As the Coyote Said to Homer...

...I'm an achiever.  Or something like that.  Anyway, enough cultural references as this is going to be my last entry on here and I'm going out on a high.  Without giving too much away.  I've done that before.  But not the sort of high where you start kicking tortoises.

My friend Phil, City Boy that he is embarks on a period of Non Drinking from January onwards each year as a kind of detox response to the Silly Season of drinking about three times your own body weight in alcohol at about ten parties a week for the three months prior to Christmas.  So every time since then we're approaching the Bell and Hare in Tottenham on a weekend and I ask him if he's back on the booze yet it is quickly rebuffed with something like 'no, I'm extending it another month'.  This went on till about March some time with the announcement that his previously privately held 'Phil and Rob's International Beer and Chilli Festival' would be opening itself to the public (invitation only, of course) this year, and that this would mark, at least temporarily, a brief regression until the wagon returned to give Phil a lift somewhere.  So what happens at an International Beer and Chilli Festival, one might ask?  You drink International Beers and eat chilli.  It's competitive.  Intrigue.  Excitement.  Obviously I had to win this thing, so I had to get a pretty awesome chilli going.

This makes enough chilli for a competition with about ten judges, or for two hungry people.

500g chuck steak in roughly 1in dice
1 large onion
2 cloves garlic, minced with coarse sea salt
1 large green chilli
1 tbsp molasses sugar
2 tbsp cider vinegar
2 tbsp chipotles en adobo
400g chopped tomatoes
125g red kidney beans
200ml red wine
2 tbsp olive oil
1 piece mace
2 bay leaves
1 cinnamon stick
1 star anise
2 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp ground cloves
1 tsp ground allspice
1 tsp ground corriander
Salt and pepper

Soak the kidney beans overnight in cold, unsalted water.  Drain, then place in a large pan of fresh cold, unsalted water.  Bring to a rapid boil and cook for around 2 hours, skimming off any foam when necessary.  Add a pinch of salt about 10 minutes from the end.

Preheat the oven to 140°C/120°C fan/Gas mark 1.

Heat the olive oil in a large, heavy based saucepan.  Fry the steak until browned all over.  Remove from the pan and add the chopped onion and garlic.  Soften for around five minutes, then add the green chilli and star anise and season with salt and pepper.  Cook gently for a further five minutes, then add the remaining spices.  Once the dry spices have mixed into the onion and garlic, add the sugar, vinegar and chipotles.  Return the meat to the pan along with the chopped tomatoes and wine and season again.  Bring to the boil, then cover and move to the oven and cook for at least two hours.  At this point add the cooked and drained beans and cook for a further hour.  When ready, shred the meat using a pair of forks.  Serve with rice or crusty bread.

I road tested this recipe a week before the competition, in which I used some remaining veal stock I had in the freezer.  As it was the last lot I had, I used wine for the Competition Chilli.  Both have their advocates.  Either would be fine, or beef stock in place of veal, or even a combination of the two.  Tinned beans are also fine, although the texture isn't as nice as the method above.  Although if you do use dried beans, make sure you don't do what I did whilst making the Competition Chilli and totally forget to boil them before adding them.  If you do, you will then have to painstakingly pick out every bean, rinse them then give them a rapid boil for another hour or so (they'd been cooking in the chilli for about an hour when I realised this).  In a thoroughly pleasing case of things happening together, my chilli was ready and the Grand National finished right at the same time that I needed to leave.

So, to the competition.  Although there was no one running a bookies, I sensed that I had been installed as some sort of pre-tournament favourite and had big expectations to live up to.  As numerous chillies arrived it was clear that this wasn't going to be an easy competition.  Each chilli was arbitrarily assigned a letter by an impartial non-entrant, in this case Kelly.  Scores were given out of ten for Appearance, Aroma, Flavour and Texture.  All important aspects of a chilli, you will no doubt agree.  The competition was stiff, as was proved by the lengthy period of time taken for all the scores to be added up, a recount taken, until finally the results were in.  You could cut the tension with a knife.  No one did, though, as we were all stuffed with chilli (and pulled pork - if you ever wondered who would bring a knife to a gun fight, try pondering who would bring pulled pork to a Chilli Competition?  Except that in this case, the pulled pork was awesome and well worthy of its honorary prize for Best Pulled Pork.)

And so, the award for Best Appearance went to... Ms Susie Mangan, for a very fine appearing chilli.  The award for Best Aroma was taken by... myself, and even if I must admit myself, it smelt pretty damn good.  The award for Best Flavour went to Ms Emma Dalby's Butternut Squash and Black Bean Chilli, and the award for Best Texture was a triumph for co-host Mr Rob Hayward.  Which left (Best Pulled Pork award aside, take a bow Mrs Stephanie Fox, and Award for Least Effort for Scott Heywood-Smith's tinned entry) the main event, the Best Overall Chilli Award.  As there was a recount, we knew it would be close, and with four separate winners already, it could be anyone's title.  More specifically, it was mine.  I don't have any pictures of the chilli itself (and after all, it wasn't even the Best Appearing Chilli) just this rather splendid certificate congratulating me on being an achiever.  There were photos of award acceptances, but the food always does the talking.

So consider this a guide to How to Win at Chilli Competitions.  Unless, by some coincidence two people read this, follow it and enter the same chilli competition.  In which case it is merely a guide to How to Tie for First at Chilli Competitions.

A Kitchen (Cupboard) of One's Own

Hello boys and girls. Here we are then. It's been nearly a year since I last updated, and back then I made mention of a pivotal, life-changing moment on the horizon in my life. I have to say that the moment has happened, via job interviews all over the capital, and I have forsaken my rural pub life and garden stickery-pokery for a citydwelling existence, just like that of my esteemed blogging partner/boyfriend.

I was in dialogue with an acquaintance from my south coast years yesterday, and when it occured to me that he had no inkling that Ed and I have been in a relationship for over a year now, I realized a little catch up session might be due (especially since my about me page on this blog now contains many errata). so, here goes:

One

I have been out of northampton since about August/September last year. I spent most of the latter days of last summer going to interviews across the capital, trying to get out of my village-pub rut in order to gain a position where I might be able to progress in the hospitality industry. It paid off, and I got one, and now work for big hitting London brewery, Fuller, Smith and Turner.

(My windowsill collection of carefully nurtured supermarket herbs, and also if you look closely you can see the yellow teapot Ed bought me as a housewarming present)

Two

My London existence started off just outside of zone 6, where I lived with my most-obliging grandmother in Potters Bar, while I built up some money and got myself used to my new pace of work. I had no real internet connection at this time, and since I was relying on the kindness of a relation, I had no real desire to create kitchen chaos and make myself a disruptive houseguest. I didn't do an awful lot of cooking in that period, in fact, the whole time felt as though I were in a kind of stasis, waiting for things to happen and living on the hoof. I pretty much exhausted myself flathunting the whole time, travelling north london in it's entirety, or so I felt.


(My new shared kitchen, warts, Pantera sticker, and all. It's my aim to get this to be a busy, communal space in the house, that's a pleasure to be in)

Three

I finally lucked out, and in february I moved into a houseshare with four other people in their twenties in Muswell Hill. It's not in ideal condition, but it's cheap, and it's one of those character-ridden properties that someone last had a stab at decorating in the early seventies that I always seem to end up living in. One of the things that sold me on the place was the kitchen. Not for the beauty of the place (although I'll admit to enjoying the yellow and brown palette and outmoded decor a lot more than i probably ought), but for the space, and the layout, and the fact that it seemed like it would be a joy to cook in. I have been getting to know my kitchen, the area, and my housemates, and vowed that as soon as my internet access was restored, that food-blogging would resume with renewed vigour.

I have so many plans for this kitchen, and for the space I have out back and in front of the property that catches so much sun it would be rude not to grow edibles in containers, and Muswell Hill itself is particularly stimulating for those of the foodie persuasion. It has amazing greengrocers, ethnic groceries (am i the only one who feels it's inappropriate to say that, by the way? it seems kind of racist. preferred terms on a postcard please), and health food shops, a cheese shop, a wine shop, a kitchen equipment shop, an organic supermarket, and branches of the more food-concerned big box supermarkets.

It has been amazing bringing my country girl nesting instinct to the big city, and actually finding that despite commutes, longer working hours, and so many reasons to be out and about, a slow-paced home life is actually possible. I do often feel that my desire to put down even temporary roots, is at odds with the attitudes of the nomadic, bustling people around me in London, but I am working on cultivating a small, handcrafted corner of the world for myself, and enjoying the process. It is of course, also wonderful to be cooking without anyone expecting me to say, be eating at a certain time, or eating certain things. It's like regaining total creative control. it's wonderful.


(my first seedlings, L-R: chives, spinach, spring onions, leeks, tomatoes)

Four

I have to say, massive sap that I am, that my favourite thing about moving to London is the increased proximity to aforementioned esteemed blogging partner. It will come as no surprise to hear that the couple who run a food blog together probably work best as a partnership when in the process of sharing/discussing/consuming/creating food and drink, and being in London is something that has made the process of cooking and eating together a much more regular experience. Whether in or out, it's always varied and interesting, from pizza and pinot noir in front of a film, to the incredible raspberry and pistachio macarons ed made me for my birthday. the context in which food is eaten is, to me at least, with my continued affection for stories, just as important as what is eaten, and i can't think of anyone i'd rather be breaking bread with than Ed.


(One of the first few batches of bread made in the kitchen here, with wholemeal organic flour, apple juice, sunflower and pumpkin seeds, and coated in oats and sunflower seeds)

When I think about how I got here, and how fast everything has moved, I have to remind myself that it's real, that i'm actually living this. it's great to be back out in the wider world on my own, and rest assured, readers, that rather than leaving Ed to hold down the fort, which he#s been doing masterfully, i will be here, reporting back on as many dishes cooked and eaten as is physically possible.

A Pot Tossing Christmas

It's actually just over a year since Adventures in Pot Tossery came into existence, along with a flurry of activity.  It's been a bit quiet of late, but this should set things back on track a bit as I've got a few things worthy of writing about from, ahem, Christmas.  Obviously there's no How to Roast a Magnificent Turkey in mid-January and this is a mere Look at What I Done type blog.  Which does mean there's no room for some prick to announce that Ainsley Harriott makes the best Christmas Dinner, and that straining is a Very Chefy Technique well and truly beyond the culinary repertoir of mere mortals.  So, begin Pot Tossery Christmas.

I had initially planned to make croissants for Christmas Day breakfast, but having read the recipe beforehand and seeing how stupidly long they take to make (overnight resting, several hours rising, plus shaping, cutting, folding etc) I decided on bagels instead.  With a comparatively paltry single rise and prove making for about a couple of hours total, this at least meant I wouldn't have to get up at about 4am (and risk walking in on Santa coming down the chimney).  Plus bagels are better than croissants anyway.  Both potential croissant recipe and pervading bagel recipe came from Mr Daniel Stevens' River Cottage Bread Handbook.

Bagels

500g strong white bread flour
5g powdered dried yeast
10g fine salt
250ml warm water
20g caster sugar
50ml vegetable oil, plus extra for coating

To finish
1 medium free-range egg, beaten
Poppy or sesame seeds (optional)

In a large bowl, mix together all the ingredients to make a dough.  Knead on a clean surface until smooth and elastic.  Shape into a round, coat with a little extra oil and place in a clean bowl.  Leave to rise, covered with a plastic bag.

When the dough has doubled in size, deflate it and divide into 12 pieces.  One at a time, roll into a sausage shape, about 15cm long.  Wet the ends and press them together to make a ring.  Leave to prove, covered, on a lightly oiled plastic board or metal baking sheet (not floured cloths or boards).

Preheat the over to 200°C/Gas Mark 6.  Lightly oil a couple of baking sheets and in a wide pan bring around a 10cm depth of water to the boil.

When the bagels have roughly doubled in size, they are ready for poaching.  You will need to do this in batches.  Turn the pan of water down to a simmer, then slip as many bagels as will fit comfortably into the water (allow room for them to puff up).  Cook for a minute on each side, then remove and drain on a clean tea towel (not kitchen paper as it will stick).

When they are all poached, lay the bagels on the baking sheets, gently sticking any that uncurled in the water back together again.  Brush all over with beaten egg, then sprinkle with seeds if you like.  Bake for 15 minutes, until the bagels are a uniform, glossy golden brown.  Cool on a wire rack.


So I got up early to make the dough and left it to rise whilst I then got up properly.  There are no pictures of me making dough in my boxer shorts, as after all, I let the food do the talking.  The dough didn't seem to be rising a huge amount, either in the initial rise or the proving stage, and I must admit to thinking 'sod it' after an hour's rising and 20 minutes proving, not least as I, and others were getting hungry, including my brother and cousin who for some mental reason had decided to run 5km on Christmas Day morning.  Subsequently I was expecting rather small little bagels, until the poaching stage.  I was a bit unsure as to whether 10cm of water would be sufficient, and remembered that Nigella has a recipe for bagels in How to Be A Domestic Goddess.  A quick cross reference showed that Nigella suggests using a large pan, so I sided with her on that one.  Sorry, Dan Stevens and all present Dan Stevens-ites.  (Nigella also uses malt in the poaching water to obtain the shiny crust rather than beaten egg - time for some comparison next time I think.)

Anyway, they puffed up pretty well, almost doubling in size and then looked amazing once they came out of the oven.  Flipping bagels in water is pretty satisfying, really.  I'd had to make an extra trip out on Christmas Eve in search of poppy seeds for these, and a few other bits for other things (expected to take ages, hardly took any time at all as there was virtually no one out at 9am), and whilst they don't make a huge difference taste wise, I think they make them look that much more impressive.  If I can make myself get up early more often at weekends then I think I will find myself making these with increasing regularity.

Next, ice cream.  As I mentioned in my last post there's something about making ice cream at Christmas which meant I had to make some.  I'm actually writing about these chronologically in the order I made them, I'm not sure whether that was intentional or accidental, but anyway. 

On my second visit to Bocca di Lupo I'd told myself I wouldn't have anything I'd had the first time.  This was all fine until the pudding stage where I was sorely tempted to go against my intentions and have the Sanguinaccio again.  Eventually I held firm and instead had a brioche gelato sandwich with pistachio, hazelnut and chestnut gelati.  This is almost certainly the best gelato flavour combination I've ever tasted, and despite the near deific regard in which Gelupo's pistachio ice cream is held in these parts I came away most impressed by, and most fervently remembering the chestnut.  So, wanting to make some kind of festive, or at least appropriately seasonal ice cream, and recalling this I stumped for chestnut.  There's no exact recipe in the Bocca book, but there are ones which can be easily adapted.  I took the one for pistachio and simply replaced the pistachio paste with chestnut purée. 

Chestnut Ice Cream

500ml whole milk
140ml whipping cream
40g glucose syrup or light runny honey
130g caster sugar
40g skimmed milk powder
3g leaf gelatine (1 large or 2 small leaves), or 4 teaspoons agar-agar
85g chestnut purée
45g icing sugar

For the base bianca, put the milk, cream and glucose or honey in a pan.  heat over a low flame and, in a separate container, mix together the sugar and milk powder.  When the pan is steaming, add the sugar mixture in a steady stream as you stir.  When the mixture approaches a simmer, remove it from the heat and add either the gelatine (already bloomed for a few minutes in cold water, then stirred into the mix) or the agar-agar (sprinkled on top of the hot mixture and left for 5 minutes, then stirred in).  Leave to cool, covered, to room or fridge temperature.

Blend the nut paste and icing sugar into the base bianca and freeze in an ice-cream machine as usual.  For the creamiest texture let the gelato freeze as hard as it will go in the machine before taking it out.


I actually find it hard to go into much detail with this.  Apart from the flavouring, this is pretty much the same ice cream recipe and procedure as my last ice cream post, only even simpler.  And having the amazing ice cream machine meant I could set it going just before we sat down for Christmas Dinner and it made itself and was ready pretty much bang on time.  Additionally, the tin of chestnut purée we'd harassed the Waitrose staff into finding for us had plenty more than was needed for one batch, so I made some more a couple of days later to go with a Nigel Slater cheesecake recipe I'd pulled from the Observer Food Monthly.  This is without doubt the best ice cream I've ever made. 
 

A few weeks prior to Christmas I'd seen a repeat of the previous year's River Cottage Christmas Fayre, where Gill and some others enter a gingerbread house making competition.  For seemingly no other reason than 'that sounds cool', I there and then decided that I too would make a gingerbread house.  So...

On Boxing Day we usually have tea followed by numerous sweet things of the cake and biscuity variety in the evening, so that seemed the ideal time to make it.  As it was, with Christmas cake and what not, the house was left until the day after, only a small amount in part to not wanting to demolish it straight away.  I'd hunted down that episode on 4od and watched that section a couple of times - the recipe is incredibly straight forward, so really the only thing to really think much about is one, how big to make it, and two, what to decorate it with.  As a beginner in Gingerbread Masonry, I decided not to get too carried away and stuck to a four-walled, box-shaped house.  Looking around, some people make some quite frankly ridiculous things out of gingerbread, and after all, you never want the aesthetical aspect of the thing to get in the way of the 'mmmmm, gingerbread' aspect.

For your bricks you will need;

1kg flour
300g muscavado sugar
10 tbsp golden syrup
1 tsp treacle
400g butter
2 tsp ground ginger
2 tsp bicarbonate of soda

And for your mortar you will need;

2 free range egg whites
400g icing sugar

Plus various sugary things to decorate

Preheat the oven to 180°C.  Melt the butter, sugar, syrup and treacle together.  Once combined, pour into the flour, ginger and bicarbonate of soda and mix until a dough is formed.  Roll out the dough on a piece of baking parchment until about 5mm thick.  Draw out templates for the walls and roof and use them to cut out the dough.  Bake for 15 minutes, then leave to cool and harden.

For the royal icing/cement, whisk the egg whites until frothy, then add 300g icing sugar and whisk until thick and glossy.  Add the remaining icing sugar and beat until soft peaks are formed.  Add more icing sugar if required.

Watching that part of the program over again before making it the house they made looked much bigger than what I needed, so in the end I made three quarters of the amount and it came out pretty much the perfect size.  Any smaller and the decorations would have been a bit oversized.

So, having made my dough, rolled it out, drawn and cut out templates and baked the gingerbread came the fun part; decorating.  I'd decided that I didn't want my chimney just to be a couple of off cuts of gingerbread tacked on at the end (even before the request from a certain Esteemed Blogging Partner to be saved the chimney) so incorporated a chimney breast into one of the end walls.  Subsequently, although due as much to trying to squeeze both end walls onto one baking tray, they stuck together in the oven.  After separating them one became a bit lop-sided, although nothing that couldn't be disguised with large amounts of royal icing.  I hadn't cut windows or a door in my wall templates, neither had I taken into account the space in the roof parts needed to slot around the chimney breast.  I could, with hindsight, have claimed that this was so as to provide ample bits of baked gingerbread so I could test it was good gingerbread.  But I'd be lying.  But that did kick start the sugar rush which I guess must be inevitable when decorating a gingerbread house.

And yes, I made bears with the leftover bits of dough.  With the help of my mum (Chief Cement Layer) and my cousin (Suggester of Other Good Ideas for Decorating) this not quite grand, but certainly endearing little edible abode took shape.  Hugh's suggestion of After Eights as roof tiles had been hastily discounted (bear in mind you're going to eat the damn thing, and gingerbread and peppermint fondant sounds a weird combination) and replaced with a bag (or two, just to be safe) of Giant Chocolate Buttons, and the roof was safely covered with a whole bag to spare.  I'd previously instructed my dad (retired architect) that any criticisms to do with architectural related things would result in him not being allowed any.  As it was, apparently we put the tiles on the wrong way and started from the top down, rather than the bottom up.  Apparently this would mean rain would get in through the tiles.  Obviously if it had rained actual rain, it would have got soggy and collapsed, but then the rain that rains on gingerbread houses is probably coloured sprinkles anyway, so it doesn't matter.  Chocolate Fingers made a perfectly good drainpipe, as well as guttering, doorframe, and whatever runs along the top of the roof.  Other than chocolate Fingers.  Mini Smarties were strung up across the front wall as fairy lights, and generous dollops of icing were dolloped on places where snow would settle.

I was a bit heavy-handed with the tablespoon measuring the syrup, and as a result the flavour was a bit too syrupy.  It could also have done with a bit more ginger, but they shall be things borne in mind this year.  Because there will be another one made, which, dare I say it, shall be even awesomer.

Something about inevitability

Back in February I wrote on these pages that "I think I'm on a hiding to nothing trying to make really smooth ice cream at home without an ice cream machine" having just produced some incredibly tasty, but unfortunately icy thyme ice cream.  So, having given away what's going on in this post straight away, a bit of back story.

Having totally missed out on the opportunity in summer, it gradually crept up on me that I really wanted an ice cream machine.  I seemed to have been around numerous kitchen shops and kitchen sections of John Lewis and Bentalls and thought 'oh, I'll just have a look at the ice cream machines out of curiosity' and so the thought must have begun to ingrain itself on my subconscious.  Probably that and more visits to Soho ice cream mecca, Gelupo.  Also, I recently had a birthday.  One of those where you fleetingly notice it a month or so in advance, then remember it again the week before when people are asking you what you want for it, and are you doing anything for it, but you don't have a clue.  The sort where you end up with money to spend and think 'well, now (mid October) is the time to buy an ice cream machine'.  So I did. 

The other part of the back story relates to the incredibly important decision of what flavour to make first.  I don't think it's quite time yet to tackle the Holy Grail of ice creams, pistachio.  But I virtually had my mind made up for me the other weekend when I and Esteemed Blogging Partner Kirsty stumbled into Gelupo after an evening's drinking.  Wandering round the deli whilst other people bought ice cream, I started grabbing things - some of their guanciale (the piece I cured wasn't nearly enough), some nduja, as well as some pretty incredible nougat and some honeycomb, you know, the sorts of things you don't really need, but if you buy enough results in spending enough to get free ice cream.  Which we were already intending on buying.  Anyway, I had almond gelato, which I later realised, wondering what to do with the honeycomb whilst eating slabs of honey almond nougat, was what I should make.  One of those Things Falling Into Place things that I which happened more often so I could blog about them.

For my previous ice cream making I took one of the recipes from The French Laundry Cookbook, which as I seem to remember used a HELL of a lot of egg yolks.  Regular readers of this blog will be well aware of my torment of wanting to cook things which use lots of egg yolks, leaving lots of whites left.  There is actually a recipe in Bocca for some amazing pistachio and hazelnut biscuits which use lots of egg whites, but it matters not as there was only one place I was going to look for a recipe this time, and Kenedy's ice cream recipes don't use any eggs at all.

500ml whole milk, plus a little extra
200g blanched almonds, roasted very dark (not burned)
140ml whipping cream
40g glucose syrup or light runny honey
130g caster sugar
40g skimmed milk powder
3g leaf gelatine (1 large or 2 small leaves), or 4 teaspoons agar-agar
½ teaspoon almond extract

Put the milk and almonds in a pan.  Heat to 80°C, just before a simmer, and steep at this temperature for 45 minutes.  Strain out the almonds, put the milk in a measuring jug and make it back up to 500ml with a little extra milk (the almonds will have absorbed some moisture as they infused).

Return the milk to the pan, adding the cream and glucose or honey.  Heat over a low flame and, when steaming, mix together the sugar and skimmed milk powder and add them in a steady stream.  When the liquid approaches a simmer, remove it from the heat and add either the gelatine (already bloomed for a few minutes in cold water, then stirred into the mix) or the agar-agar (sprinkled on the top of the hot mixture and left for 5 minutes, then stirred in) and the almond extract.  Leave to cool and freeze in an ice-cream machine.

The machine I bought has a built in freezer, so there is no requirement for freezing bowls or anything beforehand, which I guess saves a fair bit of time.  The instruction manual says give it 35-45 minutes for soft ice cream, 45-60 for hard ice cream.  I wanted it soft, so I gave it 45 minutes, and drizzled some of the Gelupo honey into it in the last 5 minutes.  Firstly, the flavour of it is pretty damn good.  When I was adding the almond extract a bit more than the half teaspoon dribbled down the side of the bottle and in, so the flavour is slightly more of that than the infused roasted almonds - there's an almost a marzipan like sweetness to it, although the extra sweetness is partly down to adding the honey.  Also, the agar flakes hadn't completely dissolved, and so the consistency isn't as delightfully smooth as I'd have liked, but they're small foibles that can be sorted out come the next batch.  All in all, from start to finish the whole thing took about 2 and a half hours, and that's taking into account toasting the almonds, 45 minutes of infusing in milk, mixture cooling, and then 45 minutes of freezing/churning time.  And once it's in the machine, it could just be left whilst I sat and watched the football.  Apparently if the mixture gets too thick before your set time expires it stops itself, clever machine.  It's not exactly quiet, but hardly the Destroyer of Peace and Quiet some of the Amazon reviewers made it out to be.

Having said I missed out on summer ice cream making (not that it should ever be a summer only past-time), I've always felt winter was a good time for making ice cream.  I think that may stem from the first time I ever made ice cream at Christmas one year, and so in a way this may well have been the most appropriate time of year for it.  Added to which I'm harbouring intentions at the moment to make more salami for Christmas, and there's plenty of old ice cream tubs lying around.  Given how long that first lot lasted, I may well find myself making ice cream at every given opportunity.

(More) About (pig) face

This post has been delayed more than any other, and it'll be a bit brief as a result, but here we go anyway.  So my last post was all about curing pig's cheek, guanciale.  This is the 'what does one do with it now?' Part Two to that post.

The cheek I had actually had a seemingly higher meat to fat ratio that you'd probably expect to get, although it was still over 50% fat.  Which is a good thing.  It was firm but not hard, and upon slicing you could see the fat glisten and shine, surrounding the layer of meat running through the middle.  Frying turns it almost completely translucent for a while before browning and crisping up, whilst remaining soft inside where the fat will burst out when eaten.  And the flavour is richer and more intense than say, a cured pork belly, almost headily.

As I mentioned in the curing post, I discovered guanciale in Jacob Kenedy's The Geometry of Pasta in a recipe for Bucatini Carbonara.  I rarely make carbonara, it's the sort of dish where all the ingredients really have to be good quality, and subsequently if they aren't it can be not much cop.  There's not much room for alchemy where mixing crap eggs and grated crap cheese is concerned.  Besides, there's usually other things I'm more keen on making.  Anyway, in this instance the meat was home cured, the cheese was an excellent slab of pecorino which wasn't too over powering, the pasta homemade.  The eggs used for the sauce were the same deep-coloured yolk variety I always use for pasta, which gave an even more intense colour to the final dish.  But I was always planning on making this with my guanciale - things like pancetta are often used to bulk up flavour in dishes, rather than stand out themselves.  Having spent the best part of two months curing there was no way I was just going to hide it away in something else.  Especially as what I did cure wasn't actually that much.  You'll find all manner of carbonara recipes everywhere, far too many of which will say to use cream.  This one is as basic as it needs to be.

1 guanciale
1 quantity fresh spaghetti (same recipe as always)
2 whole, large free range eggs
2 large free range egg yolks
100g pecorino, grated (from a block, not pre-grated)
lots of ground black pepper
1 tbsp olive oil

Make the pasta in advance and set aside.  Set a large pan of well salted water boiling (around 4 litres per 250g of pasta).  If you're using fresh pasta it will take literally no more than two minutes to cook, dried will take around ten minutes or so, so if you're using dried, get that on first.

Whisk together the eggs and yolks with the grated pecorino and more than enough ground black pepper.  If you think you've added enough pepper, add some more.  If it looks a bit too thick, loosen it with a tablespoonful or so of the pasta water.

Heat the oil in a frying pan.  Slice the guanciale into sticks, about 5mm thick.   Add to the pan and fry until browned.  Take off the heat. 

Drain the pasta and add to the guanciale pan, tossing to coat it in the pork fat.  Add the eggs and cheese mixture and stir it in quickly to fully coat the pasta but without cooking the eggs.  Serve with more grated pecorino and more black pepper.

I didn't make quite enough cheese and egg mixture to sufficiently coat all the pasta - it was all coated, just that some were more like they'd been brushed with it, rather than thickly covered.  But the pasta was very good, as it needs to be.  If I was being anal (which, to be fair isn't something rarely leveled at me) I think it would be much better with rounded spaghetti, rather than the sort of squared-off sort that my (and I suspect most) pasta machine attachments make.  Minor details.  It tasted damn good. 

This Is My Jam

Wow, it feels like forever since I've been active on this blog. At the moment I'm at one of those pivotal, lifechanging moments in my life, and I think today is the first day I've really had any time to sit down and appreciate the marvellous chaos I'm currently a part of. I'm not too certain on details yet, but regardless of what is happening, this small-town barmaid is a small-town barmaid no more. Things are getting really exciting, and I feel like over the past week I've visited almost all of the south of the country. Still, for the moment I'm back home, and tending my little garden, in which the ripe and unripe tomatoes look like little traffic light dots, and the runner beans are trying to climb the washing line; and I'm feeling good.

I haven't been cooking so much recently, but before this frenzy there came a rut, in which all I did was huddle over the stove, swearing to myself and stirring a la the opening witchy scenes of Macbeth. It wasn't a predicting the future kind of thing, mind, it was a mechanism via which to stay sane in the present. I even got myself back into preserving. Now, since this is what I'll call backlog blogging, I can't say you'll find the ingredients with any relative ease at this time of year; but this is as much a diary for me as a suggestion to my readers, so I'll call this a kind of posterity post.

In keeping with my last post about raspberry and elderflower cupcakes, in early September I was still finding a whole bunch of excellent Summer produce, in glut-sized proportion, for silly money. Again, today, we're talking berries, but this time, the perennial English favourite, the strawberry. Now, wimbledon is over, so I had no problem eating a whole bunch of them with cream, because I wasn't being told to by advertisers everywhere; but I did buy 2kg of the things (they were so cute...I had to), so I needed a more sensible solution to what to do with them.

I decided on the most English of preserves: Strawberry jam. It makes you think of red and white gingham and scones just saying it, huh? I'm not really a gingham kind of girl, but I might fancy playing at being one on any given day, so a few jars of homemade strawberry jam in the cupboard for when the mood strikes me seems like a good idea. Although I'm sure you'll believe me more if I say I've mostly been piling it on toast to accompany a black coffee or seven of a morning.

So anyway, who do you turn to in the case of preserves? Who else but my jarring, bottling, and infusing guru, Pam Corbin? No one else. Obviously. I have nothing but love for her simple, friendly approach to preserving, and sort of want her to adopt me so I can go live with her and preserve all day and sew cool aprons for us to wear all night. So, without further ado, here is my very picture heavy approach to strawberry jam, taken from her River Cottage Preserves Handbook:

Strawberry Jam

makes 4-5 340g jars

1kg strawberries, hulled, larger ones halved or quartered
500g granulated sugar
450g jam sugar (it's labelled as such and has added pectin which helps the set)
150ml lemon juice

Put 200g of the strawberries into a preserving pan with 200g of the granulated sugar. Crush to a pulp with a potato masher. At which point it will look like this:


Place the pan on a gentle heat and, when the fruit mixture is warm, add the rest of the strawberries. Very gently bring to a simmering point, agitating the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon to prevent the fruit from sticking. Simmer for 5 minutes to allow the strawberries to soften just a little. At which point it will look like this:


Add the remaining granulated sugar and the jam sugar. Stir gently to prevent the sugar sticking and burning on the bottom of the pan. When the sugar has dissolved, add the lemon juice. It'll look a bit like this:

Increase the heat and, when the mixture reaches a full boil, boil rapidly for 8-9 minutes. Then test for setting point. (I do this by dropping some onto a cold saucer and poking it with a finger to see if it puckers; if it puckers it's ready). Mine looked like this at setting point:


Remove from the heat and, if the surface is scummy, stir gently to disperse. Pot and seal. Use within 12 months.

So that's strawberry jam. i forgot to take4 pictures of the potted and sealed jam because I am something of an airhead, but you get the idea. I only got two jars, because one of them was disproportionately large (previously containing mayonnaise. Whoever tells you you can't recycle jars for preserving is probaboly in the glass industry, because I'm telling you now that you can, and you should if you give two fucks about the environment)

My jam was really nice; I have been eating it on toast for breakfast every morning I've woken up in my own bed (and there are pluses and minuses to this scenario: the strawberry jam on toast being one of the pluses). I am not really a strawberry jam aficionado; since when I was little, which seems to be the halcyon jam eating days in most people's lives, my heart belonged solely to apricot, but this is definitely better than the shop-bought stuff by a mile. The only problem with my jam was that the fruit seemed to float to the top of the jars, which according to Pam means I didn't take quite enough care dissolving the sugar before bringing the mixture to the slightly scary high-speed boil it needs before it becomes jam. It would seem I still have a way to go before I can be her preserving/apron-making apprentice extraordinaire, but in the meantime I have the wherewithal, should i want to, to make scones and victoria sponges all winter long. And who doesn't want to do that?

I'm Somewhere Inbetween

So you know how I made all that fuss at the beginning of summer about how I was going to miss slow cooking and afternoons in the kitchen and big bold winter dishes? Well, summer is drawing to a close and I'm finding myself not quite ready to give up on delicate, barely-cooked food picked straight from the garden. I find there's just no pleasing some people. More often than not, I find I'm one of them. I come most alive during periods of transition; when there's the promise of new challenges and scenarios but the old ones are still, comfortingly, in play. I don't so much like change, as the possibility of it; I've always been obsessed with potential. I guess that's why I'm currently happier in my kitchen than anywhere else. The hedgerows are starting to come alive, and I'm picking damsons and blackberries almost everywhere I walk in the villages, but I've still got tomatoes and courgettes and beans ripening in the garden. Autumn is coming but it's very easy to keep Summer alive.

The shops, at the moment, seem to be aiding and abetting my pleasure in indecision. The erratic Summer we've had seems to be affecting not just my garden, but the country as a whole. Some of the best 'summer' produce I've bought has been in the last week or so: late varieties of every type of berry and currant you could conceivably imagine; stunning courgettes and beans; all cheap, plentiful, and wonderful. So i can't help it if my mind is somewhere in July, can I? My surroundings are conspiring to help me.

Now, most of the aforementioned berries and currants were eaten raw, or made into simple compotes and eaten over yoghurt at what I, the nocturnal barmaid, have the gall to call breakfast time. But when you're buying perishables in glut-size lots, you have to vary up how you eat them pretty quickly or you're going to end up wasting them, or getting bored shitless with them, or both. So, when faced with the third perfect little punnet of raspberries after days and days of raw raspberries and yoghurt, I knew I had to make them into something that I would, and more importantly, a lot of other people would help, eat. And quickly.

Now I'm not sure about anyone else round here, but when it's a question of food and mass appeal, the answer, to my mind, is pretty much always cake. Everyone likes cake. Well, this is not strictly true, but everyone I've ever met who has professed to not like cake has been so wilfully miserable and stubborn that I've not kept them around very long. So, to put it another way; all of my friends like cake. If I make it, they will eat it. So I grabbed my punnet of raspberries and got myself flicking through Harry Eastwood's Red Velvet and Chocolate Heartache, and found the perfect 'I'm not letting go of Summer and you can't make me' recipe:

Raspberry and Elderflower Cupcakes

2 medium free-range eggs
140g caster sugar
200g topped, tailed, peeled, and finely grated courgette
3 tbsp elderflower cordial (sadly, not home made as I missed the elderflowers this year, but I had this knocking around from making pitchers of lovely Plymouth Lemonade to get drunk on)
80g white rice flour (I used plain, you're allowed to substitute it)
120g ground almonds
2 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp salt (I omitted this; I don't often salt cakes unless they're chocolate)
120g fresh raspberries plus 12 extra ones for the tops

For the icing:

140g icing sugar
3 tbsp elderflower cordial

Preheat the oven to 180 degrees c/gas mark 4 and line a muffin tray with paper cases (note, I found this recipe created 18 cakes, so I lined an extra six hole tray).

Whisk the eggs and sugar in a large mixing bowl for 5 minutes, until pale and quadrupled in volume.

Add the grated courgette and the elderflower cordial, and whisk again. Mix in the flour, ground almonds, baking powder and salt until they are well introduced. Gently fold in the raspberries, taking care not to crush them up too much.

Spoon the mixture into cupcake cases, and place in the oven for 25 minutes until risen and cooked. Don't be alarmed that they are flat on the top rather than dome shaped. This is perfectly normal.

Cool the cupcakes for 15 minutes while you make the icing. Sieve the icing sugar into a small mixing bowl. Add the elderflower cordial and mix until it forms a loose white icing. Add colouring if you want to use it.

Ice each cake individually and top with a raspberry.

And here are mine:


Cute little things, aren't they? I have to admit that even as a 23 year old girl I still get just a tiny bit delighted when things I make look like illustrations from children's books. It reminds me of the time when in Brownies I had to host a tea party to get my hostess badge (you're damn right I've got a badge in hostessing; I got one at Guides too), so I went through a load of kid's books, being a kid at the time, along with my mum's Beginner's cookbook from the seventies, in order to work out what a tea party looked like and involved. I remember being very impressed when the cakes I'd made looked like the ones in a picture from a book about kittens having tea. I dare say these little things wouldn't have looked out of place on the kittens' pastel tea party table, either, so I am just as pleased with myself this time.

Still, a busy girl like me uses her hostess badge skills behind a bar these days, so I don't have time for tea parties. Instead I took a whole bunch of the cakes to work to give to my coworkers, who received them with pleasure. they were marvellous tasting little things, and i enjoyed the cook's share of them before work (and after work), with a pot of rose infused tea. But I didn't go so far as trying to share it with my cats. Village life hasn't got to me that badly yet.