We’re not quite nose to tail yet, are we?

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Google eating bulls penis in Korea if you want to see strut-eating at its worst where a parade of culinary scalp hunters eat something they consider to be so out there, the only way they can do it is via a series of dissembling jokes. This self-consciousness masked by bravado does such a disservice to foods which might appear odd to them and possibly terribly threatening to their sexuality, but are pretty basic bitch elsewhere. Clarissa Dickson Wright talked about the popularity of penis as a lunchtime street food in London, over 150 years ago, in her TV series, Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner so it seems like we’ve become estranged from animal parts that remind us most of our own bodies. Organ meats can appear pretty visceral on the butchers slab but we’ve never seen our own human equivalents so there’s a corporeal disconnect on some level which may make it easier to cook and eat some parts of the animal than others, irrespective of how they actually taste.

I first ate bulls penis (hwangsoui seong-gi 황소의 성기) in Busan in the early eighties when I was a teenager staying in this southern Korean seaside city where my father was working. Based at Haeundae Beach where a smattering of international hotel guests were pandered to with tuna club sandwiches and neutered versions of local cuisine, I was constantly in trouble for roaming the streets, meeting local teenagers and playing hooky from the roster my parents had set. Starving hungry from hiking up Jangsan Mountain where we’d dare each other to annoy the soldiers who patrolled the fenced-off minefields, I’d snub the hotels five restaurants, return to the town, and slurp up bowls of goodness knows what from the hawker stalls along the promenade.

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Chosun Beach Hotel, Busan

Having visited before, I was accustomed to eating meals where the ingredients were unknown and we were often invited into the homes of the locals my father worked with to eat, but that night we were served bulls penis it wasn’t much of a challenge to identify what was on the menu. Perched on a bench, sweating in the oppressive humidity of a late summer evening, what initially resembled snipped-up, flayed eels soon came into sharp focus. A bulls penis can be more than two feet long and cooks usually split along its urethra then slice the two halves into thick coins; diners can expect to be presented with an organ whose tough visceral membrane has been removed and then washed out as carefully as good chitlins are. Seen scaled up, you can appreciate a dick in all its hydraulic glory and marvel that erectile dysfunction isn’t more common in animals as well as humans. Mine still had part of its sigmoid flexure attached and the entire organ had been sliced longitudinally then boiled in a tenderising chili-infused stock before getting the hot coal treatment.

The dissection and boiling was bold but fresh penile tissue will contract and shrivel up when it hits the heat of the coals  and without that tenderising bath you’ll end up with a dog chew. As a prelude to the bulgogi which was the main event, a pot of burning hot coals had already been slotted into a hole in the centre of the table  and five or six penes were placed inside special cages that resembled lacrosse sticks. These rested on the coals and the basting sauce was mopped onto the meat using a brush with bristles as long as a hippies ponytail.

My penis wasn’t served with a garnish of culinary philosophy. There was no menu detailing chef’s conversion to nose to tail eating and the locals simply ordered, waited, then ate and nobody patted themselves on the back for being daring. I didn’t feel adventurous; the only thing I will not eat as a matter of course is porridge no matter how artfully it is presented because it is the devils work as far as I am concerned. The penile flesh was smokey hot, patched with char and packed a hefty, gluey bounce and fightback in the mouth. I chewed and chewed, I chewed some more and then I swallowed. A good eater should always swallow.

Penis is not a culinary treat by any stretch of the imagination. Even ten hours of cooking will fail to produce anything better than a brutalised gummy bear but texture is important to Korean diners. What I do share with these guys is a carelessness about eating the bits that make others blanch but I’m not referring to that daft nonsense where culinary scalp-hunters go in search of the most outrageous and rarest meals so they can tell you all about it via Buzzfeed or Vice. This always seems to other the cuisine of the nations concerned in the process and I really don’t want to do that.

Eating low on the hog was, and is something that I give little thought to, and not because I was a massively over-privileged and precocious food brat. It was simply how we cooked and ate, probably because I was nurtured in such a way as to expose me to homely cooking in different parts of the world and when I came back to Blighty I didn’t go back to the kinds of food other British children in my neighbourhood ate. It’s hard not to feel a certain loftiness about the nose to tail movement because thus it ever was with us. My Midlands relatives would certainly not think it appropriate to praise a child for eating black pudding, liver, tripe, scratchings and faggots, haslet or cow heel in that affected way you see now, but we’d get a clip round the ear if we left any of it. Nor would my broad tastes be regarded as anything other than expected by the Mexican people who took my catholic appetites for granted because it was simply unthinkable for a small child to exert any kind of control or influence over the family diet. This didn’t mean that they neglected our palates, far from it, but spiritual and religious attitudes towards nourishment and gratitude precluded fussiness.

Try turning down a bowl of menudo after someone has slaughtered their animal, broke its carcass down, cleaned miles of intestines then turned some of them into a soupy bowl of stew. Its eating was as communal as the slaughter, an act of reconciliation and thanks, driven by hunger and crowned by a sense of communal satiation. Waste was fiscally and morally unthinkable and superstition came into it too: in northern Mexico our housekeeper’s mother strongly believed that discarded leftovers, tossed carelessly on the ground ‘for the chickens’ would poison it for crops forever more.”Dios lo sabrá,” she’d scold me when I left a few scrapings on the plate and off she’d go to hunt down a scrap of tortilla to mop the plate with because the marriage of two leftovers in one meal turned it into a sacramental act.

So I don’t differentiate between high and low and I abhor snobbery in food. I don’t congratulate myself when I find something to cook from larder sweepings because it has always been this way. Delicious is delicious but I know that for some people, cooking with offal is a bigger deal, and believe me, there is no implied criticism contained in that statement, just a desire to shine a light on some of the animal parts that in the UK, you might not have encountered before.

I’ve enjoyed pots of chicken necks slow-braised then given a few minutes to blister under a grill, the flesh rubbed with aromatics for a final flourish; and assorted lights, viscera and skin of various critters have been fried, boiled, roasted and stewed then served up. Gelatinous pigs tails with blistered skin and soft as silk meat were served up on street corners near to the small units where the Guadalajaran glass blowers plied their trade. Thrust into a charcoal brazier until they ran with fat, these bronzed little corkscrews were placed inside a corn husk in order to catch the scalding hot drippings. If you’ve read Laura Ingalls Wilder, you’ll know this part of the pig is fought over and damn right it should be but curly tails are far more fun for a child to eat than their straighter brethren although better chefs than I have rhapsodised over the latter. Either way, the fact that the skin covering a pigs tail remains in place (unlike oxtail) means that each sticky-lipped bite contains a perfect ratio of skin to meat to partially broken down tendon and cartilage. Ask your butcher: they can get tails, necks and other bits for you, and they are usually super cheap.

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There’s plenty of porky adventuring still to be had if you’re doing the Disney thing in Florida. Keep on driving north of the Disney complex where neutered interpretations of world cuisine threaten to kill gustatory curiosity and you’ll enter the classic Deep South. Stop at a country store and there on the counter will most likely be opaque jars full of murky red liquid where pickled pigs lips float and bump against the plastic walls. That spooky red liquor they float in isn’t blood by the way, it’s red dye which for some reason is traditionally used.Slightly bloated like all floaters are wont to be after a few days of immersion, they are less disturbing than you’d think in this age of plastic Hollywood trout pouts; basically what Babe the Pig would look like after a few months wed to a Kardashian. Regarded as a classic dive bar snack in Louisiana and immortalised by rappers VP and Breezybee in their 2014 rap, “Pig lips, boudin and chips” the eating of them is encoded within the DNA of many southerners who know to create a tension between chaw and crunch by matching them bite for bite with the jagged shards of potato crisps. Bash the bag of chips on the counter first, then bung in the lips and give the bag a good old shake. It’s working class panko, basically and if you can bear the idea of a pickled egg inside a packet of crisps, this isn’t that much of a leap, truly.

Want to try lips? It’s not easy to buy them ready-pickled in the UK but if you are US-based, you can order online from the Pickled Store. These aren’t Johnny Come Lately pig lips, the Pickled Store say, so don’t mistake them for a postmodern version all lubed up with irony so as to allow them free passage through your gullet without the triggering of cultural and class insecurities. These haven’t been fiddled with by a young buck of a chef seeking to make their mark on the world by introducing a new crowd to a reinterpreted old faithful. Your gorge will have to cope with their defiantly unreconstructed nature although their congruence with our own animal parts plays a role in ensuring good animal husbandry, surely? It’s harder to countenance animal cruelty when you identify with said animal unless you’re vegan and don’t believe in eating them at all, in which case this post is probably not for you. The company have been making their pigs lips to the same recipe since 1933 and their customer testimonials lay bare the love we all have for certain foods, no matter how peculiar they sound to others.

So will the nose to tail movement result in pigs lips moving out of the country store and gas station and onto our (higher-end) plates? Will ex-bankers running food trucks suddenly see the labial light? My money isn’t on bulls penes becoming the latest trailer snack in the UK, that’s for sure but pig lips and tails? They should be. It’s possible that the popularity of crispy pigs ears and porky heads on plates has groomed us to eat the other facial features solo. And I’m definitely comfortable with betting £50 on the likelihood of barbecued pigs tails becoming more popular over here.

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Caldo de carda

So where else do they eat animal penes?

In Jamaica, cow cod soup is bull penis is stewed with bananas, rum and peppers and is used as an aphrodisiac.

In Bolivia, caldo de cardan is similar and is also a popular hangover cure.  The soup takes its name because it is believed a bulls penis is similar to a cars drive shaft. Lengthy braising (ten hours +) concentrates the broth and helps develop taurine, it is believed, before beef, chicken and an entire lamb rib alongside boiled egg, rice and potato are added.

Malaysians eat beef torpedo soup to increase male virility. The thick and spicy broth is spiced with fennel seeds, cinnamon, garlic, and cloves and diners can enhance the symbolic potency of the dish by building it up with more bones and tendons.

A North African recipe serves the penis cut cross-wise, scalded, skinned, drained then boiled and sliced. Aromatics in the form of onions, garlic and coriander flavour the flesh as it is slow fried in oil and then added to vegetables, then braised for another couple of hours.

Yemeni Geed has chopped peppers, tomatoes and cumin and saffron added to the braise. The Yemenite Jews eat Gulasz z Penisa, a stew made with ram or bulls penis, too.

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A quick autumnal tray-roast

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It’s time for a roots revival after a summer of lightly-prepared frilly green things and fruit which can be eaten straight from the tree or bush. Some root veg such as carrots, celeriac and daikon can be consumed all year round but as the nights draw in and the frosts nip faces and the newly dug-over clods of the vegetable patch, the thicker and less delicate roots come to our attention as their starches are converted to sugar by the cold, making them perfect for roasting and slow braising. Winter carrots, parsnips, swede, celeriac and scorzonera stand up well to such treatments when their summer cousins might not.

This is an easy way to cook parsnips, either on their own or with the hasselback potatoes shown in the photograph which used up the last of our late-summer potatoes from the allotment. They’re par-boiled then sliced and basted with a marinade made up of chile-honey, maple syrup, salt and olive oil. A quick roast in the oven until golden and you’re good to go. The hasselback technique originated in Sweden and is named after Hasselbacken, a Stockholm restaurant which first served these potatoes in the 17th century. By slicing potatoes and root vegetables like parsnips only part of the way through along their length, you end up with a soft creamy centre with lots of caught, crunchy edges and a super-luxe roasted root vegetable which tends not to dry out even hours after cooking.

So to make them….

Wash as many parsnips as you need and peel them if the skins seem super-tough, leaving them in one whole piece. I’ve left the skin on here as I like the extra goodness. Pre-heat your oven to 180C and then place the parsnips in a pan of salted boiling water and par-boil until the tip of a knife just pierces their skin. Drain them well and place in a shallow roasting pan which has been coated with olive oil. Using a sharp knife, make shallow cuts widthways across each parsnip down its length, taking care to not cut them all the way through. Baste them with more olive oil and roast for fifteen minutes then remove them from the oven.

For every kilo of parsnips you will need to mix one tablespoon of honey, 2 tablespoons of maple syrup and a small pinch of chile powder and sea salt in a bowl. Once this is mixed, brush it over the entire surface of each parsnip and then place them back in the oven. Keep an eye on them because you don’t want them to burn and roast for another 25-30 mins or so until darkly golden and caught in places. Don’t worry if they catch a bit, it adds to their flavour.

If you want to make the hasselback potatoes, it is basically the same process without the honey-chile and maple syrup baste. Par boil your potatoes in salted water and drain then after they are cool to the touch, slice them widthways part of the way through. Baste with olive oil, sprinkle with salt and black pepper, then roast in the oven at 180C until they are golden. You may need to baste them with more oil as they cook.

A spiced persimmon tart for autumn

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There’s so much more to the food of the American south than barbecue, cornbread and bourbon and this tart, topped with luscious persimmons which are one of the signature fruits of the region, deserves its time in the [autumnal] sun, and to be more widely eaten in the UK.

In the USA, persimmons are usually left to fall from the tree and if you travel around the south in the autumn, it’s not unusual to see mattresses and tarpaulins scattered around the base of each trunk , ready to catch these readily-bruised fruits. They split easily, spilling out soft flesh which attracts all kinds of critters so you have to be swift.

The American persimmon (Diospyros virginiana) can give you a nasty, mouth-puckering shock if you eat it before the first frost because the fruits needs that cold snap to convert their tart soluble tannins  into a sweet jelly-like mass. Because of this, there’s a Japanese variety of persimmon called ‘Fuyu’ whose fruits are sweet from the start which stores in Britain are starting to stock around now. It’s pretty hard to find American persimmons over here because they do not travel easily.

Fuyu doesn’t have much of a core and its skin is edible making it easy to prep and even easier to eat on the go. And the flavour? There’s some papaya notes, a lot of floral and a little tomato, a honeyed sweetness and something unique that defies description. It’s a fruit with flavour that deepens after cooking, becoming more than the sum of its parts and possessed of tender flesh easily incorporated into cakes, breads and puddings, made from recipes that are centuries old. Southerners still make a  persimmon bread pudding with a burnt sugar syrup which is the descendant of a recipe learned from the Delaware and Cree tribes of Native Americans who showed the pioneers who crossed the Appalachians into the Mississippi valley how to use the fruit.

For this tart, I’ve added a sliced layer of persimmon to a base I use often, made from a soft pressed-in dough, flavoured with spices. The persimmon cooks down into a soft and wobbly jelly, each slice collapsing as you spoon it up. It’s this quality that makes persimmon so useful as a filling because it creates its own juicy setting and all you need to do is add a little spice, some crunchy sweetness in the form of brown sugar and you’ll soon have autumn on your plate.

It’s vital to let the tart cool before slicing to allow the cooked persimmons to meld with the sugar and ginger syrup to produce that semi-set jelly (or jam to us Brits). So don’t worry if there seems to be a lot of liquid sloshing around the fruits as it cooks.

*Caveat* I usually test recipes at least six times. This one has only been made twice but it turned out well each time.

Spiced Persimmon Tart

  • 8 oz plain flour (all-purpose in the USA)
  • 2 tablespoons of soft brown sugar and a further 6 tablespoons of demerara sugar
  • 3 oz cold butter, cut into little chunks
  • 1 large egg yolk
  • 1/2 teaspoon mixed spice
  • 1 1/2 tablespoons lemon juice
  • 1 1/2 tablespoons brandy
  • 3 ripe small to medium Fuyu persimmons
  • tbsp ginger syrup from stem ginger jar

  1. Switch oven to 180C .

  2. Make the pastry base using a processor or by hand: combine the flour, 2 tablespoons sugar, the mixed spice and the butter until fine crumbs form or pulse in a processor until you have that fine crumb. Add the egg yolk and whirl or stir by hand until the dough comes together in a soft ball. Press the dough over the bottom and the sides of a 4- by 14-inch tart pan with a removable base (or use a 9-inch round tart pan).

  3. Combine the remaining 6 tablespoons sugar, the lemon juice and brandy in a wide bowl.

  4.  Slice persimmons into slim rounds and check for seeds, removing if they are there. Slice the rounds in half and muddle them into the brandied sugar mixture, ensuring they are thoroughly coated then arrange fruit in 2 overlapping rows on top of the dough (or arrange in circles if using a round pan). Plaster any leftover sugar mixture from bowl over the fruit then ladle over the ginger syrup, ensuring it coats the slices.

  5. Bake the tart until the crust is golden which will take around 25-30 minutes. Check the persimmon slices for doneness and if they are still a little hard, cover the tart loosely with foil and bake until they are tender when pierced. (Another 10- 15 minutes but this really does depend upon the ripeness of your persimmons.)

  6. Remove tart from oven and allow to cool completely. Don’t worry if it seems to have some liquid sloshing around the persimmon slices. As it cools, this will set to a light jelly (jammy) consistency. When it has thickened and set, its time to slice the tart. Serve with creme fraiche, mascarpone or ice-cream if you like it even sweeter!

Victuals by Ronni Lundy: a review

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Matt & Ted Lee refer to Ronni Lundy as a ‘native daughter of Kentucky’ and Victuals, her latest cookbook kicks off with a handy lesson in dialect for those of us not to the local manor born: apparently in southern Appalachia, ‘victuals’ is pronounced ‘vidls’ and not ‘vittles’ which is how I might have pronounced it. It’s just one example of how misunderstood this part of the USA is.

Lundy has form when it comes to providing us with the tools we need to understand Appalachia. As a founding member of the Southern Foodways Alliance she has always emphasised the role that culinary genealogy plays in helping to define what actually constitutes southern food and in doing this, she has challenged some of the more common – and inaccurate- tropes that have flourished in the minds of the lazy and those who wish to erase contributions from people based upon age-old prejudices. Lundy tells us about Malinda Russell, a free black woman and native of Appalachian who fled to Michigan during the civil war, leaving the bakery she opened in East Tennessee. Whilst living in Michigan she published A Domestic Cookbook in 1866 and this compendium of recipes used by her when she ran a boarding house and pastry shop and also cooked for the first families of Tennessee may well be regarded as the first published cookbook about the Appalachian south. As Lundy adds, Russell’s recipes may or may not be reflective of the recipes common to the region at its time of writing but ‘it certainly broadens our perception of 19th century Appalachian foodways.’

Victuals is the result of Lundy’s travels around the region where she was raised, a limning of history, people and place but it is not a regressive paean to times gone by although Lundy has always drawn upon the rich Appalachian heritage (and especially in a previous cookbook, Shuck Beans, Stack Cakes and Honest Fried Chicken) to explain its foodways.

“People who come to and from these mountains want to know where they are when they eat,” writes Lundy, quoting one of the great pioneers of the contemporary mountain food scene, John Stehling. In 2011 a study headed up by ethnobotanist Gary Nabham and environmental anthropologist Jim Veteto validated Stehling’s opinion when they declared southern and central Appalachia to be the ‘most diverse foodshed in North America’.  She celebrates the knowledge of the local people who are farming, brewing, producing high quality ingredients and trying to steer a course through the fiscally tricky waters of an American economy which doesn’t always seem to prize their endeavours, favouring multi-national corporations over the local and artisanal. These people are rooted in one place but they aren’t fixated upon it and have been able to help move Appalachian foodways in new and exciting directions.

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Appalachian cuisine cannot be divorced from the land and feeding local families often involves more than a stroll to the local store. And when Lundy writes that ‘food was magical also because I got to be part of the making’  we get to read recollections of her aunt Johnnie’s garden full of half-runner beans and descriptions of local cider apple orchards which have to co-exist with nearby large-scale and homogenous commercial growers. For Lundy, the apple is rooted in her love for Jo from Little Women whose own pockets were filled with windfalls as juicy and taffy-sweet as the ones she remembers as once growing freely in the mountain hollers. There’s a meditation on the art of making apple butter and a description of what to aim for; ‘dark as sable, thick as pudding and deeply fragrant,’ is more helpful and evocative than any photo could be. Developing the master-recipe further, the reader is given mini recipes for Sherri Castle’s vinegar kiss and Lundy’s own ‘splash’ with a good glug of bourbon added ‘for the grown ups biscuits’.

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There’s been a resurgence of interest in the culinary genealogy of Appalachia (something I predicted was on the cards, several years ago) and local chefs such as Sean Brock, Shelley Cooper and John Fleer are all referenced via a selection of recipes and their accompanying text. One such recipe is Fleer’s buttermilk cornbread soup which takes an old tradition (although one not exclusive to the region) and turns it into a bowl of comforting something-something that looks at home on the table of either a good restaurant or plonked in front of your kids at suppertime. Like all apparently simple meals it relies on the very best ingredients and slow, steady time at the stove (which can be a comfort especially when one is busy and over-stimulated). The value of taking twenty minutes out for stirring the pot cannot be overstated and like all rhythmic actions, it soothes. Does it sound overly romantic to say this is also what connects us all to the past? I don’t think so.

Many Appalachian recipes and techniques have been hard won over time and it’s important to grasp this if you want to take the principles behind Victuals to heart. One emblematic recipe – the apple stack cake- is as much building as it is baking and both of these require a decent investment in time and technique. In this cake, dried apples are cooked and layered onto thick hearty disks of dough which were originally cooked in cast iron skillets then sweetened with sorghum. Lundy’s aunt Johnnie would pick and dry apples in June for cakes like the stack and for fried or baked hand pies although her cake recipe comes via her great-aunt Rae who made the cake for Lundy’s father.

Maybe the stack cake began life as a wedding cake with each family contributing a layer, or maybe it didn’t, but it is at its best after sitting for a couple of days which allows the spiced apple to seep its sweetness into the layers of cake. As Lundy says, ‘it reflects the pioneer spirit of converting something totally old (the eastern European tradition of layered tortes, brought to the region by German immigrants) into something totally new with the ingredients at hand.’ Necessity was the mother of invention but although the stack cake remains pretty austere in appearance and ingredients compared to the richly adorned tortes from the old country, its flavour is anything but.

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Buttermilk pie

Victuals reminds us of the great traditions of home preserving and also includes recipes which contained ingredients which would otherwise be unavailable to a landlocked part of the USA had commercial canning not existed. Fresh-water fish and shellfish were caught and eaten regularly but seafood such as oysters would have been out of the question had it not been for the fine tradition of smoking and canning. If you grew up reading Susan Coolidge and Laura Ingalls Wilder you will be familiar with the oyster soups made with this delicacy, transported via railroads in thin flat cans and Lundy’s version of a smoked oyster stew for two is a reminder that no matter how bountiful a region is, sometimes what is longed for is what cannot be grown or caught there. Oysters, she writes, were a salty mineral-rich addition to an Appalachian miners lunchbox designed to replenish their own salt levels after a hot and sweaty shift. They were added to simple potato soups or served with saltines and packed away in a tin pail for the fishers in the family and Lundy’s more luxurious version is flavoured with the olive oil the oysters are preserved in.

Alice Waters gets the credit for the farm to table movement which champions seasonality and a locavore lifestyle and went on to place California on the gastro-map yet Appalachia and the American south in general has always lived by this creed. James Villas posited that where farm to table is concerned, the south got there first and in her book, Lundy’s focus on seasonality and sustainability through heritage adds a decidedly contemporary twist to this philosophy. Modernity coexists happily with tradition in Appalachia and Lundy’s book smashes old and tired stereotypes of Appalachia into smithereens.

Victuals is my cook and food book of 2016.


Find out more

Find Ronni on twitter @ronnilundy

All images from Victuals by Ronni Lundy

 

 

Back to my [French] roots

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Pêche à Pied | Plage de Mousterlin Finistère| Pierre Guezingar /Flickr

In my early teens, I taught myself to cook using a battered copy of Julia Child’s Art of French Cooking then refined my techniques with Richard Olney’s Simple French Food as the children came along. I already had hundreds of American and Mexican cookbooks but some ancient prejudice inside me kept whispering that until I had mastered the basics of French country cooking, I had no business regarding myself as a formed -and informed- cook. I roped in the local librarian after she enquired why I had kept Child out on permanent loan and she began to recommend other, less well-known authors whilst encouraging me to read recipes in the original French. One of her recommendations found its way onto my own library of cookbooks when she decommissioned it from her shelves and sold the book to me for 20p. This was Geraldine Holt’s French Country Kitchen and it soon became part of my culinary motherboard. Holt’s ability to marry traditional regional French recipes with her own inventions, the latter inspired by the Midi and its ingredients and techniques, encouraged me to stray from the strict edicts of la cuisine Française but only after I had grasped its tenets.

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I used to spend large parts of the summer in Brittany, either on holiday with my warring parents or staying as a houseguest of Caroline who I met on a Brittany Ferry crossing to St Malo and became firm friends with. Caroline lived near Paimpol, a small fishing town with its own fleet of boats and locals who gathered seafood from the nearby salt flats and marshes where we also learned to windsurf. The dark grey mud of the marshes teemed with oyster shells, tiny fish eye-sized cockles and turgid winkles, all of which we were instructed to gather after our planche á voile lessons finished. Watched by the sheep (known as agneau pré-salé) who grazed the halophytic grasses nearby, we’d plunge knee-deep into the sludgy, muddy rivulets and clean off the shells and our legs with bunches of samphire.

It was Caroline who introduced me to globe artichokes and tried not to laugh at the baffled expression on my face as her family sat around the table, small wicker baskets clamped between their knees for catching the discarded leaves, as they dragged off the soft lump of flesh that clung to the base of each leaf with their teeth.

So passionate about artichokes were they that their garden contained at least six varieties mulched with seaweed from the local saltmarsh, their tender new shoots banked with mounds of silky silt. Finest of all were the Fiesole artichokes with leaves of deepest wine which kept their colour and required only the lightest of steams to bring out their metallic fruitiness. Bred from the Violetta de Provence, a lighter purple variety native to southern France, the Fiesoles were delicate enough to be eaten whole either with butter, lemon juice and salt or a walnut and garlic sauce, similar to Holt’s extremely versatile aillade Toulousaine. How a sauce in the style of Toulouse got to NE Brittany I did not ask but when I first made Holt’s version, it transported me right back there.

These last few years have seen me drift away from French country food. I have always been a keen cook of regional American food and preparing Creole and Cajun feasts kept me in touch with my classical French roots, in a manner of speaking. Faites Simple! means eliminate the superfluous, that is all. The Louisianian insistence upon a mastery of the roux with its precise steps and equally passionate debates over rightness of technique and the importance of culinary building blocks fed my need for order in the kitchen and helped me cope when I spent three years working weekends and evenings in a rural pub as their cook, during my nurse training.

The same  need for order and rule applies to my love of Mexican cuisine, forged from my years living there as a child and also from a keen observation of local cooks whenever I could escape school. In Holt’s French Country Kitchen can be found a recipe for dindonneau à l’ail en chemise (turkey with whole cloves of garlic) which on first reading has little in common with the Latin American turkey -based meals I ate as a kid. Where is the marigold-infused flesh, the layered and complex molés flavoured with ancho, pastilla and mulato chillies, chocolate, anise and lard? But Holt’s version and the stuffed turkey called pavo relleno I ate in Saltillo were both basted in butter and the picadillo stuffing was made with garlic-infused beef and funnily enough the Breton turkeys (and chickens) we ate were sometimes fed on spicy -scented marigold petals like they also do in Mexico. The flesh of these birds were tinted the colours of Kahlo’s hair in her Self Portrait In A Landscape With The Sun Going Down. The circle of my eating life continued.

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Self Portrait In A Landscape With The Sun Going Down

| miss the precise adherence to rules as old as their families although I can recall their kitchen voices with their slightly nasalized Tregerieg-Breton vowels in an instant. Caroline’s family bought their Kouign Amann from the local patisserie because the French are sensible and have no embarrassment about not making their own cakes-although they retain the right to have lots of opinions about their technical execution. A patissière will be chosen according to something as fundamental as the angle of curve on a croissant and this choice will not be questioned, even two generations of custom later, but when you eat it, you can sense the rightness of their choice. “C’est decide’ you will be told should you dare to enquire.

Holt points out that the French have no need for the dizzying helter-skelter search for new flavour combinations (or culinary scalp hunting as I call it). This doesn’t mean that French cuisine is mired in the historical doldrums though, unable and unwilling to change. It does innovate and refine but these changes are considered and less driven by a desperate need to innovate for the sake of page views and instagram likes or to Be The First. Holt is confident in her experiments but is clear that progress and posterity can only be judged in hindsight which, to me, sounds terribly French. Her food respects terroir and local habits (courgettes served with sorrel grown in the same garden; a salpicon for roast lamb that is based upon a friend’s recipe which itself reflects a different regional store cupboard) but it is also glut-friendly and tolerant of other larders in other lands where the sunshine is less and the frost more frequent.

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So…..Tête de veau, boeuf bourguignon, carbonade flammade, cassoulet, salade Lyonnaise, omelette Ardéchoise, and a glorious pintadeau aux figues are all chalked up on my imaginary menu de l’autumn et de l’ hiver. I want my kitchen filled with the scent of gentle braises as they putter away in their casserole dish and the fridge stocked with what my friend’s mother called ‘difficult cuts’; the cheeks, tails and muscled rumps of animals which all call for careful prep and low ‘n slow cooking.

Lastly- and funnily enough- tête de veau was threatened as a punishment meal for a wanton young man called Spider in another of my teenage reads, Scruples.  Its authorJudith Krantz, wrote of a young Parisienne transplanted to New York City in the seventies. It was one of those sex ‘n shopping airport novels which I devoured greedily, especially the descriptions of Valentine’s cooking because she too preferred French country-style food and frequently made it for her neighbour across the hall whose life of penury meant decent food was scarce. Spider baulked at the thought of tête de veau. I wouldn’t.

Chocolate, sour cream and Frangelico pound cake

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Some thoughts on pound cake and a recipe too.


I love the idea of pound cake. It makes me think of American pioneers and stout pink-cheeked women warming their buns in front of cast-iron stoves; winter homecomings where the family bursts in through the door, hungry as wolves, stomping the snow off their boots; and southern porches where women sit on swing seats, gossip and eat tall wedges of it á la mode.

Pound cake’s lusciously tender crumb has fed some of my favourite literary people too. As a child, Almanzo (Laura Ingalls Wilder’s husband) was partial to a slice or ten and in To Kill a Mocking Bird, Miss Maudie’s pound cake recipes are jealously guarded in case the other ladies get hold of them. She is generous with the finished cakes though, sending Scout home with an entire one, fresh from the oven. Pick up any of the Anne of Green Gables books and you’ll find pound cakes galore, including one which contains 36 eggs (although eggs were much smaller then). Miss Ellen’s recipe was an old English family recipe according to Aunt Chatty who wished that she could get her hands on it but “they’re so exclusive about their recipes,” she complained.

This is the simplest of cakes from a time before baking powder existed and thus, it is in possession of alchemical properties; its crumb has both lightness and substance and the whole cake is far more than the sum of its humble parts. I think it knocks the Victoria Sponge into the middle of next week.

These cakes should be served in great hunks for they are not shy and retiring types and they MUST must have a sad streak in the middle (as says James Villas who is basically GOD of the southern pound cake). The sad streak is a damp, slightly underbaked section which we should all fight over: it really is the right and proper thing to do. Paul Hollywood and Mary Berry wouldn’t understand the beauty of the sad streak because of their peculiar obsession with uniformity of bake, an attitude which condenses the alchemy of baking into a boring exercise in chemistry and geometry. If you want uniformity of bake, buy Mr Kipling or a confection from one of those places where taste is sacrificed upon the altar of appearance. Some cooks regard the sad streak as a flaw and I suppose it is really but as James Villas points out in his recipe for Millionaire Pound Cake, many southerners prize this part of the cake, much as a Valencian prizes the soccarat which forms on the base of a paella.

Pound cakes are the pack horse of the cake world. They can carry most flavours, adapt to anything and are able to bear the weight of chunky ingredients. They are so sturdy that they can even withstand a little roughhousing. In one of my favourite books, What Katy Did at School,  Professor Seecomb procured two slices of pound cake after responding to an entreaty from Rose-Red who was spying on a school symposium she had not been invited to. He made his way to the buffet and wove his way through the crowds with a slice of pound cake in each hand then contemplated throwing them instead of handing them over to the eager hands poking through the bannisters. A good moist pound cake is capable of withstanding transporting in a pocket sturdily wrapped in foil, and for this reason it makes a great choice for kids party bags.

They can be classic in their simplicity, flavoured with vanilla, chocolate, lemon or simple buttermilk. Or they can reflect the fashions of the times and contain matcha, cardamom, pistachio, blood-orange and fruits foraged from hedgerows such as stewed crab apple or blackberries. I’ve had pound cakes layered with jewelled,candied fruits and shavings of darkest chocolate (basically a cassata in cake form); quirky peanut butter & jelly ones; pound cakes spiked with enough booze to lay you out or glazed with extravagant frostings like a glittery christmas wreath.

All pound cakes have presence and dignity whether they are baked in a towering bundt or simple loaf tin. They are never boring and if you use the highest of quality ingredients, this will guarantee you a cake that like a classic genoise, tastes exquisitely and perfectly of itself. And much like a genoise, a good pound cake is proof of a competent baker. It is the omelette of the cake world.

So whose recipes do I rate? James Villas always includes great pound cakes in his books (My Mothers Southern Kitchen/Desserts; Southern Cooking) and Mama Dip’s buttermilk version is simplicity in form but not flavour. Molly Wizenberg’s pistachio-citrus from her Orangette blog is very special and a spiced pecan adapted from Paul Prudhomme’s recipe is the south distilled into a cake. There’s a black walnut pound cake in the Black Family Reunion Cookbook which I am partial to although I have yet to eat this cake in situ, (in the south after the walnut harvest- I long to do this) and I hanker after a hickory nut version I once came across in a tearoom in Bradenton, Florida. Elvis liked pound cake too, (no surprise there) although his version contains a carton of double cream (again, no surprise there).

Although the pound cake is believed to have originated in Northern Europe, it will always feel American to me. This cake first appeared in recognisable form in the 17th century and when the first Europeans arrived in North America they brought the recipe with them. Pound cake became especially popular in the south where its truest form calls for a pound of butter, sugar, flour and eggs although Eliza Leslie added the juice from oranges and lemons. Other early cookbooks (The Virginia Housewife, 1838; Seventy Five Receipts, 1832; Amelia Simmon’s American Cookery, 1796) contained recipes where brandy, wine, spices such as nutmeg and even rose water were added.

Predating the settler versions, an Indian pound cake recipe uses cornmeal and wheat flour. Eliza Leslie published a version of this in Miss Leslie’s Directions for Cookery (1837) which Richard Sax also featured in Classic Home Desserts. The first known cookbook written by an African-American called Abby Fisher ( What Mrs. Fisher Knows About Old Southern Cooking) also contains two recipes for pound cakes. As centuries rolled by the cake evolved into the loveliness we still enjoy today although many recipes no longer stick to the classic 1/1/1 ratio.

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In the UK, you might know pound cake as the very similar Madeira cake. In France, the pound cake has its parent in the “quatre-quarts”and in Mexico it is called panqué. I have eaten panqué for desayuno (breakfast) in northern Mexico where its spongy crumb was flavoured with local cinnamon and sometimes chile. This cake is its best dipped into hot chocolate made from tablets of cacao nibs and spices dropped into a pan of steaming milk. Adding rum and other spirits to pound cakes is a most excellent idea. Copy the South Americans and shower it with wine, cream and nuts or add rum like the Jamaicans do. I have used Caribbean hibiscus syrup in a frosting and I am partial to a pineapple and brown butter pound cake which takes the whole upside-down thing and runs with it. The pineapple is lightly roasted in rum and muscovado sugar-spiked butter then added to the base of the bundt tin so that when the cake is inverted, it is crowned with the heavenly gooey fruit. I have made a blood-orange and chile version, combined cherry with buttermilk, tried coconut and rum and used the British steamed pudding as inspiration and glazed my pound cake with sticky marmalade.

What I love most about pound cake recipes is their affability. It’s not a problem if you want to add your own twist as long as you keep the flour/fat/sugar proportions the same. There’s a few other things you need to know too.

  • When you make it, don’t substitute with finer cake flour as it is too light to act as scaffolding for this sturdy cake. Remember, you need to be able to throw and catch it in one piece!
  • Add eggs to the batter slowly and not all at once so the albumen in the eggs doesn’t end up forming a thick film over the other ingredients and prevent you obtaining a proper rise when it bakes.
  • If you don’t want that sad streak, avoid over-beating.Creaming the eggs, sugar and butter should be done slowly, no higher than medium speed and once the flour is added, slow up some more. If you overdevelop the gluten in the flour you will get a cake that rises like a kingly audience but sinks when it is removed from the oven. And this sagging is what can cause that dense moist sad streak.
  •  Buttermilk or sour cream tightens the crumb whilst keeping it moist because they help break down the long chains of gluten which form. They add a lactic tang and act in tandem with baking soda to give the cake loft by generating carbon dioxide bubbles.

My version uses sour cream to lighten a classic chocolate flavour. I have added Frangelico to the glaze because I adore its hazelnut-chocolate taste but you can leave this out if you don’t like booze. If you like mint or orange with your chocolate instead, try adding a teaspoon of pure  extract to the glaze: it’s an affable cake, after all but remember to bake in a tube pan or bundt tin to get the best texture and looks. Along with the fancier Rebecca Rather’s Tuxedo Cake  and Nigella’s chocolate cloud cake, this is another of my fail-safe chocolate cakes because it is easy to knock up and therefore perfectly suited for baking as a birthday cake when you don’t need any kitchen aggro. It’s a recipe I have used for twenty or more years and I can’t recall where I originally found it but what I do know is that over the years I have tweaked it to arrive at what I think is the perfect example of an ageless recipe and one suited to every occasion.

Sour cream, Frangelico & Chocolate Pound Cake

 Baking time: 45 mins.

Ingredients for the cake:

8 oz  unsalted butter and extra for greasing the tin
6 oz cocoa powder (Dutch processed is best)
1 teaspoon salt
8 fl oz water
16 oz plain flour, plus more to flour the tin
14 oz soft brown sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
2 large eggs
4 fl oz sour cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

For the chocolate glaze:

5 oz dark chocolate, finely chopped into small chunks (I don’t go above 60% cocoa solids because I don’t like it too bitter) plus another 1/2 oz of grated chocolate to decorate
2 tablespoons corn syrup (Karo), golden syrup or agave nectar
4 fl oz double cream
1 1/2 tablespoons caster sugar or soft brown sugar

1 tablespoon Frangelico

Method:

  1. Heat your oven to to 350 degrees F / 180 degrees C.Butter and flour your Bundt tin and set aside.

2. Take a small heavy saucepan and add to it, the butter, cocoa powder, salt, and water then place the pan and its contents over a medium heat and cook, stirring, just until the ingredients are melted smoothly together. Remove from the heat and set aside to cool.

3. Take a large bowl and whisk together the flour, sugar, and baking soda. Add half of the melted butter and cocoa mixture then whisk it in until completely blended. The mixture will be thick and this is what you want it to be. Now add the remaining butter and cocoa mixture then whisk this until fully combined. Break the eggs into a small bowl and whisk them until blended then add the eggs to the cake batter in three lots, whisking until everything is blended. Now whisk in the sour cream and the vanilla extract. Whisk until it is just amalgamated.

4. Pour the batter into the prepared bundt tin and bake until a cake tester inserted into the center of the cake comes out clean. This will take 40 to 45 minutes. Let the cake cool in the pan for 15 minutes and then invert the cake onto a rack. Let it cool completely before glazing.

5. As the cake is cooling, you can make up the chocolate glaze. Put the chopped chocolate and corn syrup (golden syrup/ agave) in a medium bowl and set this aside. The syrup will ensure you end up with a chocolate glaze that clings to the cake instead of running straight off. Mix the cream and sugar together in a small saucepan whilst gently heating them, stirring all the time until the cream is hot and the sugar is completely dissolved. Let the cream mixture cool slightly then add the Frangelico to it and whisk until thoroughly mixed. Pour the hot cream over the chocolate chunks and whisk until smooth and shiny.You might need to heat the chocolate and cream mixture in a pan and give it a whisk if it looks too lumpy but it should be fine without this extra step.

6 When the chocolate glaze is ready, gently pour it all over the cake (the cake must be cool to do this). Let it run down the sides a little. I scatter pearlised or maple sugar over the top and chocolate stars or extra grated shards of chocolate also look great. Go to town on the decoration or leave it crowned with the glaze only, then cut, slice and devour. This cake easily feeds a crowd. The one in the photos above fed ten hungry eighteen year-olds and left enough for their families to have some too. It’s rich so slices can be cut smaller and even the thinnest of slices hold their shape well.

Why hygge and I are doomed to failure

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(Previously published in the print edition of the Bury Free Press.) 

It’s early October and already it feels more like a fresh start than New Years Day ever did. The latter’s odd meld of forced bonhomie, melancholy and lassitude from over-indulging never feels fresh to me.  New Year has instead, the air of the last day before we’re packed off to some dreary wellness rehab/ resort where they torture you with pints of daily tea made of moss and old twigs, foraged by a hippie with a manbun. January resolutions inevitably require us to reflect upon our previous misconduct and Vow To Do Better meaning our Fresh Start is already tainted with guilt and dreary low-rent Calvinism. I’m predestined to fail under those circumstances.

October is better. October is the season of mists,  a mellow kind of fruitfulness and- most joyful of all- entertaining twitter hashtags. Already we have #GBBO (my hate-follow because the miked sound of Mary and Paul chewing is worse than what we’d hear if they went to the loo wearing them) and #Strictly which is going to be JOYOUS because we have Ed Balls and his later-life self actualisation. To date Ed has given us pantomime boy-style capes, Elmer Fudd checks and a potted lesson in how to let go of the painful stuff without, um, RESOLUTIONS.

(Want to understand my weird obsession with him?  Check out this post on the website ‘Put Up With Rain’). It’s all Jess’s fault.

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Paso Doble, Ed style (Photo: BBC)

 

October is a slight bite in the early morning air and a Titian landscape; it’s woolly tights in hedgerow colours and lining the shelves of the cellar with mulled this and damson that. There’s boxes of new pencils and Cash’s name tapes to buy and blackberries to pick in the slanting light of the early evening. It’s the best time to get stuck into period dramas and boxsets, Netflix binges and publishers’ autumn lists filled with chunky cookbooks and the latest novel from your favourite author. The memory of brand new school exercise books and writing my names on them in my best handwriting is still acute. Yes, autumn is a time for making plans but it is also a time to batten down the hatches and consolidate what we already have and despite my enjoying modern conveniences and a local market teeming with bi-weekly deliveries of fresh food, at this time of year my atavistic settler genes run deep and I feel the urge to lay down supplies for the coming winter.

Last week I was reading about a new book (Hygge, a Celebration of Simple Pleasures) whose author urges us all to adopt the Danish way of living snuggly. There’s been a rash of books published on the subject (whiff of bandwagon, apart from those written by actual Scandinavians) and a lot of (albeit pleasurable) guff written about a concept which basically means ‘cosy’ but I guess there’s something in it because the Danes took the top spot in the United Nations World Happiness Report in 2016. In the interests of balance I should also point out that the Danes also take more anti-depressants than many other nations although this may well be linked to better mental health treatment and an absence of stigma.  They also have a lot of bacon which is associated with great happiness in my house, too.

V.S Naipaul was being very harsh on the Danes when he said, after winning the Nobel for literature in 2002, that ‘”If you are interested in horrible places, I can recommend Denmark. No one starves. Everyone lives in small, pretty houses. But no one is rich, no one has a chance to a life in luxury, and everyone is depressed. Everyone lives in their small well-organized cells with their Danish furniture and their lovely lamps, without which they would go mad.’ I personally would go mad without a decent lamp in the winter, without which I could not see to read (and it won’t be anything by Naipaul, the old curmudgeon) and there’s nothing wrong with a well- organized cell which is pretty much the only size of home a first-time buyer can afford anyway.

My problem with hygge is not based upon sweeping generalisations about an entire nation, although it can seem a bit Law of Jante at times. Charlotte Abrahams,  (the author of aforementioned book) defines hygge (pronounced ‘hoo-gah’) as ‘the absence of anything annoying or emotionally overwhelming’ which means that sadly I can never achieve hygge’s lofty goals because being emotionally overwhelmed by annoying things is my raison d’etre to be frank.

I have fallen at the first post.

Why?

Spiders.

Recently a news report on the FB page of my local paper, the Bury Free Press, struck terror into my heart. ‘At the beginning of autumn large male house spiders, gorged from a summer of eating moths and flies, start making their way indoors in search of a mate’ it told us. All I took from this was that OBESE SPIDERS ARE HAVING SEX IN MY HOUSE. My house, my home, my hyggelig-respite from the cruel world outside is full of spiders, entwined in the throes of eight hairy-legged passion and indulging in a bit of post-coital cannibalism too. (AKA the belts ‘n braces approach to GROSSING ME OUT.) Yes, yes yes I know its nature n’all but so are pustulant boils and who would want them pustulating in the corners of ones kitchen?

Greg Nejedly, a clinical hypnotherapist, offered some advice to those of us who don’t much care for spider promiscuity in the form of ‘taking deep breaths in order to…steer ourselves into a calmer state” which is probably less useful if you are reading this in Australia and a Sydney funnel web is bearing down on you. As someone who reacts very oddly to all manner of insect bites and forgets her epipen more than is good for her, I’ll forgo the calm breathing (and being a sitting duck) and rely instead upon good old-fashioned eviction techniques called a husband or anyone who is around except me basically. Another name for this is ‘you aren’t doing feminism properly’ from the mansplainers in the cheap seats.

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I feel a bit mean when I criticise hygge because it feels like I am kicking a particularly well-meaning puppy but there’s yet more barriers to ever achieving it in my house asides from my ability to shrink every pair of cashmere socks I’ve ever purchased. It’s called ‘living on one of the roads popular with homebound clubbers between 1-5 am in the morning’. Hygge embraces the concepts of togetherness and sharing which is why the inebriated residents of my fair town do love to share their loud voices with us in the early hours of the morning. Instead of being annoyed at the drunken sots arguing outside our bedroom window: the hapless men breaking up loudly with invisible partners on mobiles; the groups of weaving women who want to share with us, their rendition of some dire Taylor Swift anthem to friendship, I could go full-on hygge and seek to embrace and share too.

I could have a whole new career offering relationship advice (LTB) to wailing lovers via my open window or end them a bottle or she-wee so they no longer need to urinate against the house wall (yes, this happens). When my hyggelig deserts me I fantasise about recording what is going on and playing this lovely, mellifluous soundtrack at 6 a.m outside the homes of those club or pub owners who do not take seriously the problem of anti-social behaviour and continue to sell ridiculous amounts of cheap booze to already drunk people.  It’s impossible to feel cosy beneficence towards your fellow men and women when one is sleep deprived. Mess with my hygge at your peril.

 

Some thoughts on baking with citrus

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The space
between the leaves
is full of sunlight.

At the sharp edge,
no longer crowded
with past and future,

fruits ripen on the lemon tree
in the silence
rising
from the morning air.
–   Ok-Koo Kand Grosjean, Garden

That sunlit space is where all citrus fruits reside, a place of sharp, bright awakening and the way we use them in cooking is a tale of cultural derring-do: even the simplest of recipes can possess multiple cultural references, reflecting the complex culinary genealogy of these fruits. Although I use them frequently in savoury meals, today I want to gather together some of my favourite citrus recipes. And if a pudding course redolent with lemon and its citrus cousins is not enough, then precede it with chicken, spaghetti and circles of calamarata pasta dressed with lemon, garlic, parsley and clams, turnip tops and roasted cauliflower .

 One of my favourites is a recipe for a grapefruit yoghurt cake which possesses a convoluted culinary genealogy by way of Ina Garten and Deb Perelman and it is Deb who tinkers with Ina’s original lemon pound cake — and tries to lighten it up. Butter and buttermilk are replaced by oil -and the aforementioned yoghurt – in a nod to the sainted lighter living and not something I usually subscribe to, being of the school of eat a little of whatever the hell you fancy. Anyway, butter is not bad for you. This is not substitution in order to reduce calories or fat but to adjust texture:  the yoghurt adds flavour whilst the oil ensures the crumb retains dampness even when the cake is a few days old.

When we bake with citrus fruits, their sharp, grassy, rimey and clear flavours cut through the melding tendencies of eggs, butter and other oils like Flashman. Grapefruit lends a more rounded, burnished flavour than the lemon and is further rounded-out by the yoghurt which produces a springy, moist crumb with a lactic tang. A grapefruit’s flavour is warm amber compared to the clear jewel-like citrine taste of a lemon.

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Classic lemon bundt cake

Adding the zest to the cake mix results in a drizzle cake in all but name: the grapefruit juices are poured over the cooling cake and then used in an icing sugar-based glaze and this method clearly lends itself to all kinds of free-styling. The Southern Girls Kitchen has a newly published recipe for grapefruit pound cake which would make a great starting-block for experimentation using different glazes and adding in fruit to the batter: the cream cheese in the mixture and the filling also adds moistness and flavour. I have baked madeleines flavoured with bergamot and lime accompanied by a coconut dipping sauce and sharp lemon and lime loaf cakes where a sprinkle of sumach adds a rounded tangy flavour: Nigella’s lemon and polenta cake would also work well with sumach. I like the idea of friands scented with mandorla and Earl Grey tea or made with a blend of pomelo and Lady Grey. There’s other tea blends which sound intriguing too: try Adagio teas who sell a blend called crema di mandorle di albicocca (described as marzipan meets apricot in black tea with a splash of cream) which I think would be amazing in a cake on its own as well.

I’m currently testing a cake-riff on a breakfast grapefruit where we can take the grapefruit halves usual sprinkling of grilled brown sugar and transform this into a brown-sugar and butter icing for a brown-butter and grapefruit loaf cake, perfect for the colder months ahead.  In winter, try incorporating rosy quinces into a damp-crumbed fruity cake spiced with star anise; drench griddled brioche or madeira cake with blood-orange curd for breakfast; or tuck poached kumquats and lychees inside a friand so each bite of cake is enlivened by a heart of fruit. Keep an eye on this site and on my newspaper food column for the recipes.

Rachel Roddy has written about her own baking template- the yoghurt pot cake- which can be adapted as the seasons change and, as she finds, is terribly good-tempered about this. Here, she flavours it with lemon and persimmon which we sometimes refer to as Sharon fruit in the UK. The hachiya variety rewards the wait for ripeness as Rousseau explains: ‘patience is bitter but fruit is sweet,’ maturing to a sweet-jellied voluptuousness. Sponges made with it are beautifully damp. Add in a few slivers of stem ginger to deepen its sweetness into something more dustily mysterious and don’t be too fussy about shaking off the beads of syrup which cling to the little balls of ginger when you spoon them out of their jar and stir them into the batter.

Kerstin Rodgers (aka Ms MarmiteLover) has published a recipe for a boiled-orange upside-down cake which also happens to be gluten-free. Made for one of her secret tea parties, the original idea came via Diana Henry on Saturday Kitchen and the recipe caught my attention because I remember my mother saying that the worst thing she ever had to eat as a child was boiled oranges in post-war Britain. After years of citrus fruit shortages, all she wanted to do was eat one fresh and as un-mucked about with as possible. I don’t think that boiled oranges are disagreeable at all, especially when the caramelised orange juices from Kerstin’s cake (which are fortified by Triple Sec or Cointreau) seep into the base of the almond-enriched crumb. Use Seville Oranges and after you’ve poured the orangey juices over the cake, dust it with more brown sugar and give it a blast under the grill: I think a Seville orange-flavoured cake needs this extra sugar, you, however, may not.

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Blood orange

I’m partial to  Diana Henry’s pomegranate and blood-orange cake which is, she says, ‘for those lunatics who don’t like Christmas pudding’ although I am not one of them. The photo alone sold it to me before I even looked at the recipe as it’s the loveliest thing; basically John Masefield’s Box of Delights in cake form. Pomegranates are such a Christmassy fruit and a heap of fruits on the table and windowsills allows their ruby peel to absorb and reflect back winter light. They glow softly in the corner of the room keeping company with piles of nuts and those long cardboard boxes stuffed with glistening gooey dates. Mead always seems Christmassy to me and I have been testing cakes flavoured with it, either as a soak for the sponge layers, combined with a light hit of orange or lemon in the cake mix or added to the whipped cream, mascarpone or creme fraiche served with each slice. There’s also a quince honey and mead stack cake in the style of the Appalachian apple stack which I made for a friend’s birthday. Watch this space.

Then there’s pies. I have eaten raspberry pies and used the leaves to flavour the cream which is poured over each slice. (Disclaimer: don’t give raspberry leaf cream to women who are pregnant and not at full-term just in case it does what it is reputed to do and primes their uteri for labour by triggering small contractions.) The North American Shakers created a lemon pie made from whole lemons, rind and all, and it is topped with bright wheels of sliced lemon. For all its summer sunniness, it is also the perfect pie for a cold winters day. Claire Ptak from Violet Bakery recently discovered this pie and published her recipe on Guardian Cook . It is pretty much the same recipe as the classic Shaker one.

Tommi Myers uses Tarocco blood-oranges in her pie, here. These oranges are the result of a random mutation of the common sweet orange (citrus sinensis) in a fifteenth century Sicilian orange orchard grove although there is evidence that one blood orange variety arose independently in China. The levels of anthocyanin, a water-soluble pigment commonly found in many types of red, purple and blue plants are elevated in the blood-orange and will only develop if the fruit is exposed to cold conditions during its development or post-harvest.Whilst we’re talking orange pigments, did you know that some oranges grown in some African countries might not develop the characteristic orange-hued peel, remaining green?

Clementines, tangerines and satsumas are a good alternative in the winter or the loose-skinned minneola (a tangerine crossed with a grapefruit), tangelo (bred by crossing the tangerine, grapefruit and orange and also known as the ugli fruit) in the warmer months: these all have aromatic peel and are incredibly juicy. If you have frozen raspberries left over from the previous summer or one of those bags of frozen berries, tip them in too because they add a lovely floral depth and give a pie the shade of a Turner sunset. I have eaten (and want to recreate) a cranberry-tangerine tart with a walnut crust whilst away at Christmas-time on Florida’s Gulf Coast and Nancy Capelloni’s Cranberry Cooking for All Seasons has a lovely-sounding recipe for a cranberry-orange loaf cake which again, is Christmas and Thanksgiving appropriate. I’d probably knock up a sugar-syrup flavoured with quatre-epices to pour over the finished cake to mitigate any overly-tart tendencies these fruits might possess.

Meyer_Lemon
The Meyer lemon

I’ll finish on a high note in the form of Fran Gage’s Meyer Lemon Pound Cake recipe, taken from her book Bread & Chocolate. Gage once owned and baked in a well-known San Francisco patisserie and is equally as talented at writing in this, her first book, and its sequel, A Sweet Quartet. Each chapter begins with a brief essay linked to a recipe and in the chapter devoted to citrus she tells us of the elderly woman who strode into her bakery one day with a brown paper bag full of citrons which became marmalade and of her own Meyer lemon tree. After patiently waiting for it to mature and bear fruit, Gage’s pleasure in her precious harvest of floral-scented fruit which comes via its lemon and mandarin-orange parents is palpable. This cake is my absolute favourite. Gage recommends we soak the lemon zest overnight in sugar-syrup (Neruda reminds us that the freshness of a lemon lives on in the sweet-smelling house of the rind) and, alongside the couple of ounces of  lemon juice which goes into the batter, this produces a cake of such tender dampness that it melts in the mouth. This is a cake to eat whilst you sit outside on a sunny day and read Helena Attlee’s  book, The Land Where Lemons Grow, which journeys through Italian history in order to trace the story of the lemons which were brought there by Arabs and now grow so prolifically in Italy.

Meyer Lemon Pound Cake

lemon soaking syrup:
4 lemons
1/2 cup water
1/2 cup sugar

Zest the lemons and put in small pot with the sugar and water, bring to a boil and simmer for 1 minute. Cover and refrigerate overnight (or up to a week). Juice the zested lemons to make 1/3 cup juice, and reserve for the cake.

To make the cake:

1 1/4 cup flour
1 tsp baking powder
10 TB (5 oz) butter
1 cup sugar
2 eggs, beaten
1/3 cup lemon juice
prepared lemon zest, drained (syrup reserved)

Preheat oven to 350F / 180C. Mix flour and baking soda and set aside. Cream butter with the sugar until fluffy then add the eggs a little at a time. Add the dry ingredients alternately with the lemon juice then stir in the zest. Pour the batter into a buttered loaf pan and bake for about 1 hour. While the cake is still warm, poke holes all over its surface with a skewer and drizzle it with the reserved lemon syrup. Cool, then remove from pan.

 

 

 

Fennel cream cheese and tomato tart

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Like the French, I am not ashamed to buy and use ready-made puff pastry. The quality is generally good and it can save precious time when tiredness stands between you and a freshly baked tart.  I’m a big fan of open tarts because they can exert powers of resurrection over the tired stuff at the bottom of the fridge if you need to use it up. As always though, this will taste and look even better if your tomatoes are taut, herbs fresh and the cheese is the best you can afford. The fennel, herbs and cheese are whipped into a soft creamy bed for the tomatoes and smoothed over the uncooked pastry. If you don’t have access to fennel leaves (fronds) from a garden then many of the bagged salads in supermarkets contain it. Or look for an entire fennel root with a decent amount of fronds attached. The rest of the bulb can be sliced and added to salads, cooked down into summery tomato-based pasta sauces or roasted in its entirety so it won’t go to waste.

This tart takes minutes to prepare and they are good minutes too: by the time you slide the tart into the oven, the air will be scented with the aniseed notes of the fennel and the sharp grass and fruit of tomatoes at the height of their season.

Ingredients

320g ready-made puff pastry

2 very large tomatoes (around 750g)

150g Le Roule soft herbed cheese (or similar brand: Rosary garlic and herb goats cheese is good, too)

2 cloves garlic

sea salt and pepper

sprigs of thyme, lemon thyme, marjoram (chopped, about 3 level tsp), keep a few more sprigs whole for garnishing

chopped fennel fronds (about 2 tsp) or fennel seed (1 tsp)

2 spring onions, cut into thin slices along their length

Shaved parmiggiano to finish (a handful)

olive oil

Method

Heat oven to 190c / 375f and grease a flat baking tray with oil. Put tray in oven to get good and hot. This gives a good baked finish to the pastry base- no soggy bottoms.

Unwrap the pastry and place it on the baking tray then, using a sharp knife, score a line on the pastry, about ½ in (1 cm) in from the edge, all the way around without cutting all the way through. This will ensure that when the pastry bakes, a natural lip will form around the topping.

Crush the garlic with a flat blade and finely chop it. Then chop the fennel and herbs finely too, keeping a few stems of thyme and marjoram intact for the garnish.

Place the soft cheese into a  bowl, add the crushed garlic, fennel (fronds or seeds), chopped herbs and a goodly amount of salt and fresh black pepper to taste. Whip it together with a fork until it is creamy and well combined then using a small palette or other round-bladed knife, spread the cheese mixture evenly all over the surface of the pastry, right up to the line you scored earlier.

Now, thinly slice the tomatoes and arrange them on top of the cheese in whatever pattern pleases you. Sometimes I overlap, sometimes (as in the photo above) I just dot them about.  Arrange the spring onions over them. Brush the edges of the pastry with olive oil, and drizzle some of the oil over the tomatoes and onions then season them  with a little more salt. Scatter the herb sprigs on top.

Bake in the pre-heated oven on the middle shelf for 40-50 minutes or until the pastry is golden-brown and the tomatoes are soft, slightly charred at the edges and perfectly roasted. Keep an eye on it during the last ten minutes because seconds can lie between a perfect charred edge and black smoking ruin. I always throw on some shaved parmesan to serve, too.