Spiced prunes

23 Sunday Dec 2012

Posted by in Recipe

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

IMG_0929

This is not so much a recipe as a throwing together of ingredients and leaving them to do their work for a day or so on their own. I know that Christmas day is upon us and this dish can work both as a side with meat, as a compote for cheese, as a pudding and as a sweetmeat with coffee, which is handy. I’m not suggesting that this is all you have, but it frees you up to enjoy the festivities.

We found Yuzu lemons outside a sushi restaurant, where the tree was shedding its fruit. “They smell like aftershave,” said Joe, meaning in a good way. They do have an intensely aromatic zing. Almost but not quite overpowering. And contrary to reports, they gave up quite a bit of juice. This recipe, by Elizabeth David, asks for whole spices where possible. There is no added sugar, the prune having quite a bit of its own, and it’s rich enough without needing any accompaniment, though I have a penchant (as you’ve probably noticed) for crème fraîche.

IMG_0913

Yuzu lemon

I’m surprised it’s taken me this long to get to Elizabeth David because she was the first food writer I ever read with any real attention. And she is forever associated in my mind with Italy where I first learned to cook. Her book on Italian food was the only one I brought with me to Venice, where I lived and worked for a count and countess, and it proved useful because the dishes I needed to make were rarely complicated. It was always more an assembly of ingredients, and as such utterly exposing in the way that all very simple dishes are. Tomatoes sliced with some ripped mozzarella and some shredded (never cut) basil. Lemon chicken. Asiago and a ripe pear, sliced and eaten off the knife like a circus trick. Peaches, prosciutto, ice cream, a slug of espresso.

Everything was singular. The smell of one thing, its perfume, its downy skin, the rind of this or that cheese. Men carved away at artichokes on the quayside until all that was left was the furry heart. They floated them in buckets of acidulated water and Donatella taught me what to do when I got them home.

Donatella was the housekeeper, though she was also the unofficial stewer and broth maker. She was the one who made stock with a carcass, a few whole carrots, some bay leaves and an onion. She told me how to make sugo for pasta. She was small and round and young, and I think secretly wanted to learn English. Sometimes as we bent over the pots and pans I would translate for her and she would find it very funny. I was 19 and she couldn’t have been much older but she was married with kids. Eventually, she left me to my own devices. I had a small but effective repertoire by the time I left, but I never made pudding. Nobody made pudding, from what I could gather. Ice cream was eaten in the street, and anything sweet was bought in and consumed at breakfast.

I think Donatella would have approved of this dish. When I threw in the bay leaves and lemon rind I thought of her. It takes a certain amount of confidence to leave things be and she was nothing if not self-possessed. I think that’s what I learnt most from her – that the best cooks do less. I hope she would be proud.

IMG_0860

Blades of mace

Blades of mace sounds like a song by Motorhead. Actually, it’s the lacy covering of the nutmeg, technically speaking the dried aril. It can be used interchangeably with freshly grated nutmeg, added to clear soups and sauces as well as cakes and bread, though it is subtler and more delicate. It is marketed in pieces called blades and has a lovely orange hue reminiscent of saffron. This recipe asks for two blades, but be as free as you dare.

IMG_0878

Ceylon cinnamon

These quills of Ceylon cinnamon are quite different to the tougher Cassia bark we are all used to. They are crumbly and parchment-like and break apart like decaying cigars. They smell noticeably of lemon, are subtler than your average and are very different to the spicy, dry ‘hit’ of cinnamon powder. The only drawback is the bits of wood get everywhere and you end up spitting them out in a rather uncouth way.

Spiced prunes with lemon and bay

Adapted from Elizabeth David’s Christmas, edited by Jill Norman

500g/1lb large prunes (preferably unpitted)

2 5cm/2ins pieces of cinnamon

2 level teaspoons of coriander seeds

2 blades of mace

4 whole cloves

Rind of one lemon (and add the peeled lemon too)

2-3 torn bay leaves

Put the prunes, spices, bay leaves and lemon in a bowl or earthenware casserole dish. Just cover them with cold water. Leave overnight. The next day, cook the prunes in an uncovered casserole in a low oven, or in a pan over a very low direct heat until swollen but not mushy. About half the cooking water will have evaporated. Take out the fruit and remove the stones. Heat up the remaining juice with all the spices, until it is syrupy. Pour it through a strainer over the prunes. Eat cold.

Persimmons

18 Tuesday Dec 2012

Posted by in Recipe

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , ,

IMG_0857

Fuyu or Sharon persimmon

There are two kinds of persimmon. The first, the Fuyu, looks like a tomato and is eaten like an apple or sliced into a salad. Although they are supposed to be crisp when eaten, I find they are more flavourful when properly ripe, which is to say, bulbous and crepey and as if about to burst their banks. They look so beautiful it almost doesn’t matter about the rest.

The Hachiya, like the quince and medlar fruit, can only be eaten when fully ‘bletted’ – almost rotten, with most of their astringency gone. They look pretty miserable; bruised and bloated with a long chin. They taste stunning, if occasionally slightly furry. The inside of a Hachiya is the kind of orange I have only ever seen in a Howard Hodgkin painting. It is floating and jelly-like to eat – if you can imagine a mouthful of the best jelly at the finest children’s birthday party you have ever been to.

IMG_0868

Hachiya persimmon

In California, there is much talk of persimmon pies, purees, tarts, butters and such. This might be because there is often a glut of them in winter. But sometimes between fruit and pudding falls the shadow. So much of their beauty is lost once you interfere. It’s true that wild persimmon, Diospyros virginiana, was cooked by the early American settlers until they were “baked and sodden,” so ubiquitous was the fruit. We are unlikely ever to be in their shoes again.

With the Hachiya, simply slice off the ‘lid’ (with its fawn-coloured calyx) and proceed as you would a soft-boiled egg. A spoon and some deep yellow cream is all you need. And even that might be pushing it. With the Fuyu, peel off the skin which can be tough, and then slice it as you would a tomato – horizontally. Serve with some toasted nuts, some sea salt, lemon and nut oil and perhaps some hard cheese. Treat it as you would melon; as a nice clean starter. Alternatively, if you’re in a rush or frankly can’t be arsed, then eat it as is.

IMG_0872

Hoshigaki

Hoshigaki is the name for Hachiya persimmons that are dried and massaged daily for six weeks until the flesh is leathery but soft and covered in the fruit’s natural sugars. It’s laborious and the results can vary hugely. At the Santa Monica farmers’ market, it was like eating the world’s largest date, a huge fudgy teardrop that caved at the slightest pressure. The ones above were tougher, more like dried banana. The woman whose job it was to massage them professed it made her feel a bit pervy (I’m paraphrasing). It’s a bit like milking a cow, apparently.

Fuyu or Sharon persimmon with sea salt, toasted nuts and hard cheese

Adapted from Deborah Madison, Seasonal Fruit Desserts

Slice the fruit into sections or cut it horizontally into thinnish rounds. Arrange the slices on a plate; add some crunchy sea salt (fleur de sel), some chopped, toasted nuts (hazelnuts are nice here), and a few drops of nut oil. Add some slices of a hard, sharp cheese.

IMG_0897

Write me down

As one who loved poetry,

And persimmons.

Shiki

Fuyu is also known as Sharon fruit – persimmon developed by Israelis in the Sharon valley.

Toasted Ginger Cake

11 Tuesday Dec 2012

Posted by in Recipe

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

IMG_0772

Something dark is needed, and I feel it can’t be chocolate. Something dense, oblong and with ginger nubbins. Some sort of nub is required. I have spent the whole week researching chocolate pecan torte. I still know nothing about tortes. And I realize this is not the time for light and airy cakes with a dusting of something smokily ethereal. If ever there was a time for density it is now. And the heart wants what it wants, as Emily Dickinson once wrote.

I don’t know why this has to be toasted, but it does. I first tried it about two years ago in a cafe in Sussex. I asked if I could get the recipe and the cook refused. He didn’t refuse to my face, which was in some ways more embarrassing because he was about a yard away from me in his open kitchen, and the rejection was delivered via a waitress. I don’t know whether I was being a bit pushy, presumptuous in asking. I thought it was the best ginger cake ever, and was sending my compliments along with the question. I didn’t want a print-out or anything. Just the basics. Anyway, two years on and many ginger cake recipes later, and by George I think I’ve got it.

I always think of this time of year as a period in which chocolate is passed over in favour of nuts and spices. We are entering the season of thin, biscuity pastry, lemony innards, honeyed syrup, stewed fruit, toasted nuts. The Elizabethan sweetmeat reigns. I am gearing up for mince pies. I feel I’ve thrown everything into this cake. Because it’s such a straightforward recipe, I felt it could be fattened up a bit. I wanted peel so I threw in some of my thick-cut marmalade. I had maple syrup so in it went. I also tried maple sugar, because I like its darker ‘dried toffee’ taste. But most importantly, I candied some ginger. This took a while, but the results were far more interesting than the stuff you buy. The syrup alone is worth the effort; peppery and pungent and a deep thick amber. It keeps for months.

IMG_0802

To return to the source of the wound for a moment, the cake whose recipe I coveted was a ginger parkin, a staple from the northeast of England. ‘Fresh’ parkin is frowned upon; a slightly aged parkin is the acceptable form, so try to withstand the temptation to eat it straight away. It improves if you leave it at least a couple of days. On its own, unadorned, the cake is lovely with a cup of tea. The toffee sauce takes it to an almost obscene level of indulgence; we are now in pudding territory. Eat it on Boxing day watching a crap film.

Toasted Ginger Cake 

Adapted from Andrew Pern, Black Pudding and Foie Gras

100g self-raising flour (or use plain flour and add 1 tsp of baking powder)

75g oatmeal (or porridge oats whizzed in a blender)

A pinch of sea salt

½ tsp bicarbonate of soda

1 heaped tsp ground ginger

1 tsp cinnamon

½ tsp freshly ground nutmeg

2 tbs shred from marmalade (optional)

2 heaped tbs preserved/candied ginger, finely diced

175g golden syrup* (utilize some of the ginger syrup if you have it)

50g black treacle*

100g butter

100g soft brown sugar

1 egg, beaten

2 heaped tbs milk

For the toffee sauce

115g unsalted butter

115g light brown sugar

140ml double/heavy cream

Sea salt

Preheat the oven to 140C/285F/gas mark 1. Sieve the flour, bicarb, salt, ginger, nutmeg and cinnamon into a bowl, then stir in the oatmeal and the candied ginger and peel (if using). Gently melt down the syrup, treacle, butter and sugar, keeping it just below a simmer – do not let it boil. Stir in the dry mix until amalgamated, then add the egg and milk, so it’s a soft, semi-pouring consistency. Pour into a greased, 20cm square cake tin and bake for an hour and a half, or until firm in the centre. Leave to stand for half an hour, then turn out. The parkin’s now ready to be served. Like good wine, it improves with age; store in an airtight container. For the best flavour, keep for three weeks.

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. Boil for about 3 minutes, or until the sauce has thickened enough to coat the back of a spoon. If you want a more gutsy flavour (and you don’t want insipid toffee sauce) go until the colour has deepened slightly to a warm nut-brown. Poke some holes in the cake and slather the sauce over the top, letting it drip down the sides. Toast under the grill before serving. This recipe is based on the same principle as the Sticky Toffee Pudding.

* In the US, use corn syrup in place of golden syrup if you can’t find it, and molasses in place of black treacle. I went to India Sweets and Spices here in LA where they have a British section.

Crystallised/candied ginger

Adapted from David Lebovitz, Ready for Dessert

1 pound (500g) fresh ginger, peeled

4 cups (800g) sugar, plus additional sugar for coating the ginger slices, if desired

4 cups (1l) water

Pinch of salt

Slice the ginger as thinly as possible. It can’t be too thin, so use a sharp knife. Get the youngest ginger you can find, as it’ll be less fibrous. Put the ginger slices in a non-reactive saucepan, add enough water to cover the ginger, and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and let the ginger simmer for ten minutes. Drain, and repeat, simmering the ginger slices one more time. Mix the sugar and 4 cups (1l) water in the pan, along with a generous pinch of sea salt and the ginger slices, and cook until the temperature reaches 225F (106C.) If you don’t have a candy thermometer, the consistency will be similar to runny honey. It will have reduced quite considerably, and will leave a generous coating on the back of a wooden spoon.

Remove from heat and let stand for at least an hour – overnight is ideal. Or if you want to coat the slices with sugar, drain very well while the ginger is hot and toss the slices in granulated sugar. Shake off the excess and spread the ginger slices on a cooling rack overnight, until they are tacky-dry. Alternatively, the ginger, packed in its syrup, can be stored in the refrigerator for up to one year. If tossed in sugar, the pieces can be stored at room temperature for a few months.

IMG_0817

Noticing Pecans

03 Monday Dec 2012

Posted by in Recipe

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

, , , , , ,

IMG_0692

There is an expression: You are here. This is now. Useful when you’re telling stories to contemplate this from time to time. It is easy to look back, to dip into a time removed. But right at this moment I’m sitting in LA. It is early morning. Outside it is dark and rain has fallen and continues to fall, soaking our cushions on the garden sofa we found in the road by Lake Hollywood.

There is a ring of mushrooms that has sprung up outside our window. It is a dark morning without the fog and cold breath of an English winter, but still, it’s recognisably the cold months here. The darkness feels slippery. There are long, wet days that close around 4pm. It is dank and faintly claustrophobic to be inside so much. The windows don’t blow and rattle like they do when there are gales in England. The windows here are doors and they stand firm. Still, listening to the rain at night is comforting, slightly numbing.

IMG_0695

And then I went out. To the farmers’ market, where I found pecans. I took some photos – actually I pointed my camera, snapped and moved on. I kept coming back though. Once to ask how to crack the shell (put two in your hand and squeeze), the second time to ask where the nuts came from (Fresno), and then he saw me coming again and he wasn’t sure how to react. Yes, they’re peaking now – the next few weeks are their time.

When I got home I couldn’t believe how truly beautiful they were. I loved the way they rattled in their netting and the surprisingly friable nature of the shell. Simple pressure splits the skin. These are fresh, ‘wet’ pecans and they have a sweetness to them missing in walnuts. My first crunch – creamy and dry, faintly tannic – and I thought of maple syrup.

Los Angeles

Fall in Los Angeles

Edmund de Waal talks in his book The Hare with Amber Eyes about the ‘default vagueness’ of melancholy and the ‘smothering lack of focus’ it can engender. We have our stories. Sometimes we forget to go out and make new ones. I have been missing England and the toing and froing of recent months has only added to this sense of dislocation and nostalgia. I have been keening. Now it’s time to be here. Because when I am no longer in this place, I will miss it.

So to pecans. I don’t want to mask their flavour and unique texture. I want to keep them simple and fairly whole. These toasted pecans go well with all manner of things. Here a pear, and though Ruth Watson decries the Conference as having ‘as much taste as a policeman in a string vest,’ I rather like the blandness and graininess. A nice ripe juicy pear anyway is a good thing. Take what you can get. Of course, sometimes it must be ice cream and nothing else. A ball of vanilla, a warm clutch of toasted pecans, a thin moat of maple syrup and I’m anyone’s.

Sweet and salty pecans and a ripe pear

David Lebovitz, The Sweet Life in Paris

Deborah Madison, Seasonal Fruit Desserts

Serves 2

1 cup (170g) shelled pecans

1 tbs (15g) butter

1 tbs dark brown sugar

A good pinch of flaky sea salt (fleur de sel) or smoked sea salt

A good pinch of freshly ground black pepper

A finely chopped sprig of rosemary (optional)

Maple syrup (optional)

2 ripe pears

Spread the nuts on a baking sheet and roast in a 300F (180C) oven for about 5 minutes to ‘tickle out’ their flavour. Try to avoid colouring them too much. Melt the butter in a pan over a medium heat, add the rosemary (if using) and then the warmed pecans. Sprinkle the brown sugar over them, and stir until the sugar has melted. Remove from the heat, then sprinkle with the salt and a fresh grind of pepper. Let cool to harden. Tap the pecans gently with a rolling pin to break them up or leave them whole.

Peel, quarter and core the pears. Slice them and serve with the pecans and a drizzle of maple syrup if you have some. And if you have some ice cream, go for it.

Things that go well with pecans: vanilla ice cream, maple syrup, bananas, cream, caramel, avocados, blue cheese, apples, pears, dates and beets.

IMG_0729

Salad of pears

29 Thursday Nov 2012

Posted by in Recipe

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

My first salad. Not the first salad I’ve ever eaten – that would be a bit perverse – but the first one I’ve written about here. The blue cheese is not essential; it is the pear and watercress that makes the dish, but a nice Stilton or Roquefort lends a lactic headiness to proceedings. This crosses the border between indulgence and virtue. Yes, it has a lot of fresh, raw greenery, but that mustn’t deter us. And it is a meal in itself. Have some hot crusty bread, a jug of dressing to mop up, and nothing else is required.

Pears are one of my favourite things. They are tricky, temperamental. The moment between just ripe – your thumb making the slightest depression in the skin, the juice ready to spill – and pear-rot is a hair’s breadth. They are peaceful to look at, a still-life, long and sloping, the Modigliani of fruit. I love Conference* pears the best – their mottled, taupe skin, slightly rough to the touch. They ooze and fall into your mouth, but never collapse. It’s good to eat them from the point down. In fact they fit in the palm perfectly.

This recipe – minus the blue cheese – came by way of my Australian aunt Cynthia and when we took it on, perhaps unconsciously, we would always serve it in an Aboriginal bowl made of wood. It was a strange shape, like an opened clam, and on the outside there were black inked carvings. You weren’t supposed to wash it, but we did, and it withstood this neglect and abuse for years. It still exists now as a receptacle for other things, looking terminally dusty. But we used it in London mainly, in Redcliffe Square, and I sometimes sat and ate this salad and watched Hugh Grant and Liz Hurley leave their flat from the house opposite. Sometimes, I would see them through the glass getting ready for things. I once inadvertently walked past his door when he was coming down the steps to be ‘caught’ by a paparazzo. Afterwards, he and the photographer stood around and chatted.IMG_0663

This was around the time when strange pairings were encouraged generally. It was as if we had woken from our Eighties torpor, ready to push the boat out. There was lamb and pears, for example. The macrobiotic diet was doing the rounds and there was talk of yin and yang. Things that were acidic needed to be mixed with things that were alkaline. Even the area was mixed: rent-controlled apartments such as ours existed alongside celebrities and landed gentry. Earls Court, although at that time largely Arabic, still had the residue of transplanted Aussies, like my mum, who had arrived in the late Fifties and stuck around.

Strangely, this recipe hasn’t dated, nor is it ubiquitous. It has survived the fashions and vagaries of the time. It reminds me of interesting couplings. Of rubbing along. I think it might be worth a revisit.

Pears, watercress and blue cheese

Adapted from Ruth Watson, The Really Helpful Cookbook

Serves 4

2 large handfuls of watercress

2 or 3 ripe-but-firm pears

100g Roquefort (or other blue cheese) – you can improvise with the amount

For the dressing

1-2 tbsp balsamic vinegar

4-5 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil

1 tbs honey

1 tbs Dijon mustard

Pinch of sea salt

Freshly ground black pepper

Make the dressing: dissolve the sea salt with the balsamic vinegar by giving it a good swirl, then add the mustard and stir throughly to combine. Slowly drizzle in the olive oil until it’s all mixed. Add the honey and stir. Put to one side.

Break up the watercress and remove the stems. Artfully arrange onto plates. Peel, core and cut the pears into sixths (or quarters if they’re quite small). Do this at the last moment to prevent the pears from browning, or slather in lemon juice and put to one side. Leave on some of the skin if you like a bit of texture. Tuck the pears into the watercress and season with some black pepper. Crumble some blue cheese over each plate. Drizzle with the dressing and some extra honey if you like. Serve immediately. Likes hot bread.

*Bosc pears are a good substitute in the US. In fact, they are plumper and juicier.

Upland cress

Warm cherry & chocolate cakes

20 Tuesday Nov 2012

Posted by in Recipe

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

Cherries in November, I hear you ask? No, I have only the dried versions – wizened little blisters plumped up by liquor – but I love the look of these deep, dark orbs. And oddly they seem more suited to winter in my mind. This story is a pulling together of the different threads of my England trip, and the genus comes from a visit to Brighton, the streets slaked that day with dirty rain. It was also cold and people were standing in doorways looking out, not at anyone in particular, but simply looking on with flattened, peeved expressions. My mum and I had the idea to see the Biba exhibition at the Brighton museum, but instead went to Primark. The rain washed away any ingenuity that day, but at least I came away with a good packet of pants.

We ran out of the rain into a cafe. It was warm inside and there were some lovely looking cakes on the counter, although with my mother the assumption is always that we will have soup. Soup and tea. The girl behind the counter was bewitchingly friendly. She was Polish, and it was her mother, Ella, who did all the baking. Her mother was downstairs. There was a Black Forest cake, with all its turrets and glossy layers, a plum crumble tart, and whirling pastries. We ordered soup, which was beef and leek – delicate and creamy. My mum ate the plum crumble tart. A chocolate cake arrived, carried by Ella.

By this point, I knew that my mum would be engaging in conversation with Ella, and that this would happen as soon as the cake was released. It began as it always does – with a few compliments, and a request for ingredients. A slow and delicate deconstruction of the soup followed, and then onto the plum crumble tart. Without this dandling, this gentle back and forth, I know Ella would not have brought out a jar of her homemade black cherry jam for us.

When it came to packing for the return trip to LA, I decided to leave the jar of jam behind. It was too heavy, and it was glass. Besides, my mum would enjoy it. I put it in the cupboard but it found its way back into my bag. I returned it, hid it behind some tea, but there it was again, sitting at a jaunty angle in amongst my clothes. It eventually stayed with her. I assumed you could get black cherry jam in LA. I was being rather cavalier about it; it was fine, it was only jam, she should have it. But on my return here, it gnawed at me. I missed it. I thought often of the contents, and the patterned lid, and the way Ella had presented it, her face flushed with promise and oven heat. It’s funny the things we regret.

I would like to think these cakes are based on the Ischler torte, the Viennese chocolate cake with cherry and almond filling, and not the smothering Black Forest. But ultimately, there is something very British about these little chocolate fondants. We are so in love with the oozing and glaucous pudding, with dark and brooding chocolate. And cream, of course. If you can’t find dried cherries, you could try prunes soaked in brandy, raisins soaked in whisky or dried cranberries in vodka. And, of course, if you have some homemade cherry jam, use that.

Warm cherry and chocolate cakes

Adapted from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, Three Good Things on a Plate

Makes 6

100g dried cherries

40ml Calvados

A little cocoa powder for dusting

150g dark chocolate, broken into small pieces

150g unsalted butter, diced, plus extra for greasing

3 large eggs

75g caster/superfine sugar

35g plain flour

Soak the cherries in the Calvados in a small bowl for at least 2 hours (or overnight), to absorb most of the liquid.

Preheat the oven to 200C/400F and put a baking tray inside to heat up. Butter 6 dariole moulds or ramekins well and dust with the cocoa. Melt the chocolate and butter in a heatproof bowl over a pan of barely simmering water. Stir gently at the end to blend and leave to cool a little. Beat the eggs and sugar together for a good 5 minutes until the mixture is thick and creamy and ‘holds a trail’ (when a little is dropped from the whisk it sits on the top of the mixture before slowly sinking back in).

Fold the melted chocolate and butter lightly into the egg mousse. Sift the flour over the mixture, then fold it in carefully. It should be throughly incorporated, but don’t overwork the mixture. Fold in the cherries and Calvados.

Divide the mixture between the ramekins. You can prepare these cakes ahead to this point, if you like, and refrigerate them for up to 2 hours. Bake the puds on the hot tray in the oven for 10-12 minutes. Turn out immediately into shallow bowls and serve with thin, chilled cream.

IMG_0630

Apple fritters

11 Sunday Nov 2012

Posted by in Recipe

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

What a thing of beauty is batter. The crisp dense doughnut, its hole of silken jam revealed through the dough like a gun-shot wound. Sausages in batter, a Seventies masterpiece. Churros, those Spanish curly wurlies of ridged, hot, sugary rope. And gribbles. Gribbles were bits of batter, scrag ends you could get at the fish and chip shop for free. They would be scooped up, grudgingly, if you asked for them, and given to you in a cone made out of newspaper.

The fish and chip shop, Capel’s, was opposite the swimming pool on Heavitree road in Exeter, where I had my weekly swimming class with a monster called Miss Diamond. She made me cry underwater. I also had to tie knots in my trousers, blow them into a balloon and wait to be ‘rescued.’ These were public baths and always full to bursting on a Wednesday night, with kids having fun after school. Trying to get from one end of the pool to another was a challenge. Trying to do it fully clothed in order to save someone who was pretending to drown was a joke. Miss Diamond bellowed instructions at us or blew on her whistle to get above the racket. Never has the term ‘treading water’ felt so apposite, as I waited for the tyranny to end.

After swimming I would have hunger pangs but no money. I remember standing in the chippy with wet hair, watching golden hunks of fish being laid to rest in glass cabinets on the counter. But it was the batter I was after. Sometimes there was a landslide of gribbles, and you could even direct the server to which bits you wanted. Other times, strangely there was nothing. If I was ravenous, I would challenge them weakly. Were they sure? Absolutely nothing? And then the hill-climb home seemed particularly hard.

Still life with gribbles

Peppery, puffy batter shrouds these sweet apple slices, which are ever so slightly cooked while remaining al dente. A pinch of saffron, steeped in a couple of tablespoons of boiling water and then strained into the mixture, will turn the batter a lovely crocus-yellow. Alternatively, you can add sparkling water, cider or beer. You must eat these quickly, even standing over the still-smouldering pan of oil. I can imagine they would work well on a lazy Sunday morning – you can prepare the batter the night before and keep it in the fridge (give it a quick whisk). Do not omit the pepper.

Apple Fritters

Inspired by Emma Gardner, Poires au Chocolat

Adapted from a recipe from Jane Grigson, English Food

6 eating apples

125g (4 oz) flour

2 medium eggs

1 tablespoon of butter

Up to 300ml (1/2 pint) milk

Freshly ground black pepper

Pinch of sea salt

Pinch of saffron (optional)

2-3 tablespoons of sparkling water, cider, beer (tap water is fine)

Caster sugar (superfine), to toss

Cinnamon for the sugar (optional)

Oil to fry – sunflower, canola, peanut, coconut

In a small pan, melt the butter. You can take this to the browning stage for a nuttier flavour, if you like. Leave to cool. Beat the eggs in a bowl, then add the flour, and the water/cider/beer/saffron juice (delete as applicable), and sea salt. Gradually beat in half the milk and whisk until smooth. If the batter is too thick for your taste, add more. It should be thick enough to coat the apples well, and more or less stay put in the pan. Add the cooled butter. Grind the pepper two or three times over the basin and stir it in.

Peel the apples, then use a corer to take out the centre. Cut into 1cm thick slices (but again this is up to you). Prepare two plates: one with kitchen roll and another with a generous layer of sugar, mixed with a sprinkling of cinnamon if you like. Pour about 2cm of oil in a heavy-bottomed pan and heat over a medium high heat until just starting to smoke. Let a drip of batter fall into the oil – that will give you an idea of whether it’s ready.

Dip the slices of apple into the batter and fry until golden brown on both sides. Transfer to the kitchen roll plate for a minute to soak up any excess oil, then move to the sugar plate and toss. Enjoy now.

Intense

05 Monday Nov 2012

Posted by in Recipe

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , ,

I’d like to clarify one thing: Los Angeles is not laid-back. I can illustrate this with a recent happening in Runyon Canyon which involved the lady in the picture below. It was immediately clear she was mad. To conflate the English and American uses of the word, she was both insane and angry. She strode up the hill, got very close to us, pivoted and marched back down. She did this a few times, and we took some surreptitious photos, which she seemed to know about even though she couldn’t see anything.

“Are you taking pictures of me?” she barked, striding up the hill again, ski hat and sunglasses obscuring most of her face. We assured her we were not, and continued on our way. But however far we got, she would find us, get very close, then pivot and stride in the opposite direction. It was like some sort of drama school exercise to do with spatial awareness. Specifically the work of Rudolf Laban, which she would have excelled at.

Each time she came near, she raised her voice, and started talking very loudly into her cellphone. It wasn’t clear if there was anyone real on the other end, but it was obvious she was talking about movies: meetings, castings, budgets were mentioned. And it occurred to me that this was like a mad and intense version of what happens in LA every day. This is a city of creatives. Imagine living in a city peopled only by librarians or lollipop ladies* (which would be nice, I think; you would have a wide selection of reading material while being able to cross the road safely).

I never thought I’d come to the conclusion that there is such a thing as too much creativity. Being surrounded by people who are expressing themselves all the time is quite frightening, particularly when there are also yawning canyons, deep bowls of dust, fissured, cracked earth. There are mountain lions and rattlesnakes in the vicinity. Hawks hang in the air. LA is quite wild enough.

In keeping with today’s theme, these cookies are very intense. They’re little explosions of citrus and chocolate, and leave you feeling quite caffeinated and in need of moisture. They use a lot of butter, so this is an opportunity to use the good stuff, if you can get your hands on it. They aren’t soft, but snap in the mouth, and have a crystalline, sandy quality. The flavour of orange is not subtle (the recipe asks for the zest of 5 oranges, no less) and the dark chocolate is strong and edgy. Children may well turn their noses up at them. All the more for you.

Orange chocolate chip cookies

Adapted from Dan Lepard, The Guardian

350g plain flour

½ tsp salt

150g icing sugar

200g unsalted butter, slightly softened

Finely grated zest of 5 oranges (have yourself an orange juice)

200g chocolate chips (or a block of dark chocolate roughly chopped)

Put the flour, salt, icing sugar, butter and zest in a bowl and rub together into a smooth, soft dough (or you can use a food processor). Add the chocolate and work quickly to combine. Either divide the dough in two, and roll each half into a cylinder, or pat the entire amount of dough into a wide, flat disc. Wrap in plastic wrap/clingfilm and put in the freezer to firm up (you can leave it there for a month).

To bake, heat the oven to 170C/335F. Line a baking tray with parchment/baking paper. Take the dough out of the freezer and let it soften slightly for about ten minutes. It needs to stay firm for slicing. Using a serrated knife, cut out thinnish rounds (0.75-1cm). Alternatively, place the whole disc of dough between two sheets of cling film/plastic wrap and roll out to the same thickness, and then use a pastry cutter. The first kind will look like coins, the second like your more conventional cookie.

Sit the cookies on the lined tray about 2-3cm apart and bake for about 15-20 minutes (I don’t know the fierceness of your oven), until lightly browned and crisp. Remove from the oven, transfer to wire racks and leave to cool.

An additional recipe

Adapted from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, Three Good Things on a Plate

These cookies can form the basis of a lovely chocolate tiffin, or refrigerator cake. Put 200g of broken up bits of dark chocolate, 110g butter and 1 tablespoon of syrup or honey into a heatproof bowl. Stand this over a pan of just-simmering water until the chocolate is melted and smooth. Roughly chop 75g of crystallised ginger (or a handful of raisins and/or dried apricots) and crush the cookies to small chunks. Pour the melted chocolate over the ginger/dried fruit and cookies, and mix. Tip this mixture into a lined loaf tin. Smooth out, leave to cool, then transfer to the fridge for several hours to set.

*Crossing guards

IMG_0545

Fruit tea loaf

29 Monday Oct 2012

Posted by in Recipe

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

This is good hibernating food, inclement weather or no, but bad weather definitely helps. When the sun is shining, I have always felt intense pressure to go out, to embrace the rays. Years of watching our little black and white TV in a darkened room while my mother stood in the doorway yelling “Turn that man off!” has complicated my relationship to daylight.

This was generally followed by her pulling back the curtains, flinging open the windows and shouting “Look! It’s a beautiful day outside!” The defense was nearly always the same: that this was our ‘favourite programme.’ But pretty much every TV show fulfilled this criteria – Charlie’s Angels, Swap Shop, Doctor Who, Dallas, Crown Court, Bagpuss, Juliet Bravo. However wonderful it was to play outside in the garden, or speed up and down the hills on our bikes, sadly nothing was as compelling as staring morosely at a screen eating crumpets.

I have had to fight this urge since returning to LA. It is October, the nights here are thankfully chilly, and there has been a bracing wind that makes everything rustle and bend. There is drama outside and this is a welcome distraction; it calls for a deep drift of blankets, and the roasting of root vegetables. It gets complicated during the day, when it is perfect. Warm, sunny, happy, solid, blank. I am back in a David Hockney painting. Tough little colours fight it out. I sit and watch, like a parade. Even the ladies’ swimming caps have a Kodachrome quality to them. I looked down at the pool today and watched this hot pink flower slicing through the water.

IMG_0516

But I’m still clinging to afternoon tea and this is also when the sun dips behind the hill, ushering in coolness and flapping leaves. People crane to get the last few minutes of sun and heat here; towels are still draped at 4pm, chairs re-maneuvered every ten minutes. And so it seems perverse – even ungrateful – to say it, and it feels a guilty thing to want to admit to, but the dark is still my favourite time of day.

David Hockney, Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures, 1972)

You can simply stop at the tea-soaked dried fruit stage if you like and omit the sugar. After you’ve let it macerate overnight, drain off the liquid into a pan and boil until it’s reduced by half, then pour this syrup back over the fruit. In this state (see top picture), it is lovely added to a ricotta cheesecake or served on its own with a dollop of mascarpone. Or with Greek yoghurt for breakfast. It gets plumper and more syrupy the longer you leave it too. This is inspired by Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall’s apricot and tea recipe from Three Good Things on a Plate.

Fruit tea loaf

Adapted from Jane Grigson, English Food

375g (12 oz) mixed dried fruit (I used only apricots and raisins)

125g (4 oz) dark brown sugar

250ml – 300ml (½ pint) strained, hot and strong Earl Grey tea

250g (8 oz) plain flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

1 egg

pinch of ground cloves and cinnamon

zest of 1 lemon

Stir together the dried fruit, lemon zest, sugar and hot tea. Leave overnight to macerate. The next day, beat in the dry ingredients, followed by the lightly beaten egg. Scrape the stiff batter into a lined and buttered 1lb loaf tin at 325F or 180C for about 1 hour, or until the loaf is firm to the touch and a skewer comes out clean. Serve thinly sliced (possibly toasted) with butter and a pot of tea. For the best flavour, keep the loaf airtight for two to three days. It gets better.

An Autumn Jelly

21 Sunday Oct 2012

Posted by in Recipe

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

I was torn between jelly and chutney. I was eventually won over by the jelly’s limpid beauty, the slow drip through muslin, the wobble. Chutney tends to be quite polarising, I find. I’m never entirely sure what to do with it, what to eat it with and who to give it to if I make it. And the flavours can be aggressive, sour, bullying. I’m obviously not doing it right. About jelly, there is something of autumn, distilled. A jar of pale amber or wine-red brings to mind rosehips and crab apples, sloes, rowan berries and warming spices. And stained glass windows.

To clarify, I am talking about jelly as a preserve rather than, say, jelly and ice cream. This version is lovely with roast meat or with a sharp, dry cheese. There is also nothing to stop you melting it over a crumpet for breakfast. Think deep, rather than sweet. Because many of the hedgerow fruits are low in pectin, it makes sense to combine them with apples. There are no hard and fast rules about what to use in these so-called ‘bramble’ jellies, except that apples will help them gel. And always go for something bittersweet and a bit tannic. Windfalls with all the bad bits cut out would do just fine.

I am now in LA where there are no hedgerows. We have a nectarine tree ravaged by squirrels and some small but softening lemons on the tree. The sky feels very low and close. There is not much air. I am somewhat jellied myself, having been hauled off for questioning at immigration control on my arrival at LAX airport. I swayed and an angry man jabbed questions at me. They were all simple questions, laced with the playful acid of too many long and boring hours spent in an airless room. What do I do? Why was I in England? Why did I come back? Where do I live? Tell me again – you do what? At the best of times, I find these questions hard to answer, but after an eleven hour flight, they become truly existential. This man was like Kierkegaard with a shaved head. If the circumstances had been different I might have opened up a bit.

So, I hope you will forgive me for harping on about hedgerows and hawthorns. And apples. I still can’t get over this apple tree I found while out on a walk, en route to Alfriston. These apples had the hulking shoulders of the Bramley, but they were rosy, tawny, not green. I later juiced them and they were sharp but honeyed, creamy like Guinness with a pinky-red colour under the froth.

There may well be lovely apples here and I will enjoy discovering more about them over the coming weeks. But after a month of riding my brake-less bike through wind tunnels, gorging myself on autumn and being inside such a tactile landscape again, I suspect it may take me a while to land.

Autumn jelly

Adapted from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, The Wild Bunch, The Guardian

1kg tart apples, washed and cut into chunks (don’t peel or core them)

1kg blackberries, rosehips, haws, sloes, elderberries, or rowan berries

(if these are hard to come by, you could try blueberries or cranberries)

Granulated sugar

Herbs (mint, thyme or rosemary work well)

Fills 4-5 small jars

Method

Put the apples and berries in a preserving pan (or heavy-bottomed pan). You will need to roughly chop the rosehips beforehand, if you’re including them. Add enough water almost to cover the fruit. Tuck in the herbs, if using, and bring to a simmer. Leave to cook gently until the fruit is soft and pulpy. Tip into a jelly bag or into a sieve lined with muslin (cheesecloth) and leave overnight to drip. Don’t squeeze it if you want your jelly to be clear.

Prepare your jars by washing them in hot, soapy water, then put them in a low oven to dry out and heat up. Put a saucer in the fridge or freezer. Measure the juice and transfer to the clean pan. For every 600ml of juice, add 450g of sugar. Bring slowly to the boil to ensure the sugar properly dissolves, then boil hard for eight minutes. To test for a set, turn the heat off and drip a little jelly on the now-cold saucer. Push the jelly with your finger. If there is a ‘skin’ that wrinkles, then it’s reached setting point. Don’t be overly concerned with this; you don’t want totally solid jelly. A bit of sway is nice. Pot into hot jars and seal immediately. Leave to cool, label and store in a dark place. Use within a year and put in the fridge once opened.

IMG_0474