Monthly Archives: February 2012

A word about lemons

27 Monday Feb 2012

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I love lemons. I love the way they sit all plump and jaunty in the bowl, the zing of oil from the rind, that spike of sparkling acid on the tongue. A lemon tree heavy in fruit and blossom is simply a wonder of nature.

To be mercantile for a moment, a ripe lemon is firm but not hard and should feel heavy for its size. Thin-skinned tends to be juicier than thick and bigger isn’t necessarily better (this is also true in life generally). The juiciest is the very thin-skinned Meyer (Citrus Meyerii), an LA stalwart. Not considered a true lemon at all but a hybrid – a cross between a lemon and a mandarin, some say, though its parentage is unknown – it has a sweeter, more complex, layered flavour, less acidic but still tart enough to perk up discoloured fruits and overly sweet or rich puddings. It cleverly cuts through sugar and cream, lifting a dish to subtle heights of piquancy and freshness. More sour is the Lisbon and Eureka. Lisbon is the juicier of the two, while Eureka is the standard lemon most of us have knocking about. It’s also the one most likely to have been infiltrated with fungicides, insecticides and waxes to make it more appealing. A Eureka picked from the tree is an entirely different animal: cobwebby, misshapen and mottled, and not a bright, waxy yellow at all, but a gentle ochre. With its sea-green leaves attached, it’s almost biblical.

It’s sad we have become such shallow meddlers in the sex life of the lemon. Its journey to ripeness, the subtle changes in colour, weight and fragrance are all to seduce us into plucking it in its prime, thus allowing the reproductive cycle to continue. There’s something almost touching in the knowledge that, being picked, the fruit is experiencing physical pressure for the first time; no longer suspended in mid-air, attached to its parent, it must come down to earth.

You could also try

  • Yuzu (Citrus Yunos) if you can get hold of it. It’s a Japanese citron that fruits early – around September or October here. Because of its exceptional tartness, it holds up well to being cooked at high temperatures and is used as a souring ingredient, specifically in the Japanese sauce, Ponzu. It also works well as marmalade and makes a fragrant, rind-heavy syrup, used often in Korean cuisine.
  • Ponderosa (Citrus Pyriformis) which looked like a grapefruit to me, but is actually a lemon-citron hybrid. The Middle Eastern community in LA apparently makes jam out of the thick rind, which has a floral scent. It also makes a fine lemon curd.
  • Sorrento lemons, also known as Femminello St. Teresa. Native to the Amalfi coast in Italy, they’re typically the variety used in making limoncello, a bitter digestif that uses lemon rind steeped in grain alcohol (which apparently you could also use to run your car). Layers of tufo and limestone in the area create the perfect soil for cultivation, which produces an exceptionally aromatic rind. Locals eat thick slices of this citrus, skin and all, with a dusting of sugar.

Ponderosa Lemons

Some Ideas

  • Hang some lemon peel out to dry in a warm place (by a sunny window, say). When it’s leathery, put it in a jar of sugar and use for baking.
  • I have seen children eat neat lemon quarters here as I used to do oranges (making the segment cover your teeth and then smiling eerily etc). I was both impressed and alarmed by this. I’m not suggesting you do the same, just informing you of the phenomenon.
  • Lemon-infused olive oil, also known as agrumato in Italy, is best made at home, and used within a couple of days. In Skye Gyngell’s recipe, you finely peel the zest – no pith – of 3 lemons using a vegetable peeler. Put in a pan with 1 cup (250ml) of extra virgin olive oil, and heat very gently to body temperature (about 99F). Remove and let steep for about an hour before using. Lovely drizzled over grilled fish, chicken, Burrata, buffalo mozzarella, ricotta or fresh Mexican cheese.
  • Lemon sandwiches, courtesy of Mrs Grigson: “Cut fresh, soft-skinned lemons into very thin slices and sandwich them between thin wholemeal bread slices, thickly buttered. Serve with smoked salmon and marinaded fish.”
  • North African Preserved Lemons

 A doddle, and fantastic strewn over ice cream, in tagines, added to sauteed vegetables, couscous, and mashed into a herby butter. Use Eureka lemons because their thick skins are a bonus here, but make sure they’re organic and unsprayed as the peel is what you’ll be eating, not the flesh. Cut 8-10 washed lemons into quarters from top to stem, without going all the way, and pack the cuts with a generous tablespoon of coarse sea salt (never table salt). Squash the lemons into a large, glass jar, giving them a good ramming to get the juices flowing. Add any or all of these: a cinnamon stick, a whole dried chili, a bay leaf, a few cardamom pods and coriander seeds, then seal and leave overnight. For the next 2-3 days, keep pressing the lemons down, as they begin to deflate. Now top up with fresh lemon juice so that the fruit is fully submerged and leave for about a month, after which time they’ll be ready to use. Keeps for about six months, looking vibrant and virtuous on your kitchen shelf.



Lemon Marmalade

23 Thursday Feb 2012

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I’m rather old guard in my tastes when it comes to marmalade. I find the alchemy of rind, sugar and, say, lemon juice bubbling itself to a thick amber syrup, and the smell of bitter citrus caramel more than enough to satisfy my needs. It took me about five years just to get over the fact that I’d made a jar of marmalade that was edible. But there is always more to discover – more complexity, more ways, whole fruit, less sugar, honey. I recently had a cooling spoonful of Blenheim apricot jam, and hidden in the lushness were apricot kernels that, when bitten, released their almond essence like a mini gun-shot.

But it’s taken me a while to get to herbs. This idea was introduced to me via the genius of Jessica Koslow. Her company Sqirl (based here in LA) is doing profound and wonderful things with marmalades and jams. I can only ape her originality and skill. Chamomile (meaning ‘ground apple’) adds a fruity, soft, almost soothing backnote here and in no way detracts from the citrus strength of the preserve. Harvest whole flower heads and keep them intact; crushing them releases the oils and there goes the flavour. If in doubt leave them out, or try something else in their place. Lemon balm would be interesting, either fresh or dried.

Chamomile

The Bergamot and Orange Marmalade recipe acts as my control – if I went into that much detail each time, we would probably both be reaching for the Mogadon, so I will simply give you the ingredient list here. You may also want to make the marmalade in one day rather than two, in which case omit the overnight soaking. Fills about 6 8oz/half pint jam jars.

Lemon Marmalade with Chamomile

12 lemons

1.35 kg (3lbs) organic cane sugar

20g (1 1/2 tbs) dried Chamomile (added to the muslin along with the pips and pith)

3 pints (6 cups) water (with 1 pint/2 cups added later if necessary)

A bit of history

Lemon marmalade appeared soon after the 13th century with the arrival into England of oranges and lemons. The oranges were bitter Sevilles from Spain and Portugal, or belonging to the Venetian spice ships. Jars of Citrenade were also imported; this was a kind of lemon marmalade, but solid and eaten in pieces, rather like the Portuguese ‘marmelo’ that began life in the Middle Ages. Marmelo was a stiff paste of quinces – citrus came later – made with honey and spices, cut into blocks and served as sweetmeats or fruit Pastilles (nothing like Rowntrees).


How not to die from marmalade

23 Thursday Feb 2012

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To clarify, you can’t die of botulism from a dodgy jar of marmalade; leave that to the pickled cucumbers (although apparently they won’t kill you either, see the marvellous Sandor Katz). Pretty much the worst thing that can happen is mould. To avoid this, you want clean, hot jars, hot marmalade and sufficiently high levels of sugar and acid to inhibit the growth of bacteria. 212F is enough to kill off all the nasty buggers. An instant-read thermometer is a wise investment here; It doesn’t have to be hugely expensive and it’s a very handy piece of kit, good also for making fresh cheese, checking roasted meats and deep frying.

Although it’s tempting when you see the mountain of sugar sitting in the saucepan surrounded by a moat of juice, don’t skimp on the amount called for. The sweetness will mellow over time. I put my jars and lids (if the seal comes separately always use a new one, as it does degrade) in the dishwasher and then in a medium hot oven for ten minutes just before filling, and then again after sealing. If you’re unsure about whether to hand this out to friends, or if the lid ‘pops’ as the marmalade cools, just keep the jars in the fridge and eat within a year. Otherwise, store in a cool, dark place.

Lemon Curd

20 Monday Feb 2012

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Lemon curd is so simple to make, it’s almost off-putting. Hard to imagine that whisking eggs, butter, sugar and lemon juice in a pan on the stove for a bit could yield anything other than a hot mess. And yet if there was ever such a thing as sunshine in a jar, this is it: bright, tangy, soft as velvet, and delicious eaten briskly cold on hot toast. 

Fruit curd was originally made in stone pots that stood in pans of hot water and were then stored on the still-room floor – a room that was used as a distillery for herbs, medicines and alcohol in medieval times, and later for the storage of jams and jellies. And why curd? In this instance, the word appears to come from curdling (ironically the only thing you don’t want it to do). Some like their curd yolkier than this, but for my money Delia Smith’s ratio is unimprovable. I find whisking rather than stirring creates a lighter texture with a touch more wobble to it, but if solid is what you’re after, use a wooden spoon.

Lemon Curd

Adapted from Delia Smith’s recipe

Makes about 3 8oz/half pint jars (with some left over for immediate use)

Grated zest and juice of 4 large, organic, unwaxed lemons

4 large eggs

350g organic cane sugar

225g unsalted butter at room temperature, cut into cubes

Sterilise the jars by putting them through a cycle in the dishwasher and then transferring them to a warm oven for ten minutes. Whisk the eggs lightly before adding them to a non-stick pan. Finely grate the zest of the lemons (no bitter white pith), squeeze out the juice and add both to the pan along with the sugar. Very gently heat while continuing to whisk with a balloon whisk until it starts to thicken (8-10 minutes). Slightly increase the heat and continue to whisk for a couple more minutes, but do not let the curd boil or you’ll have scrambled eggs.

Remove from the heat, and add the cubed butter, stirring to mix. Make sure the butter has completely melted into the mixture before straining the curd into the sterilised jars. If you like a grainier texture, add some fresh zest. Seal immediately. Even if the curd feels thinner than you would like, it will continue to thicken as it cools. You can’t ‘can’ home-made curd; commercial curd has thickening agents and artificial preservative in order to make it shelf-stable. But what the heck. Lemon curd keeps for up to a month in the fridge and is lovely given as a gift. I know of no one who can refuse it.

Thoughts on lemons

Curd made with the sweeter, milder Meyer lemon blooms gently in the mouth. If you want more of a kick, go for Eureka, Lisbon or Ponderosa. Add intrigue with some lime juice and zest.

What else to eat it with

Spread on a grilled slice of cake or dollop/wallop it into thick berry-strewn yoghurt. American-style pancakes (small, densely stacked, evil) straight from the pan and served with curd and a curl of creme fraiche would make a decadent brunch. And finally, a pot of lemon cream: Mix three heaped tablespoons of lemon curd with the same of Greek yogurt and creme fraiche, some lemon zest and a spritz of lemon juice, and you have a heart-stopping (hopefully not literally) devil of a dessert, which also works well as an accompaniment to a warm pudding. Ta da.

A Word About Dates

16 Thursday Feb 2012

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I’ve been on a Medjool date jag for months now. No mean feat if you consider the season is only supposed to run from September to November. Perhaps it’s because they’re grown in Coachella, a mere 132 miles away, that we’re experiencing such a glut. And they store well; six months in the fridge and they’re none the wiser. Medjools, along with Khadrawy, Halawy and Barhi, are classed as ‘soft’ dates because of their high moisture content. I will try to define the texture without straying too far into food-porn territory; your teeth break the sugar-blistered amber skin of the Medjool and the immediate sensation is a densely rich and yielding butterscotch flesh.

Two of these dates are the equivalent in sugar rush to eating a whole Milky Way without the artificially potent high and crashing low. Medjools in particular have a natural affinity with oranges – see the Sticky Toffee Pudding recipe – and dark chocolate. A collection of all three would make a fine dessert plate. Dipping medjools into melted dark chocolate and leaving to harden would also make a fine marriage.

Semi-dried dates, such as Deglet Noor, seem to belong to childhood Christmases; the rounded rectangular box covered in cellophane and decorated with palm trees and camels would always sit alongside a tray of nuts no one could crack. These dates are stickier, tougher and go well with thick yogurt.

But Medjools are the Kardashians of the date world; their demands are such that each date must be hand-pollinated and hand-harvested, while keeping their heads hot and feet wet at all times in order to thrive. This is also why they’re so expensive; cultivation is back-breaking and incredibly complex, with workers having to scale towering date palms several times a day to ensure a satisfactory yield. Talk about high maintenance.

Hot Date Compote (serves 2)

Adapted from Nigel Slater, Real Fast Puddings

1 tbs butter

8 soft dates, stoned and chopped

Generous squeeze of a large orange (about 6 tsp/30ml) and the zest

1 heaped tbs shelled pistachios, roughly chopped

Melt the butter in a pan until just starting to brown and smell nutty. Add the dates and let them soften over a gentle heat, giving the pan a good shake every now and then. Toss in the pistachios and let them brown slightly. Now deglaze the pan with the orange juice; this will pick up all the sticky, chewy bits that have started to caramelize. Add the zest, and let it all bubble for a minute or so, until it begins to look and feel like a puree. Serve hot over Greek-style yogurt or with a ripe, juicy pear. This compote is also amazingly good with pork as well as with a blue cheese such as Stilton or Roquefort (but not for breakfast – this would be stretching it even for me).

Cocoa and Earl Grey Shortbread

14 Tuesday Feb 2012

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I know for many of us shortbread isn’t exactly a breakfast item, but one of my over-riding memories of living in Rome was seeing my landlady every morning scoffing biscotti and knocking back an espresso topped up with lukewarm tap water. Quite pragmatic really. I also think we may be in danger of taking the whole healthy eating crusade too far, and we live in LA where this is endemic. As long as you are instrumental in creating the food you will eat, you cook the food you love, you know what’s gone into it and hopefully where it’s come from, the rest is just common sense.

These have a lightness about them; I’d say ethereal but that would be going a bit far. The egg yolks and butter keep things crumbly and short rather than cakey, which I’m not a huge fan of. This is probably because I’ve never mastered the hallowed chocolate chip cookie, which takes that subtle interplay of cookie and cake to its ultimate conclusion.

Cocoa and Earl Grey Shortbread

Adapted from Cindy Mushet, The Art and Soul of Baking

Makes about 24 (if using a 6cm round cookie cutter)

12 tbs (175g) butter, softened

Scant 1/2 cup (90g) organic cane sugar

Generous pinch of sea salt

2 medium egg yolks (organic and free range)

Grated zest of a whole orange or lemon

1 heaped tbs Earl Grey tea leaves

2 heaped tbs organic cocoa powder (Green and Blacks is good)

Scant 1 1/2 cup (200g) of plain flour (plus extra for dusting)

Whizz together the sugar and Earl Grey tea in a coffee grinder or spice mill until the tea leaves are very fine. Now beat this together with the butter until the mixture is light and fluffy. This can take a good 5 minutes but it’s important to get the right consistency. Add the salt, egg yolks and zest. Beat for half a minute. Sift together the flour and cocoa powder and gently fold it into the butter, sugar and egg mixture using a spatula until the mixture coheres. The dough will be very sticky. With floured hands place the dough on to a floured surface and pat into a wide, flat disc. Wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for half an hour.  Preheat the oven to 350F. Roll out the dough onto a floured surface to a thickness of about 3mm. You may need to refrigerate again for short while after this bit. Use a 6cm cookie cutter – or whatever shape and size you want – to cut out your shortbreads and use a palette knife to transfer them to a non-stick unlined baking sheet and bake until just firm to the touch. 8-10 minutes. Transfer to a wire rack to cool and store on parchment paper in an airtight container. They keep for about a week.

stp, before 10am

13 Monday Feb 2012

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Plump, soft dates lend themselves to warm puddings and, yes, I have served this at breakfast time and got away with it. Given its name, sticky toffee pudding has none of the leaden qualities you would expect, and is actually well suited to the breakfast table; rich but not heavy, and rather muffin-like in texture.

I started off trying to perfect a sticky toffee pudding recipe using Jane Grigson in English Food as my source; Francis Coulson apparently invented it in 1948 at his country house hotel at Sharrow Bay on Ullswater, and it’s been fairly unmessed with ever since. Dates, softened with boiling water and bicarb, are added to a basic cake mixture which is then baked and served slathered in piping hot, toffee sauce.

I couldn’t perfect it; it is already exactly as it should be. All I did was add the juice and zest of an orange because it counteracts the rich effect of the dates and gives it a nice early morning brio. Blood oranges are in season, and their tartness is a good foil for the sweetness, but use whatever is available. Raisins also help keep the cake moist, adding pop and juice.

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I  gave the finished cake a light dousing with the toffee sauce and grilled it as the toasted stickiness reminded me it was intrinsically pudding and messy that way. To be eaten with vanilla ice cream I should think, or yoghurt if before 10am.

Sticky Toffee Pudding

Lightly adapted from Jane Grigson, English Food

I’m not entirely convinced that you need to liquefy the dates with water and bicarb. Or at least I’m not entirely convinced about the bicarb, which if you can taste it even minutely, is revolting and tinny on the tongue. Other recipes advise simply chopping the dates very finely, which I’ve tried and also like. You could perhaps try both. Here I’ve stuck to the original for ease and because it’s still delicious (though have reduced the amount of bicarb).

175g dates, stoned and chopped

1/2 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda

175g caster sugar

60g unsalted butter, softened

2 free range eggs (at room temperature)

175g self-raising flour, sifted

pinch of sea salt

Finely grated zest and juice of 1 blood (or normal) orange

Large handful of raisins (optional)

For the toffee sauce:

140g unsalted butter

200g light muscovado sugar

6 generous tablespoons of double/heavy cream

Pinch of sea salt

Zest of 1 orange

Pre-heat the oven to 180C/350F. Butter a square cake tin approximately 24cm x 24cm.

Make the sauce by putting all the ingredients into a pan. Heat slowly until the butter has melted, then turn up the heat and bring to the boil. Simmer for 3 minutes. Add more salt if you like it salty, as is the current style.

Put the dates and raisins in a saucepan, add 250ml of boiling water and bring to the boil. Remove from the stove, stir in the bicarb and leave to stand.

Beat together the butter and sugar until fluffy, and then gradually beat in the eggs. Fold the flour and salt gently into the batter and add the orange zest. Once the dates and raisins have soaked up all the water, add this to the cake mixture along with about 3 tablespoons of juice from the orange, or a hearty squeeze. Don’t over-mix.

Pour into the cake tin and bake for about 30-35 minutes or until a skewer comes out clean.  Then puncture holes over the top of the cake and pour over half the toffee sauce. Heat the grill to medium, and put the pudding briefly underneath, keeping an eye on it as it can easily burn. Serve with the remaining toffee sauce, along with a dollop of ice cream for dessert (fresh ginger ice cream works beautifully), or as is at any other time.

If you want to store this cake before eating, leave it toffee-free and keep the sauce in the fridge. Then, when it’s close to serving time, poke the cake all over and douse with the sauce, cover the cake in foil, gently re-warm in the oven at 150C/300F for about 20 minutes. Finish off with a blast from the grill.

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A word about bergamots

12 Sunday Feb 2012

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Ber-ga-mot from the Turkish ”beg-armade” which means “Lord’s Pear”

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Citrus Bergamia Risso

The bergamots I used in the marmalade recipe were the less photogenic, exceptionally bitter Italian kind (citrus bergamia risso) rather than their sweeter, more fragrant French counterparts (citrons doux). ‘Balmy’ has been a word accurately used to describe the sensation of eating marmalade made exclusively with the Italian bergamotto. The sour, cheek-chewing intensity is always welcome in a marmalade but too much floral bouquet and it’s like eating a jar of Yardley.

The bergamot season is late and short – January to February – and as there are only three fruiting bergamot trees in the whole of southern California you should start chatting up the fine people at Mud Creek Ranch, and get in there before the restaurateurs do. Calabria in Southern Italy is where 80 percent of the world’s bergamot is grown with southern France also a producer, so you may still get lucky if you live in Europe.

This is an interesting one: Monarda fistulosa is an aromatic woodland herb, a member of the mint family, and native to North America. It is called ‘bergamot’ because its scent is very close to that of the bitter citrus but has nothing whatsoever to do with it, and is not the source of the bergamot essential oil used in Earl Grey tea and approximately half of all women’s perfume. The herb is also known as Bee Balm for its ability to attract bees and butterflies. Who knew?

Bergamot and Orange Marmalade

05 Sunday Feb 2012

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Today I picked up my first stash of bergamots from Mud Creek Ranch at the Hollywood Farmers’ Market. Knowing only of the bergamot oil in Earl Grey tea and various beauty products, it was exciting to have one in the hand. In appearance it resembles a gnarly, yellowy-green orange. The first thing I did was dig my nail into the peel to see if it would offer up that unique perfume and it still lingers as I write this two hours later; a searingly bright and fizzy citrus scent, with earthy, oily undertones. A kind of Earl Grey champagne, if you can imagine such a thing

Neat bergamot marmalade would probably take your eyebrows off – it has an intensity so startling and heady (surpassing even Seville oranges) that it would be wise to temper it with a gentler presence. Here, I’ve used sweet oranges and a couple of Meyer lemons, but you could also try something from the tangerine family.

This is a British-style, clear marmalade with a loose set and a generous scattering of peel throughout – though apparently the less peel, the more British. It is on the bitter side, as marmalade should be, and is best eaten slathered on hot, buttered toast at any time of the day or night. Fills about 6 8oz/half pint jam jars.

Bergamot and Orange Marmalade

Adapted from Delia Smith

6 Bergamots

6 Navel oranges

2 Meyer lemons

1.35 kg (3lbs) organic cane sugar

Begin by squeezing the juice from the bergamots, oranges and lemons into a jug. Remove all the pulp, pith and pips as you go and place them on a square of muslin or cheesecloth laid over a bowl; this contains the pectin which will enable your marmalade to set. Now cut the peel into shreds and add it to the juice. I like mine fine cut, but you may prefer a chunkier, more manly  ‘lade. As you go, add any lingering pith or pips to the muslin. When you’re done, add 3 pints (6 cups) of water to the juice and peel, tie up the muslin to form a small bag – make sure nothing will escape – and add that too. Leave in a cool place overnight.

The next day, tip the juice and peel into a large saucepan, or preserving pan, and tie the muslin bag to the handle so that it bobs like a cork in the liquid  (but doesn’t touch the bottom). I add an extra pint (2 cups) of water here as I find the muslin bag draws up a lot of the juice even after I’ve wrung it out a few times.

Now is the time to put some saucers in the freezer so you can begin testing later. Bring the liquid gently to the boil and then lower the heat and simmer. It is ready when the peel is completely soft – you can test a piece by pressing it between your finger and thumb. This can take anything from 35 minutes to an hour and a half; be aware that once sugar meets rind, it will no longer soften. Pour your sugar into a roasting dish and warm gently in the oven (200F) for about 10 minutes. This helps it to dissolve quickly later.

When the peel is ready, lift out the muslin bag and leave it on a plate until it’s cool enough to handle. Pour the sugar into the pan and stir over a very low heat until it has dissolved. When there are no crystals left, increase the heat and bring the marmalade to a rolling boil. Now squeeze every last bit of the jelly-like pectin that oozes from the muslin bag into the pan (I use a spoon to cream it off). Every little helps here, so be vigilant. Skim off any froth or scum that comes to the surface and leave the marmalade at a fast boil for 15 minutes. Now put a tablespoon of it on one of the cold saucers and let it cool in the fridge. If when you push the marmalade with your finger the mixture crinkles like a furrowed brow, then you have a ‘set’.  Keep testing at 10 minute intervals until it has reached setting consistency. If you find this too much of a faff, a thermometer is a reliable alternative; when it reads 221F (105C), it’s ready.  Leave the marmalade to settle for about 15 minutes otherwise all the peel will float to the top of the jar. Ladle into sterilised jars and seal immediately. Label when completely cold. See the Self-Preservation post on how to keep things clean and safe.

Lemon Posset

04 Saturday Feb 2012

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The beauty of the posset lies in its simplicity. There are only three ingredients – cream, sugar and lemons – so provenance is all. Get organic, unwaxed lemons; better yet get Meyer lemons (if you can), which are less tart, less acidic. Possets have been traced back to 15th century England where they were used as a remedy for colds and ‘minor illnesses’. Lady Macbeth used a posset to knock out the guards in the Scottish play, though in fairness it was probably the ramekin that did it.

I have served this to our B&B guests for breakfast, who partake of it as you would a rich yoghurt. Poached, seasonal fruit is also a welcome addition. It takes a certain bravery to serve it as pudding; it is very modest-looking, but lovely as a bright, clean finish to a heavy meal. There’s something in the method of boiling the cream with the sugar and then, with the addition of the lemon juice, feeling your spoon gently drag that is quite different to the heavier set of a mousse, say, and more akin to a delicately wobbling custard or blancmange. I am also remembering the quivering junkets of yesteryear.

Here, I’ve used Meyer lemons, and on a separate outing, bergamots.  Blood orange also works well, with some added lemon juice to give it bite. It’s the middle of the season for these citruses, so seek them out.

Lemon Posset

Adapted from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, Dairy Queen, The Guardian

150g of caster sugar

600 ml of double cream

3 good sized lemons to yield 80ml of juice

Zest of 1 lemon

Finely grate a whole lemon, being careful to avoid the bitter white pith (a Microplane zester is brilliant for this), and set aside the zest. Squeeze enough lemon juice to make 80 ml. Put the cream and sugar in a non-stick pan and warm gently to dissolve the sugar. Bring to the boil, and boil for exactly 3 minutes without stirring. Remove the pan from the heat and stir in the lemon juice. Strain into a jug, add the zest and leave to cool, stirring occasionally to stop a skin forming – I put the jug into a bowl filled with ice cubes. When the mixture is at room temperature, pour into 4 ramekins or small glasses, cover with foil and refrigerate for at least 4 hours, or overnight. Serve with the Cocoa and Earl Grey Shortbread, a smattering of raspberries or simply as it is.