heat and bring to a boil and allow to boil briefly; remove from the heat. ;
• the weight of the sugar syrup that you have just created will be equal to the weight of all of the liquid plus whatever weight of sugar you added to the pan (for example, if there was 3 litres of liquid (which would have been the equivalent of 3kg) the syrup should now weigh 6kg). Divide this syrup into two equal quantities (by weight and NOT by volume - 300ml of sugar syrup will weigh more than the same volume of water or orange juice) and put one half back in the pan and reserve the other half until later. Divide up the fruit pulp into two equal weights and add one half to the syrup in the pan together with one of the muslin bags full of pips;
• bring the ingredients up to a good rolling boil and then boil at the highest temperature that you feel comfortable with (and from which the marmalade will not damage you or make too big a mess of your hob) - I used an AGA hot plate and a simmering plate which I danced between depending on how much mess they were making and how low or high the rate of boiling;
• skim the top regularly if you see any foam/scum appearing and, from time to time, give the bag of pips a squeeze to make sure that it is releasing pectin efficiently into the mix. You can stir, or not, with a blunt ended wooden spoon or heat proof spatula, according to your preference; stirring will lower the temperature temporarily but will even up the heat across the pan and will stop the mixture from catching on the bottom of the pan if it is inclined to do so;
• start checking for a set after about 10 - 15 minutes. A set will be achieved at about 105ºC (a temperature that is harder to achieve, in an even spread across the pan, from 104ºC than you might think); check at regular intervals (start at about 10 minutes and make those intervals shorter the nearer you get to temperature). Keep a few saucers in the freezer to do a second check; take out a small quantity of the marmalade with a teaspoon, put it on a freezing cold plate, and as soon as it is cool, check to see if it will wrinkle if you push it with your finger - if it remains liquid, you are not there yet, as soon as it wrinkles you are done;
• as soon as a set is reached, take the pan off the hob, skim any scum/foam from the top and remove the muslin bag (two pairs of tongs might help with this). Leave to cool, without further disturbance, for about 15 minutes. In the meantime, make sure that your jars are ready and that they are warm;
• After 15 minutes, stir the marmalade gently to redistribute the peel and then, using a an appropriately sized ladle and a jam funnel, if you have one, (and remember, the width of the neck of the jam funnel needs to be smaller than the size of your jam jar openings - needless to say, I didn’t think about this beforehand!) pour the marmalade into the jars; seal immediately and leave, where they stand, to cool completely;
• repeat the whole process with the other half ingredients that you have reserved;
• when the marmalade has all cooled, tighten up any loose lids. The marmalade can be eaten immediately, but it will mature after a week or four and the flavour should get better. Store in a cool place and use up within the next year or so;

A few things that I learned the hard way: a muslin bag should not be overlarge; marmalade making takes longer than you think; a sugar thermometer that sits in the pan and that you don’t need to hold might make life easier; prepare for everything to get very sticky, and, just for the end of day three, to feel for a moment that you may never, ever, eat marmalade again.

“I came all the way in a lifeboat, and ate marmalade. Bears like marmalade.” ~Paddington Bear by

Erica x
www.acookinthekitchen.co.uk

Saint Valentine’s Day

From Living Within, page 21, February 2013

a mated pair of pheasants is always to be found together; detail from “The Unicorn is Found”

St Valentine, the patron saint of lovers, celebrated for centuries on 14 February each year in spite of there being no clear single identity for him or striking reason why he has become associated quite so completely with romantic love. Nevertheless, the name Valentine is very much associated with hearts and flowers and all things pertaining to lovers and his Feast day is documented as being so connected as far back as the late 1300s when Chaucer made reference to St Valentine’s day in his poem The Parliament of Fowls; the birds of the air gather on this particular day in this particular poem to plead for and choose their mates (some, it must be said, more successfully than others).

Modern day St Valentine sentiment may be considered to have become a little formulaic and lacking in imagination. There is attached to Valentine’s day, as with so many other religious days of observance, a bit of an industry, and cards and gifts may tend toward the cheesy and the more general rather than the personal. An anonymous card sent to the object of one’s affection may suffice for the young and the young at heart but, assuming that, like me, you are past the stage of furtive cards and mystery admirers, how best might one push the boat out and show that you care this St Valentine’s Feast?

You could book a table at a restaurant and let someone else do the cooking. You will, of course, have to sit with other Valentine couples trying hard to find a little personal romantic space in a public setting, and you will probably need to have planned well ahead - good restaurants will be busy - but there is no doubt that good food cooked by an expert can be a treat.

But to avoid the cliché, not to mention the slight awkwardness of attempting romance against all the odds in a crowded room, you could stay home instead and cook for your beloved. It is probably best to Invest in something a little special ingredient-wise, chill a bottle of bubbles, with no need to worry about who is going to be noble and drive home afterwards, and do make a dessert. I would avoid, however, going in for anything that is going to take hours of work or likely to be in any way a disappointment in terms of reaction gained against time spent or from over ambitious menu planning.

As the old dictum has it “Faites Simple”. While a little luxury is unlikely to go amiss and pains should be taken to avoid the humdrum for this particular week night supper, this doesn’t have to mean a multi-coursed extravaganza either. Choose what you will, a good steak or something roasted if you like, but some shellfish I think would be perfect; lobster, perhaps, if your wallet runs to it, but, if not maybe some clams or prawns. Mixing any of these with a little pasta will stretch them to a filling supper with a touch of the exotic about them and they couldn’t be easier or faster to cook.

Clams require scrubbing when you bring them home, individually, under clear, cool, running water; any open ones that don’t close up when they are tapped should be discarded before cooking, and conversely, any that don’t open up when cooked should be discarded after. Once washed, leave them covered with a cool damp cloth (or newspaper) in a cool place (the salad compartment of the fridge is probably best) until you are ready to cook them.

When you are ready to eat, place a large pan of water on to boil for the pasta (linguine or spaghetti would be good), and, when it is boiling, salt it well. In the meantime, heat a wide, shallow, heavy-based pan, one for which you have a lid and one in which the clams will sit comfortably in one layer, add a little oil and a clove or two of garlic, sliced or chopped, and, as soon as the garlic starts to cook (and well before it starts to burn) add a generous splash of white wine, and/or a few diced, skinned and seeded fresh tomatoes. When, all is good and hot, throw in the clams, clamp on the lid and time for about 3 minutes, cooking all the time over a fairly high heat and shaking the pan a couple of times during cooking.

Check after 3 minutes and, if the majority of the clams are open wide and looking plumply ready, turn off the heat, sprinkle the whole with some chopped fresh parsley, check and adjust the seasoning (ie add salt and/or ground black pepper to taste) and give a quick stir. Leave, uncovered, to one side until the pasta is done. If you are feeling perfectionistic, you can remove about two thirds of the clams from their shells, leaving a few with shells intact to look decorative, and you can strain off the sauce and reduce it a little to concentrate the flavour (before seasoning) but neither step is strictly necessary.

While the clams are cooking, cook the pasta according to the instructions on the packet but set your timer for a minute less than those instructions say that it will take to cook. When time is up (bar that minute), test the pasta for doneness - it should retain a little hardness at its core but be almost cooked through. Remove the pasta from its boiling water (using tongs, a spaghetti fork or a large slotted spoon or spider) and put it into the pan with the clams; turn the heat back on under the pan. Toss the pasta with the clams until it is well coated with the sauce that the clams have given off and serve immediately (sprinkled with a gesture of olive oil and more chopped parsley if you like). From start to finish, the whole thing can be made in just a little longer than the time it has taken for you to cook the pasta.

Lobster can be added to pasta in similar fashion; if it is already cooked (as I am assuming is likely) you can warm chopped lobster flesh (with or without shell attached) with similar ingredients used as a base to those that I have suggested for the clams (you will not need a fiercely high heat this time - cooked lobster requires only gentle warming, not further cooking). You may want to soften some finely chopped fennel in a pan and add a small splash of pastis and a scant sprinkling of chopped tarragon as substitutes for the garlic, white wine and parsley (allow the fennel to cook gently until it is nice and soft before adding the lobster) - these gently sweet aniseed flavours, if not overdone and overpowering, can complement lobster very well. Tomato gives additional colour and flavour, but is, as for the clams, entirely optional.

Given that it is Valentine’s day, whether you choose to stare doe-eyed at each other across a shared dish of noodles, like that famous scene from Disney’s “Lady and The Tramp”, is your affair entirely and I shall not make any further suggestions except to say that I would add a simple dessert - a crème brulée, a melting chocolate fondant, or perhaps a pink tinged cake of some sort - and to wish you all a Happy St Valentine’s Day.

Erica x
(www.acookinthekitchen.co.uk)

“spice a dish with love and it pleases every palate” ~Plautus

January Rhubarb

From Living Within, January 2013, page 6.

The festivities are pretty much over and another year has been celebrated and laid to rest. The New Year may be full of resolution and optimism, but there is no getting away from the fact that January is the bleakest month the calendar has to offer. Spring still has the significant buffer of February before we have real prospect of green shoots and renewal, the weather likely to be at its coldest and gloomiest, the days are short, and the sparkle and twinkle are done leaving our homes and gardens stripped, stark and, frankly, a bit bare.

To brighten up this slightly desolate picture and attempt to gladden hearts I am writing this month to remind you of some shots of colour and flavour particular to January; some high spots in this challenging month, and hope that I can leave you in a better place than where I have started and with a little something to look forward to on your January tables.

January marks the start of the forced rhubarb season, and it is pretty swiftly followed by the finish so make the most of it while you can. This delicate and refined rhubarb, brought forward from its more natural season, thrives in the cold and damp conditions provided by the Rhubarb Triangle of Yorkshire and is not, unlike most plant life, improved by any glint of daylight. Both grown and harvested without natural light, and in special sheds, artificially heated for the final push, it grows fast and furious in glorious shades of pink and red; no trace of green coarseness taints its beauty even in its yellow leaves.

Rhubarb is an ancient plant, long ago used for medicinal purposes in Northern Asia. We English were amongst the first to cook with it and it became one of our kitchen staples. Its popularity dimmed at a time when sugar became both scarce and rationed with a wartime population encouraged to eat home-grown and plentiful rhubarb lacking, however, easy access to the sweetness needed to ameliorate its mouth-puckeringly sour natural flavour. Rhubarb became the stuff of bad memories for a generation and forced production is significantly diminished from its pre war glory years; its stock pretty low as a foodstuff that has for many years lacked sponsorship, glamour, or a clear identity (being technically a vegetable but used more like a fruit) and with a name, unfortunately, that lends little if any cachet. But, as often happens as fashions come and go and memories become consigned to history, it has had a bit of a resurgence in recent years and come to the notice of a new generation of British chefs looking for home grown produce in preference to the more exotic. We home cooks can also expand on it as an ingredient for a traditional humble crumble or a pie (good as both these are) and I can assure you that a stick or two of pink rhubarb can rise above the homely and the comforting and bring a touch of elegance to the table.

Rhubarb requires gentle handling, low temperatures, and careful watching if it is not to turn into a mush and needs ingredients that will complement and help reveal the natural, if somewhat concealed, sweetness that underlies its more obvious bitter overtones. It can be poached in dessert wine or sweet orange juice, with sugar or honey according to your own taste - don’t be tempted to be heavy handed with the sweetness however - one of rhubarb’s main charms is that it should retain its bitter integrity. It sits well with vanilla or ginger and looks beautiful when served with the red stained segments of a blood orange, also, happily, about to come into season.

Two or three sticks, sliced into shortish lengths, put in a non-metallic oven-proof dish with enough wine or juice added to give a comfortable pool to bathe but not drown in and sprinkled with no more than about 50g of sugar, covered with foil and baked in an oven pre-heated to a moderate 150ºC-160ºC for between 15 and 30 minutes (until a sharp knife will just pierce easily to the centre of the rhubarb) will poach rhubarb perfectly. Treat with great care while lifting the rhubarb from its juices from where it can be used to garnish some whipped cream on a soft chewy meringue, the cooking juices (with any less than perfect rhubarb pieces pushed through a sieve to join them) used as a syrupy sauce to drizzle over just before serving.

Rhubarb will give dramatic effect to a tart, provided you are prepared to take a bit of time cutting the stems evenly, standing them up in regimented concentric circles or making pretty mosaic patterns, and then take care not to overcook them. It can also be used in more savoury fare as an accompanying sharpener to cut through rich fatty foods like pork, duck or an oily fish such as mackerel in place of other fruit that do a similar job, like apple, or orange.

The sweet blood oranges also coming into their short season and the sour Seville ones that will make a brief appearance in January, for those interested in making their own marmalade, will add other bursts of January zest and vitality. The Fruit World team will no doubt, as last year, be able to supply you with all of these seasonal treats and I hope that I may have tempted some of you, not already familiar, to seek them out and try something with them.

I wish you all a very Happy New Year and, with even January able to provide such sophisticated prospects, the domestic amongst them, imagine how much there is to look forward to once the days start getting perceptibly longer.

Erica x

www.acookinthekitchen.co.uk
www.acooksblog.com

“In a few sheds near Wakefield, you can hear the rhubarb grow”~ Ian Jack, journalist

Christmas

From Living Within, December, page 19.

A Christmas issue, and what to write about food and drink for this festive season when we are all probably reaching journalistic saturation point about now? I could give you some tips for the turkey or the spuds or try to persuade those of you who are not keen that sprouts are a treat but I have a confession to make; I have not spent too many Christmases in England as an adult and have chosen to be in France for the last few years instead. Although I am normally a staunch traditionalist, I have even stepped away from the turkey and its trimmings in the last couple of years and gone a bit native.

Now don’t get excited, I haven’t stepped too far into the abyss, we still eat our Christmas lunch on Christmas day not being able to get as enthused as the French about Le Réveillon, or Christmas Eve, (at least it is when it attaches to Christmas - there being another one that brings in the New Year just a week later which is a much grander affair in France); it would be cheating, after all, to start the feasting a day early by our British reckoning. But I have, with the blessing of my family, chosen other birds for the main feast and, just the once, ditched le pudding in favour of a very French bûche or yule log and one that I didn’t make myself.

Perhaps I should explain myself. In the corner of South West France that I have become familiar with, while looking similar to ours - pine trees, street decorations (albeit a bit more cellophane than twinkle), cards, snow scenes, Father Christmases (so many Father Christmases: municipal live ones who come to the house and drop presents for children; robotic ones that dance frenetically, and dare I say, a little suggestively, in the supermarkets, and the ones that dangle helplessly from shuttered windows like thwarted burglars - small, immobile and a bit the worse for wear) - Christmas, is in fact quite different there.

Climbing up drainpipes;
skiing down the guttering;
even the police station is not a safe haven.

The French of my acquaintance are well aware of our British traditions but do not really embrace them and take their own very seriously; these do not include bread sauce, or parsnips or heavily fruited anythings and, importantly, they do not contain crackers (which incidentally have no direct French translation and whose value cannot be explained with any sense of conviction to interested French parties; I know, I have tried - well, two people pull it, and there is a small explosion and inside a joke, that isn’t funny, to read aloud, and a paper hat …., you can see the basic problem). Crackers also need to be imported, which, while not impossible, may cause some problems, given the explosive element.

The French Christmas Eve dinner is likely to contain numerous courses, to have oysters as an hors d’oeuvre, a capon at it centre and cheese and good wine at its tail and, of course, there will be a bûche - a special log shaped seasonal cake which serves as traditional symbol of the ancient yule log that dates back to pagan times when a log was burned to celebrate and give thanks for warmth, life and the return of the sun.

The French do not typically wonder how to fit a 20lb turkey into an oven or how long it will take to cook safely because a 20lb bird is unthinkable to most of them; I have fought long and hard with the butcher to persuade him that I need a bigger bird but he remains unmoved and implacable and does not deal in super-sized poultry. So, over the years, I have come to join him in his way of thinking. The bird is a bit bigger than a large chicken and, arguably, has been treated somewhat harshly in surrendering its manhood in order to gain a little in girth and flavour. Capons, no longer much seen in the UK, are emasculated cockerels and are much prized by the French on feast days for the superiority of both their tenderness and flavour and, in SW France, beat the turkey hands down as the bird of choice on the Christmas table.

As for the year without pudding, it came as a surprise to me too that I was capable of such heresy; the stirring of the pudding is a family tradition that I have long preserved but I was persuaded by the modernisers in the family that an expertly crafted bûche made by a master pâtissier might be a superior way to finish the meal than a pudding which, while a favourite of mine, is admittedly decidedly rich. The yule log cake varies in France from the simple Genoise sponge, rolled and covered in buttercream and decorated in suitable loggy fashion, through parfaits of chestnut and chocolate to ice creamed confections - but, when in the hands of a French master in such matters, it would be hard to go wrong and I didn’t regret my decision to forgo our English favourite - it was a pretty fabulous alternative.

But I have it on good authority that there are those amongst the French who covet a few of our traditions too. Those who rather like the English penchant to decorate with more than a little zeal, those who quite like the extra (not to say, on occasion, excessive) time and care we put into the preparation and, in spite of the superior reputation of the French in this arena, those who have quite taken to the English mince pie (or tarte aux fruits secs as it is more properly known over there). In honour of this I have included a picture of my first batch of the year - mince pies with a macarooned topping - the sweetness and richness of the pie readily adjustable with the choice of pastry (short, flaky and buttery, or sweet and crisp), the brand of mincemeat and how you may have doctored it (with citrus - juice or rind - additional alcohol, for example) and how you choose to top them. If I were spending Christmas here, I would, of course be booking my Christmas bird about now with Paul and his team at the Game Larder in Claygate whose books are already open for business.

It remains only for me to wish you all joy in a celebration whatever traditions or customs you follow at this time of year, perhaps to throw in a Joyeux Noel or Joyeuses Fêtes, or more simply, my best wishes for this season of goodwill and festivity, to all, wherever you may be and whoever you may be with.

Erica x
www.acookinthekitchen.co.uk

“that martyr to the cause of cooking, the capon” ~Richard Olney

A little early for Christmas?

From Living Within November, p 17

I am probably amongst the first to complain when the Christmas themed aisle in the supermarket supersedes the one that recently contained picnic goods, when twinkle lights are up in the town centre before the clocks have turned back, or festive baubles are for sale in the garden centre when I have not yet given up hopes of an Indian summer. And yet, here we are, not quite Halloween as I write and November as this goes to press and I am about to counsel the need to think about Christmas.

In my defence, preserving some of the autumn’s bounty against a season of relative scarcity is an art almost as old as time, and long before Christmas became a focal point for this part of the world there were other Yuletide festivals celebrated with a bit of food and drink put by for the occasion as Mankind managed to find something worth looking forward to (not to mention an excuse for at least one day of overindulgence) during the long hard winter months.

So whether you are anticipating the shortest day and the subsequent resurgence of the sun, the birth of Jesus or any other Winterval observance I will make no further excuses for thinking ahead. If you look forward to the prospect of plum pudding, fruitcake or a mince pie or two and are not amongst those attempting to track down a rare Heston pud with concealed central orange, or who are not fond of over-sweetened under-fruited mincemeat, or do not crave heavily sugar-pasted cakes, you need to start getting out your mixing bowls about now.

For me, the baking aisle is currently at its most appealing. The packets of dried fruit have recently expanded in size and extended in range, the boxes of shredded suet are generously piled, and candied fruit and peel are easily available. Why the hurry to get started? Well mincemeat requires at least a fortnight to mature before using (and will benefit from more), puddings about a month after first cooking and fruitcakes will take as long as you can give them between baking and Christmas, with or without additional feeds of alcohol, to taste their best. The traditional marker for the pudding is ‘Stir-up Sunday’, the last Sunday before Advent and this year falling on November 25, legend having it that when the words “Stir-up, we beseech thee” are heard in the collect on that day they will serve as reminder to the baking faithful of their seasonal duty.

If anyone cares to join me in this annual ritual but is lacking a recipe here is one for mincemeat to get you started - the easiest of the three to make. The core ingredients and their proportions in relation to each other should always remain in the same ballpark but feel free to tinker - replace the almonds with other chopped nuts (pistachios, walnuts etc), use different types of alcohol (sherry, rum, whisky even), substitute contrasting preserved or candied fruit (dates, dried figs, prunes, cherries) for some proportion of the fruit or peel, or mix up your own ground spices (cinnamon, mace, nutmeg, cloves) - you can give your imagination a longish leash. Making mincemeat involves little more than assembling and mixing ingredients but the result will taste infinitely superior to anything you can buy on most supermarket shelves and is well worth the small amount of effort involved.

MINCEMEAT

Ingredients:

250g each prepared:
suet; raisins; sultanas; currants, and cooking apples,
2 teaspoons ground mixed spice,
125g chopped, mixed, candied peel,
185g soft brown sugar,
30g flaked, nibbed or chopped almonds,
1  lemon,
80ml brandy

Method:

• coarsely chop the suet, raisins and sultanas (with a cook’s knife or, carefully, in a food processor on the pulse setting). Put into a large bowl and stir in the currants.
• peel, core and grate the apples and stir in with the dried fruit and suet.
• add in the spices and the mixed candied peel and the sugar and almonds and stir together.
• grate the zest of the lemon into the bowl and then add the squeezed juice and the brandy.
• stir all together thoroughly. Leave, covered, in a cool place for an hour or so, stir again and then use to fill sterilised jam jars. Cover with a secure lid and leave to mature in a cool dry place or in the fridge for at least two weeks before using.

Whether you are making puddings, cakes or mincemeat, do remember that they all involve long lists of ingredients and there is always a real and present danger of missing something out. My advice? - before you do anything else, write out a checklist of everything to be included in the order in which it is used in the recipe, then check off each item as you go along and you can be sure you won’t overlook anything.

I will leave the final word to Elizabeth David and lay any absolute purist’s minds at rest on the subject of suet out of a box:

“The friend … was very insistent that bought shredded suet should not be used. It would prevent the mincemeat from keeping, so she told me. I am afraid that I disobeyed her instructions and used bought packet suet. (Shredding suet is a terrible task. I cannot make myself spend so much time and effort on it.) The first batch … kept for five years.”

Apple Pie

From Living Within, October (page 17).

My neighbour Barry happened to drop by the other day with a bag full of Bramley apples from the tree in his back garden. The apple harvest this year has been a paltry affair in many UK orchards, so I hear, our weather having interfered with the delicate timings in which the blossom might bloom and the bees might visit - wind and rain not being particularly conducive to either. But Barry brought some cheer with him as his tree is currently giving out a bumper crop, he also gave me the ingredient secrets to the success of his wife Jill’s apple pie and that was my cue to get out my pie pans and put this favourite back on the menu.

I like to think of apple pie as English. The French have probably rightly claimed the more showy tart(e), but the great US of A seems to hold apple pie dear too - something about “as American as …” springs to mind. Given that the American expression, if not the pie first favoured by its distant colonials, was only coined in the twentieth century, our claim might have an edge, a recipe having been recorded by Chaucer in 1381. But the Dutch and the Swedes make traditional versions too and the Germanic peoples have their strudel so I am not going to waste too much time wondering who has the best claim to ownership and will concentrate instead on what might make a good one.

An apple pie is a thing of simple parts - apples, sugar, pastry - the sophistication lies broadly in the choices you make within those three basic ingredients.

There are hundreds of varieties of apple differing not only in flavour, texture, acidity and sweetness but in how they behave when cooked. ‘Cookers’ are considered a bit of an English speciality, naturally sour they also have a tendency to disintegrate into a coarse puree on exposure to heat. ‘Eaters’, by contrast, while varying from one to another, are sweet enough to eat in their natural state and, generally speaking, the sweeter they are the more inclined they will be to withstand heat without collapsing. Cookers are hence perfect for a pie or crumble or a sauce to accompany roast pork, for example, but are not the best apples to choose if you want to make a tart where the ability of the apple to hold its shape is an essential element of the finished presentation.

The most easily available cooker is the Bramley, large and green and misshapen, and with the beauty of being a little beaten out of shape if they are direct from the tree instead of the supermarket. If you want to spread your culinary wings and test your tastebuds a little, the RHS Gardens at Wisley are currently selling more unusual varieties outside their garden centre. There you can find irregular shaped and coloured rarities - cookers and eaters from their own trees for £1.50 per kg.

The pastry should be given due consideration. Shortcrust is my preference, unsweetened, but you could use puff as well. I have heard that it is a common thought that there is no need to make your own, and, if I am honest, there isn’t, but I am beholden to let you know that ready made shortcrust will not be the same as home made, and by that I mean that it will not be as good. I know that “life is too short …” but trust me, pastry is easy. Keep your ingredients well chilled before you use them, keep your touch light and give the dough time to ‘rest’ - a half hour in the fridge after making and before rolling, and a little time after rolling and before assembly and cooking is all that is needed. Even the ready made stuff will benefit from a bit of a rest. Pastry making makes a bit of a mess, it requires a little skill (but not much), it benefits from you taking as little time and making as little effort as humanly possible and is almost infinitely reparable if you get into trouble. Ignore the phone, keep a cool head and enjoy the gentle therapy of getting your hands a little mucky; it will make the difference between an acceptable pie and a really good one and add a warm glow of pride to the whole affair.

Single crust (a lid on top of the fruit) or double (pastry lining the pie dish and sandwiching the fruit with a crust on top) - either is acceptable; some consider the former more English and the latter more star-spangled and others may even leave the pie topless (a step too far in my opinion). If choosing a double crust go all out to avoid an undercooked bottom; there are various tricks and tips for ensuring the pastry does not get too bogged down in excess liquid, but apples do contain some natural thickening agents so are easier than most fruit when attempting to avoid this crime against pie.

As for the sugar - almost any will do. Soft brown will add a caramel touch, white or slightly golden will give a cleaner sweetness. Sweeten according to your taste and that of the apples you have chosen but avoid overdoing it - a well flavoured apple will have acidity and its tart tones should not be overpowered by too much sugar. A little caster sugar can also be sprinkled over the top of the crust before baking (brushed first with a little milk, beaten egg, or melted butter) and add a glazed crunch to the top of the pie.

You can tinker a little as you will. Some add ground spice - cinnamon, nutmeg, or cloves, for example - and others consider this de trop. Some like additional fresh berries or autumn fruit - blackberries, blueberries, damsons - or dried sweetness in the form of raisins or sultanas, and some may add a dash of spirits - Brandy perhaps, or better still Calvados. Pile the fruit high below the crust; the fruit will shrink while cooking but the uncooked pie should have a nice dome that will set in place as it bakes. Once assembled, a few steam holes cut in the top crust to allow moisture to escape during cooking, the pie requires an oven hot enough to cook the pastry but not so hot that the outside crust browns before the fruit and the bottom have had sufficient time to cook - the fruit should be tender and the juices thick as they bubble up around it.

Fresh from the oven, wait until the pie calms down a little before serving; it can be served hot, warm or at room temperature with custard, cream or ice cream as you choose. Cold accompaniments provide a satisfying contrast to a warm pie and hot custard can liven up a cool one. Recipes are easy to find or come to a class and I will give you mine and a helping hand with it.

“good apple pies are a considerable part of our domestic happiness” ~Jane Austen

Erica x
www.acookinthekitchen.co.uk
www.acooksblog.com

pandowdy

Until last week I had never heard of such a thing as a pandowdy; it is what it seems, apparently, something that looks dowdy in the pan. Hardly inspiring on the face of it but oddly intriguing to one who has a small fetish for American food, particularly sweet food and food with a good name.

Now when I say ‘fetish’, I don’t mean all American food, obviously. We in the U of K are practically brought up believing that Americans eat unlikely food out of packets (mac’n’cheese, Betty Crocker cakes, pie filling, egg whites, pancakes), that they eat over-large portions, that there is too much sugar in much of their food, that they make strange liaisons (Jello and mayonnaise, jam and peanut butter) and these things are both confusing and a little off putting to those of us who have no depth of experience in what it is to eat American. I am, of course, generalising and basing judgment on not knowing very much about what I speak, but American ‘otherness’, while it continues to entice and fascinate, sometimes is just plain baffling.

Nevertheless and in spite of my, up to this point unmentioned, loathing of tablespoons and cup measures as a way of being precise with dry goods and butter(!) back to my ‘fetishising’. I love the mystique that shrouds the all American dishes that I know by name if not by actual acquaintance with the real McCoy. Succotash (sufferin’ or otherwise), Gumbo, Brown Betty, Buffalo Wings, Chowder, Chilli, Corn dogs and S’mores; I could go on.

We are so familiar with it that American food culture has almost become a part of our heritage too. A hotdog sings off-screen in a cinema ad in a well known Nora Ephron film and everyone knows of its cultural signifcance (and, conversley, of the unimportance of listening to its sung message in a cinema) and exactly what that might look like. I am, for the record, not a fan of the hotdog - anyone who has read George Orwell’s description in ‘Coming up For Air’ will understand my aversion, although I have heard that Bubbledogs in the heart of London is doing its bit to ‘upmarketise’ them, if you will permit me a little Billy Wilderesque Americanese of my own. I am a sucker for the tales of community and history that sit alongside much of American culinary development and was thrilled to come across something new.

How did I come across the pandowdy? While researching an article on good old apple pie. I liked the name (and prefer it as one word) and yet, as often happens, the pictures on Google and the recipes that I found failed to inspire - there was broken-pie dough, above and below in some, and they looked flat and, well, dowdy (can’t really complain that I wasn’t warned). But looking again on my own book-shelves, I found a version from Larry Forgione, of An American Place restaurant - now sadly closed - that I liked the sound of (no pictures so I could only guess at the look). Larry had been chatting with Jim Beard (and don’t try and type that name into Google while you look for Jim’s version of events - you will be quietly chastised and asked if you meant James Beard, an establishment figure commanding hushed reverence now that he is dead, it seems) and between them, their research pointed to the fact that the pandowdy would have originally likely often been made out of stale bread. This sounded much more interesting. A dessert with the name pandowdy shouldn’t involve too much work - you can imagine it cooked in a skillet over a fire in a settlers cabin and needing no more than apples, stale bread, some fat, a little sweetener and some spice.

So off I went, without a skillet but with some teeny weeny ramekins (not sure where my others have gone) as, sort of, recommended by Laurence (not sure Google will allow me to familiarise myself with him as Larry given that he is considered by some the godfather of American cooking) and here is my version of his version of the pandowdy. They were great. They were super easy, and they have added a little more to my American repertoire. Shoo Fly Pie might even be next.

APPLE PANDOWDY

Ingredients:

thin slices of firm (stale) white bread,
unsalted butter at room temperature,
granulated sugar for sprinkling,

3 large cooking apples peeled, cored, and sliced
2 tablespoons black strap molasses or black treacle,
80 g light soft brown sugar,
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon,
¼ teaspoon grated nutmeg,
¼ teaspoon ground cloves,
2 tablespoons dark rum>,
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice>,
1 tablespoon vanilla extract,
60g butter (melted),

Method:

• preheat the oven to 190°C/375°F/GM 5.
• Using a cutter, cut the bread into rounds that will fit snugly into the bottom of a ramekin; you will need two pieces of bread for each ramekin and about four large ramekins.
• Butter the bread, on both sides, with the room temperature butter and sprinkle the upper side with the granulated sugar.
• Place a bread round, sugar side down, in the bottom of each ramekin leaving an equal number aside as lids for later.
• put the apples, molasses, brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, rum, lemon juice, vanilla extract, and melted butter into a large bowl and toss together so that the apples are evenly coated with all the sugar and flavourings
• divide the apple mixture between the ramekins, filling them nearly to the top and pushing the fruit down well, drizzle any juice left in the bowl equally over the filled ramekins.
• top the pandowdys with the second bread round, sugar side upwards.
• put the ramekins on a baking sheet and bake in the preheated oven for about 25 minutes or until the bread is golden brown and the apples are tender. Put the ramekins on a rack to cool for a few minutes.
• serve the dowdys in their dishes while still warm. Pour over a little cream before eating.

“Once I figure out how something was made, I can start figuring out how I think it should be made.” ~ Larry Forgione

Sultana Grape Cake

September showing signs of exhaustion and no longer able to reasonably promise a delayed chunk of summer, as the days are chilling around the edges and drawing in their nights, my thoughts had begun to turn to the next long season - winter - never a winning prospect when you have been used to warmth and light however brief that exposure. But before I get too bogged down in Sophie Gråbøl’s latest sweater choices and the noir ahead I must not to lose sight of the richness of autumn waving its apples and figs and pears and pumpkins full in my face while I am making early heavy weather in my head.

Autumn certainly has its own charms and a trip to my local Middle Eastern supplier a week ago jolted me back to the more current season offering as it did not only the beautiful purple figs that I was expecting but also some tiny, sweet, Turkish sultana grapes that have flown in alongside them. I always imagine that I will bring them home and make Moorish influenced Meditterranean dishes and yet, even once I have absent-mindedly eaten my way through a ludicrous number as I search my books for inspiration, I seem to have enough left over to put me in mind of cake instead. Romantically, I want it to be from Arabia, or, at least, from Arab influenced Sicily, but, hard as I look, the grape cake ideas that I find invariably have their roots in Tuscany. I give in. I have made a mongrel cake - Tuscan inspired, partly Turkish in provenance, made in England from imported ingredients. Hardly a model for the Slow Food Movement, but, nonetheless, popular amongst its audience and a lighter form of fruit cake than the traditional sultana heavy varieties.

The cake is based on Jamie’s ‘Torta di Nada’ - a grape cake normally made with Italian purple fragola grapes made instead with blueberries by Jamie and published in ‘Jamie’s Italy’. I substituted reduced vin moelleux (desert wine) for the milk and added a sprinkle of demerara sugar to the top for some crunch and a little visual interest for a version lacking the punch of the purple in the top layer. I do love Jamie, at least when he is not mistaking himself for a new messiah and wading in a little deeper into some complicated problems than his level of expertise always allows (but I suppose, more generously, at least it shows he cares) but his recipes for baking, in my experience, should often be read in the context of others. Baking, I am sure, is one of Jamie’s strengths, but I have a feeling that there may be home economists involved in his publications that aim to make these recipes more universally friendly and perhaps they lose a little of their finesse in so doing.

But I have delayed this post long enough for lack of enthusiasm for re-writing a recipe that I am not sure I would make again without further tweaking, so I will give you a link instead for someone else who has (American measures I’m afraid) and who has made a few, very minor, tweaks of her own and acknowledge that it is not bad as is.

And for now, I will add some romantic imaginings of the vendange in sunny September days on the continent to my day (painfully hard work as it actually is for the participants), put thoughts of winter and woolies on the back burner and enjoy the ‘decent sunny spells’ the BBC is predicting will come out of the clouds here this afternoon, and maybe take a look at Claire Ptak’s 2008 grape cake suggestion for the next time.

“The sun, with all those planets revolving around it and dependent on it, can still ripen a bunch of grapes as if it had nothing else in the universe to do.” ~Galileo

Erica x
(www.acookinthekitchen.co.uk)