Honey Ice

30 Thursday May 2013

Tags

Claudia Roden, Farmers' market, Honey, Ice cream, Los Angeles, Mediterranean, Stories, Travel

This recipe comes from Invitation to Mediterranean Cooking by Claudia Roden. It is a small, plain book with no photographs, and at first I afforded it only a few cursory glances. And then I read the introduction and it made sense. I reread it and I was transported. She sweeps through the history of the Mediterranean with such blithe eloquence that all I could hope to do here is a blundering précis of facts and impressions. What has stayed with me is the culinary unity of all sixteen or so countries that nestle around this ‘little inland sea.’ And the sheer amount of traffic.

First there were the colonizers – the Phoenicians, Greeks and Romans – who brought their holy trinity of wheat, olives and vines. Then the area was positively over-run by invaders: the Arabs who occupied parts of Spain and Sicily for hundreds of years and introduced new trading routes and cultivated sugar cane, apricots and oranges, pomegranates, dates and aubergines. The Normans and the Republic of Venice also had a go, and then the Ottoman Empire muscled in. And then there were the travellers: traders, troubadours, jongleurs, spice merchants, whole populations uprooted – Tunisians were sent to Palermo in Sicily to build the cathedral, for instance. It must have been a nightmare for Social Services.

What I loved was the idea of the Mediterranean as its own world, distinct from the northern regions of its own countries. So the cuisine of Andalusia would have more in common with southern Italy than with Asturias, say. Provence and Sicily are related. They use the same clay pots and wood-burning stoves. There is olive oil, the juice of lemons, garlic, tomatoes, almonds, quince, basil and wild marjoram. Food is pummeled, slaked, ground with a pestle and mortar, little old women in black keen and worry beads in their gnarled hands, stopping as you pass to ask why you’re not married and how much you weigh.

And that made me think of all the seemingly disconnected events that had happened to me on my travels there. Rather than random or isolated, one event now began to inform the other. So the gesture of the café owner in Paxos in Greece who brought us a bottle of wine and two glasses as we were about to bed down for the night on the beach (with one sheet and two bin bags) was somehow related to the gesture of the boy (whose name I will never forget: Zoran) who boarded my train in Dubrovnik carrying a mattress and shared his lunch with me. The woman who complained we had flooded her bathroom in Corfu was definitely related to the man who ordered me out of his ballet class in Venice. I remember the alleyways in Tunisia and Amalfi, getting lost in darkness, the sounds of bare feet on stone, and the fear it was my stepmother.

There are big differences between the eastern Mediterranean and western, and there are many culinary distinctions between the countries in both regions. But for now, I like to imagine the similarities. We are encouraged in life to unmake connections, to see things as mere coincidence. But in the Mediterranean, it’s the same sun, the same sea, the same fish, the same herbs; all that empire on the chopping board. All those languages in one clay pot.

When it came to choosing a Mediterranean sweet to feature here, I was almost limp with temptation. “My soul responds to a mere vanilla ice smeared out into the thick glass of an Italian ice-cream vendor”, wrote Compton Mackenzie in First Athenian Memories, and despite the turrons, the sfogliatelle and the cassata Siciliana, I think ice cream is always a good place to start.

The honey you use can be characterful and not particularly sweet; remember honey is much more complex than sugar, and can range from treacly, nutty and even mildly bitter. Most honey is polyfloral – meaning the nectar has been taken from different floral sources – and is generally known as ‘wildflower’. Monofloral honey is when the bees have taken nectar from only one plant species (although the jury is out on whether a honey can ever be truly singular, because bees aren’t that picky and like all sorts), and the flavour is more pronounced. Some of the most highly prized honey comes from Sicily: orange blossom, the honey from zagara (the flower of the lemon tree), chestnut and thyme. Sardinian bitter honey comes from the autumnal flowering of the strawberry tree and is light green in hue. This ice cream recipe comes originally from Provence where they use lavender honey from their famous fields. There are fields of lavender here in Mediterranean southern California too, of course, as well as some wonderful urban honey around LA. Happy honey hunting.*

Honey ice cream

Adapted from Invitation to Mediterranean Cooking by Claudia Roden

I suggest pairing this ice cream with something resinous and rich (I want to say lusty), such as roasted figs (go to my recipe here), fig jam, or even better, quince paste (otherwise known as membrillo, recipe here). That said, some poached apricots or plums would also be pretty divine. And some chopped pistachios thrown from above.

As to milk, I used goat’s milk which I know is not to everyone’s taste. If you’re not sure you want goaty ice cream, go for cow’s milk. Sheep’s milk would be a lovely alternative.

500ml milk

4 large egg yolks

150g lavender, acacia or other clear, distinctive honey

150ml double/thick cream (I used crème fraîche)

1 tbs orange blossom water

Boil the milk. If you are using goat’s milk, let it almost come to a boil, but take it off the heat just before. Beat the egg yolks to a pale cream, then beat in the honey, the cream, and then finally a tablespoon of the hot milk. Gradually add the rest of the milk.

Return the mixture to the pan and stir with a wooden spoon over a low heat until it thickens to a light cream. Do not let it boil or it will curdle. Let it cool, stirring occasionally to stop the mixture forming a skin. I accelerate this process by transferring the mixture to a bowl and putting it in the sink filled with some ice cubes and tap water. Stir in the orange blossom water. Cover the bowl with cling-film/plastic wrap and put in the fridge to chill thoroughly. If you have an ice cream maker, follow the manufacturer’s instructions. This was my route, and the photo above and below is a soft-serve version directly after churning, and then a firmer set, having frozen the churned ice cream for a few hours. If you don’t have an ice cream maker, according to Claudia you can put the bowl directly in the freezer and freeze overnight or for at least 5 hours before serving. You can serve this ice cream straight from the freezer.

Recipe List

I have created a permanent recipe list if you’re interested in finding something specific. I will refine the categories as I go, but for now it’s a start. Hope it helps and you enjoy having a rummage through the archives.

*Addition 2nd June 2013

I found some lovely honey at the farmers’ market today from Bill’s Bees and wanted to share the discovery. I tried their local buckwheat honey which was strong, hearty and malt-like. The orange blossom honey was beautiful and surprising: clear like blown glass, smooth and silky, and floral without being overpoweringly sweet. There was also a small kick of acid when I was least expecting it, right at the end when I was about to ask another question. If you are in the area I would recommend giving them a visit.

Buckwheat honey

Orange blossom honey

Yoghurt, a love story

21 Sunday Apr 2013

Posted by Sophie James in Recipe

≈ 13 Comments

Tags

Claudia Roden, Devon, Food, Goats, Ingredients, Labneh, Recipes, Stories, Yoghurt

When I was growing up, we had goats. Their names were Caramel and Honeybun. They had two kids, but I can’t remember what we called them – I think they were also named after dessert. The goats produced milk, which my mum turned into yoghurt. The yoghurt didn’t set awfully well – there were cracks in it filled with whey. There was often more whey than anything else.

When cold, the yoghurt was fine, but served at room temperature it was as if you were eating the goat’s soul. Warm, bloodless goat, white and liquid and slopping about in the bowl. I believe there was the odd hair. I loved the goats, but they were difficult. They were friendly in an aggressively needy way, a bit like an elderly neighbour who berates you for never visiting. They’d often head-butt us with their knotty foreheads and bleat their metallic tuneless song whenever we approached. I loved their oddly smashed pupils.

In the Seventies in Devon, there were two choices: you grew your own food or you lived on Ski yoghurts, angel cake, Wagon Wheels and frozen carrots. We grew our own things, made our own yoghurt, and accepted it was on another planet to the stuff you could buy. One of the few concessions to the mainstream was an occasional chocolate yoghurt bought from the bakery opposite my school. It was tangy yet sweet and there was a thin layer of darkness where the chocolate had started to solidify. It was magic. This almost made up for the fact that my mother refused to paint her toenails.

Somewhere around this time, we went to Crete on holiday. There is a photo of my dad with long hair standing by a racing bike and a man who looked like Thelma from Scooby Doo, who no one could ever name. A man in the local corner shop raised his hand to a shelf and brought down a Milky Bar whenever I entered, and a wizened old woman peeled cucumbers into the fire. This had something to do with sex.

There was yoghurt here too. I’m fairly certain it was sheep’s yoghurt and it was white, like snow, and came to us in deep drifts in bowls with honey on top. I ate snails, pulling them from their shells with a special prong. There is a smell, a Greek smell, that I very occasionally get a memory of. There is the sea and then the dried and peeling stucco paint from houses, the smell of heat and sand and oregano. Can you smell colour? If so, it is a pale blue and white side by side.

Then I got ill. This is much later. I was in my mid twenties and living and teaching in London. The goats had been sent to the farmyard equivalent of a nursing home. I was in Earls Court and getting progressively worse day by day, teaching in windowless rooms with a fan to recycle the air, my life an endless round of marking and preparing.

Eventually, Crohn’s disease was diagnosed, an inflammatory bowel condition. I entered a world of herbal tea and rice cakes. apple puree and endless discussions about wheat. I was re-introduced to goat’s milk, now an elixir. Baguettes were out, plus fun.

It took me a long time to get well. I accept it will always be a part of my life, that it is here to stay. I cannot be an evangelist for a certain kind of Crohn’s diet. But I’m careful when I need to be; I pare things back, I cut out sugar.

The only thing that has survived it all is the yoghurt. I love the alchemy that takes place under a bare light-bulb in the oven. The taste is unique, and nothing whatsoever like shop-bought. A clean swathe of white brightness – it makes me happy to create it.

Homemade Yoghurt

The basic process is very simple – all you need is a big pot or bowl and a warm place to produce the yoghurt. A candy thermometer here really helps – there are people who do this entirely by feel; I haven’t yet joined their ranks. In a nutshell, you sterilize the milk by heating it, in order to kill the existing bacteria and so it can be fermented by the ‘starter’ yoghurt (Total Greek Yoghurt is good here). Then you have to keep it warm for at least 8 hours so that the culture multiplies and consumes the milk, creating your own yoghurt.

Adapted from Elaine Gottschall, Breaking the Vicious Cycle

Inspired by Claudia Roden, A Book of Middle Eastern Food

2 litres/quarts full fat milk & 125g/1/2 cup plain live yoghurt

1. First, bring the live yoghurt to room temperature. Put the milk into a clean pot, heat it and watch it as it starts to rise, and then simmer for 2 minutes.* The purpose in heating the milk is to kill any bacteria that might be present and interfere with the yoghurt making culture.

*Milk must be heated past 180F (82C) in order to sterilize it, but cow’s milk can tolerate temperatures of up to 212F (100C) while goat’s milk is more delicate and shouldn’t go beyond 185F (85C). This is where a thermometer is helpful.

2. Turn the heat off and allow the milk to cool to between 108F (42C) to 112F (45C) or until you are just about able to stick your finger in the milk and count to ten. Stir well before determining the final temperature. If the milk is too hot when the live yoghurt culture is added, the bacteria may be killed.

3. Beat the yoghurt so that it loosens and looks quite liquid. Pour a little of the milk into the yoghurt and mix thoroughly. Add this slowly to the rest of the milk and mix. Either cover the pot with clingfilm/plastic wrap or its own lid. Now gently place it somewhere warm for 24 hours* (or at least overnight). The airing cupboard is good, or an oven with the light on inside. A heating pad is helpful if you don’t want to give up the oven for that long. You will soon have a lovely softly-set creation; put the pot of yoghurt in the fridge where it will keep for about a week. After the yoghurt has chilled, you can strain it through muslin or cheesecloth to create more of a set, or go further and create yoghurt cheese – otherwise known as Labneh. Don’t throw away the whey; it can be used in soups or baking, and is rich in minerals.

*After 24 hours, the sugar in the milk has been eaten by the bacteria.

Yoghurt, garlic and mint dip

There are endless variations on this theme. It goes well with so many things; mashed into baked aubergine, poured over the top of French beans, and scooped up and dipped into, as the name suggests. You could experiment with other herbs, such as chives, coriander/cilantro or parsley, or add spices such as paprika and cumin.

200g yoghurt (strained, if you like a thicker texture) 1 garlic clove, smashed and finely chopped, 1/2 teaspoon salt, zest of half a lemon and juice to taste, a handful of chopped mint, with some leaves left whole if you like, olive oil. Mix all the ingredients together until well-combined. Dribble with olive oil. Good with flatbread, aubergine and roast lamb.

Brownies

03 Thursday May 2012

Posted by Sophie James in Recipe

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Baking, Cake, Chocolate, Claudia Roden, Dessert, Food, Ingredients, Recipes, Stories

I’m sure there’s a Brownie Consortium somewhere that meets regularly to debate such topics as Cakey vs Fudgy, The Role of Cocoa, and Walnuts: A Fresh Perspective. I also recently learned the brownie isn’t technically a cake at all, but a cookie. Fanny Farmer listed it as such in the 1906 edition of her Boston Cooking-School Cook Book and in some ways that’s what a brownie really strives to be. Think of the best chocolate chip cookie you’ve ever tasted – the memory of the oven still lingering over it, a shatteringly tender shell, a warm, melting middle, rich but light and gone in seconds. I have used a brownie recipe from a children’s cookery book for the last few years and it’s served me well. It’s child’s play (as all baking should be, in my opinion) and not remotely fiddly and the results delight all humans. My allegiance is definitely to the fudgy camp. Why have cake when you can have a dark, dense bar, baked to a sugary crackle on the outside, with gently weeping chocolate within?

The brownie (named after its original ingredient, molasses) took off in the early 1900s in Chicago when it was made as a dessert item for ladies attending the fair. It needed to be flat and square, hence the absence of raising agents, so they could eat it easily from a ‘boxed lunch’. Touchingly, our most recent guests carried them around in a foil parcel in much the same manner.

I know it’s almost heresy to say this, but I don’t like walnuts in brownies. I prefer to keep to similar textures, something that releases its flavour in a liquid burst, rather than a hard, grainy morsel. Sour cherries, prunes, chocolate chips, cooked beetroot would all work. I don’t mind the bitterness of a cocoa nib, or the sunken, darker hit of alcohol. I just don’t want to be picking things out of my teeth.

Chocolate Orange Brownies

This recipe uses whole oranges boiled and pureed – skin and all. As it takes a couple of hours for them to be cooked through, add the zest of a large orange, and maybe try an orange-infused chocolate, such as Green and Black’s Maya Gold if you are pushed for time. However, there are dividends in using the whole orange approach – if you chuck another two on to boil, you can try Claudia Roden’s lovely almond and orange cake from her Book of Middle Eastern Food. The puree can also be added to muffins and quick bread, used as a base for custard or ice cream, as well as spread over baking salmon or mashed into a herby butter.

The orange is fresh and sharp here – ‘on the lip’ you could say – which is what a brownie needs. The chocolate is deep and steady, and the cocoa keeps things earthbound. Incidentally, the fudgy, chewy texture of these brownies comes from melting the butter with the chocolate, which prevents any air from being trapped. If you want something cakier and crumblier, go for the creaming method. And, of course, you can have a straightforward, orange-less brownie, by simply leaving out the orange component entirely.

Chocolate Orange Brownies

Inspired by Sweet Treats, Williams-Sonoma

175g (6oz) *good quality chocolate (60-70% cocoa solids)

25g (¼ cup) cocoa powder (such as Green and Blacks)

250g (2 sticks/1 cup) unsalted butter, cut into chunks

300g (1½ cups) organic cane sugar

3 eggs at room temperature

70g (½ cup) plain flour

1 tsp vanilla extract

Pinch of salt

2 organic, unsprayed oranges

Method

Put the whole oranges into a pan and cover with water. Bring to the boil, cover and simmer for two hours or until soft. Drain and leave to cool, then cut them in half and remove the pips and any stalks. Put the oranges, including the skin, into a blender and puree until smooth. Set aside. This can be made in advance and kept in the fridge for two days.

Preheat the oven to 350F/180C. Butter and line a 9 inch/23cm x 23cm baking pan with parchment paper. Break the chocolate into smallish pieces and put in a pan with the butter. Melt both over a very low heat, stirring occasionally with a spatula. Pour the melted chocolate and butter into a bowl and whisk in the cocoa powder until smooth. Stir in the sugar and the vanilla extract. Whisk in the eggs, one by one, beating well after each addition. Now add the orange pulp. Whisking the mixture vigorously at this point will create a crisp outer layer to the brownie.

Gently fold in the flour and salt. Stir well to make sure there are no streaks. Scrape the batter into the baking pan and smooth the top. Bake for 35 – 40 minutes or until a skewer comes out with a few crumbs attached but no raw stuff. Let the brownies cool a little before cutting them into squares. Serve warm with some ice cream or a dollop of crème fraîche. If you don’t want instant gratification, these actually improve with time; store in an airtight container and enjoy picking.

*The orange-infused chocolate will have less cocoa content, so you will need to slightly increase the cocoa powder.