Lemon Drizzle Cake - a letter to Felicity Cloake

Dear Felicity,

There you are again, popping up in my Google search - not quite at the top of the list but satisfyingly close. On the front page. No image. But I know who it is, simply by the precursor to my search term that appears in the result that stares at me. And once I again I regret the lack of imagination that set me on a path from my UCCA form (as it was) that took me most definitely out of the kitchen, only to return some years later. 

You see, Felicity, I'm really sorry but you have my job. It's mine, although I only know it now that it's too late, and you already have it. 

No, no don't worry - I'm not some psycho who's about to launch some hate campaign. I'm not actually what you would call 'jealous' in the proper sense of the word. A quick pause to ponder, but no, definitely not jealous as such, just a little wistful. My food writing career such as it was, summed up in an essay my 13yr old self wrote, calling on the world (or at least my English class) to witness the injustice inflicted on me by my mother in the form of wholemeal pasta. Perhaps I simply didn't recognise my calling in life, but in truth, I simply had no idea that writing about food was something one could do for a living. I don't know how I imagined Delia, Jane, Elizabeth, Madhur and the rest, who lined our family kitchen shelves, funded their lives - whether it crossed my mind that they GOT PAID for what they did. "Be a teacher" exhorted my teacher mother "So handy for the holidays". "Don't be a lawyer!" counselled my lawyer father. So off I trotted to law school, via a politics and French degree which gave me little more than an ability to consume large quantities of tequila and dance on tables (the two are related), skills that I now find I have little need for. 

Never underestimate the value of a degree, I tell you.

And when did I realise that the job I never knew was mine had gone? Well, when it was too late, but of course. And again, I don't say this with rancour. Just as I have viewed many a jobs page in the last few years, come across people with far more exciting job titles than 'employment lawyer', and thought "I never knew I could do that - you means someone is paid to do that", it's with a kind of dazed amazement. Life has been good to me, and I am happy where I am now - but, you know, a column in a respected national newspaper wouldn't go amiss...

May be you think I have your job, my 'portfolio' of freelance writing, and social media shenanigans carved out since domestic reasons long since meant that lawyering was no longer a practical option, in which case didn't life play a hilarious joke on us - but somehow, I doubt it. But I sense that if you had my life, you'd be doing what I do in the kitchen - creating the perfect sausage casserole out of some flabby carrots and a red pepper that's seen better days. Tweak with the addition of smoked paprika and voila. You'd disagree, too, with Nigel that the perfect addition to such a creation when feeding small children is fennel seed, weigh up the pros and cons of chopped v plum tomatoes, and whether to serve with pasta or couscous.

I don't crave the headline, the top billing, but an opportunity to spend the whole time tinkering in the kitchen, reading recipes, creating delights, tweaking - some more ground almonds there, a little more lemon zest there - and to write about it - it must be heaven. And with a brief to work out  how to cook the perfect lemon drizzle cake - who would refuse. May be you sensed that there was someone else out there for the job, but that doesn't mean you aren't superb. No. Every one of the 'perfect' recipes I've tried - me, the queen of the tinker - I can't better them. And your lemon drizzle - the perfect one? Well, it's just that.

So, Felicity, there you have it. I'm glad you're doing my job so well - I can't think of a better person. And you know, if you ever get bored, I've got a perfect 'leftover chicken and gravy pasta' just waiting to go - so do call. And as for the lemon drizzle cake? Yes. Perfect.

Pork & lemon meatballs - because we don't need to think about the turkey till next week...

You'll have noticed that there hasn't been much about Christmas here. 

It's not that I'm not bothered, not excited, but I'm not planning to do anything different or fancy, and as it's just us here for Christmas Day, and I don't want to have the place groaning with leftovers, I have tried not to over-cater or over-engineer anything.

I'm also quite fancying the approach Alexander Armstrong and Giles Coren took in their '12 Drinks of Christmas' programme that I happened to watch last night - line up 12 festive drinks, and let everything else take care of itself. I won't of course, but it did cross my mind...

I never really read the Dr Seuss books when I was growing up, but the Husband did, and his mum introduced them to our kids - Blue in particular - and there's a bit in How the Grinch Stole Christmas that I really love. It's this bit ('it' being Christmas):

"It came without ribbons. It came without tags. 

It came without packages, boxes or bags. 

And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. 

Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. 

What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. 

What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.” 

I've been concentrating on getting the exhausted children through the last few weeks of school - there have been projects to finish, carol concerts, school discos, the usual end of Autumn term madness - and what with everything else that's been going on, I haven't really had time to think about anything other than the basics, even less blog about it.

 

So on the catering front, at least, I'm taking the 'Grinch' approach. Or perhaps not the Grinch's approach, but that of the Whos - whose Christmas the Grinch was trying to spoil. 

It will be Christmas whether I manage to make cranberry sauce or not. 

Whether the mince pies have homemade mincemeat in them - or the mincemeat from the jar I found at the back of the cupboard which looks perfectly edible but has a use by date of 2009 on it (may be I'll pep it up with some brandy...). Indeed whether the mince pies are homemade in the first place ("Recipe Junkie in bought mince pie shock..." I can see it now).

Whether the Christmas Cake looks like something Mary Berry would be proud of - or not - thanks to Pink's enthusiastic marzipan modelling last night.

Particularly loving Pink's attempt to turn a polar bear into a reindeer...

We will be together, at home, and we will have a lovely time, whether we eat like kings, or not.
 
And anyway, all of that stuff isn't till next week. 

For now, we need to eat normal food; food to keep us going as we wade through the end of term. It would help if I'd been meal planning, but that's gone by the wayside too, so yesterday I was scrabbling around in the freezer and found some pork mince. It's ages since we had meatballs, and the kids love them, so with a little help from Nigel Slater, meatballs it was.


Pork meatballs with mushroom sauce

4 anchovy fillets
450g pork mince
65g breadcrumbs
zest of a lemon; juice of up to 1 lemon (see Method)
handful of flat leaf parsely (leaves only especially if stalks are a bit woody), finely chopped

2 tablespoons (about 15g) grated parmesan
plain flour for dusting/rolling in (the meatballs, not you)
40g butter
olive oil
4 largeish chestnut mushrooms, peeled if necessary and finely chopped
200ml chicken stock
50ml (approx) cream

Mash up the anchovy fillets in the bottom of a large bowl, then mix in the pork mince, breadcrumbs, lemon zest, parsley and grated parmesan and mix together, adding the lemon juice as necessary to bind it all together.

Cover a plate with plain flour.

Using a tablespoon as a rough measure, make your meatballs - I got 14 out of this mixture - flatten slightly, then put in the flour, rolling around to coat lightly.

Heat the butter and oil in a large frying pan, then brown the meatballs on both sides for about 4 minutes - I did this in batches. Once browned, set the meatballs aside, then chuck the mushroom into the pan and cook for a few minutes, then return the meatballs to the pan and cook for another 5-6 minutes, turning occasionally.

Tip in the chicken stock and bring the pan up to bubbling, scraping any bits off the bottom of the pan, then drizzle in a bit of cream. I just had some in the fridge, and I didn't measure it out, but it wasn't much - just enough to turn the sauce from 'stock' to 'sauce' if you see what I mean.

When everything's hot, serve. We had it with a mixture of wild and red rice (cupboard clearing) and some steamed kale.

 And in case I don't get the chance again, 

HAPPY CHRISTMAS!

 

Soup - and the Pumpkin conspiracy

OK it's official, Autumn is here.

Yes, there have been some misty mornings, yes there are apples a-plenty, yes, the spiders are on the march, and we've had the first fire in the log burner, but what has really heralded the arrival of Autumn is the first bowl of pumpkin soup. 

Truth be told, pumpkin soup is something I am a little ambivalent about it. In less forgiving moments, I start to wonder if pumpkin is actually one of the biggest food cons there is. Unlike other squash which can taste sweet, nutty and delicious, pumpkin promises much but doesn't always deliver flavour-wise. For a vegetable that produces quite an unctuous, smooth soup, it can sometimes taste quite thin, and alot of the recipes for pumpkin seems to basically involve using the pumpkin as bulk, flavoured with other things. My preferred treatment of pumpkin when it comes to soup involves ginger and chilli, to the extent that any pumpkin flavour that may or may not be there is pretty much hidden. You see what I mean?

This weekend, I decided to take Nigel Slater's approach, and use smoked paprika.

You should also know that I have a vested interest in finding the best ways of cooking up pumpkin. As a result of a pumpkin growing contest that we held here, with the kids, we now have over 50 pounds of the stuff to work my way through.

Yes, 14, 16 and 21 pounds respectivaly, with another 21 pounder already in the kitchen. I need pumpkin inspiration...

 

Yes, I can chutney, yes I can pie, and I'm going to donate a pumpkin curry for 10 to the Harvest Festival supper (Lucky people. Sadly, I will be otherwise engaged...), but even with those options up my sleeve. I still can't avoid soup.

I have to say that the recipe I used didn't really give me the pumpkin epiphany I was hoping for, but it was OK as pumpkin soups go. However, in a moment of inspiration, I toasted some walnuts with some rosemary sprigs and sea salt, and sprinkled this on top. It was also very tasty with some blue cheese crumbled into it for lunch today. That's the thing about making a vat of pumpkin soup - there's lots left over. Not necessarily something to be completely excited about, but it'll keep you fed for a few days, and it does look quite pleasing.

So here you go then. 

Pumpkin soup (alright as far as pumpkin soup goes)
Serves many

2 red onions
2 large cloves of garlic
2 heaped tsp smoked paprika
1.8kg chopped peeled and deseeded pumpkin flesh
800ml chicken stock
a good handful of walnut halves
a couple of sprigs of rosemary
a good pinch of sea salt

In a very large soup making pan, melt some butter and olive oil and fry the onions and garlic till softening. Add in 1 heaped tsp smoked paprika, stir in and cook for a minute or so. Add the pumpkin and carry on cooking, stirring occasionally, until the pumpkin is looking softened and a little caramelised.

Pour in the stock and bring to the boil, then simmer till the pumpkin is cooked.

While the soup is simmering, heat the oven to 180/200C. Roughly chop the walnut pieces and take the rosemary spikes off the twigs. Give the rosemary a bot of a chop if you can be bothered. Chuck the walnuts, rosemary leaves and salt into a small roasting tin and into the oven for 5-10 minutes, till toasty and aromatic, then set aside to cool down a little while you finish the soup. I used the oven because it was already on for something else. You could do this in a dry frying pan on the stove top too.

Finish the soup by tasting and adding in the 2nd teaspoon of smoked paprika, then blitzing as you like (hand held blender etc). Thin out if necessary using milk (or perhaps some cream) - but bear in mind that if it's thin on flavour, you don't want the soup to be too thin in teture too. Taste and add seasoning if needed.

Serve with the rosemary walnut pieces sprinkled on the top, and some really decent bread.

Butterflied Bangers with Beetroot - or bread & butter. But no Brownie(s)

Did you see what I did there? I love a bit of alliteration.

So, according to Nigel Slater, there's lots of beautiful beetroot around at the moment, and he's not wrong. 

Beetroot has grown on me over the last few years, and now I really love it. It's delicious in a salad, or roasted as a side vegetable, and I've got my eye on this Balti which includes beetroot and cheddar in a kind of Anglo-Indian fusion curry. I got a great big bunch of it in my veg box this week, and curry aside, up on my Twitter feed popped our Nige as featured on the Guardian's website - a recipe for a sausage and beetroot type of pan fry: chunks of beetroot and carrot slowly fried with garlic and chopped rosemary, then add in chunks of good herby sausages to cook, and finally some red wine vinegar to finish off. Oh so simple.

I'd got my meal plan, sorted out on the basis of the contents of the veg box, and I was really keen to give the beetroot a bit more than the usual  treatment, so this fitted in perfectly. I'd also neglected the previous week's carrots so they'd ended up in a last minute carrot cake (noting wrong with that, but, you know, not necessarily the most ideal), so I wanted to give this week's carrots some love too.

I loved the idea of the sweet veg with the sausages - our butcher does some fantastic Cumberland bangers which always go down a treat. You get the idea. I was REALLY looking forward to eating this. 

I just shouldn't have attempted it last night when I was feeling grotty as you like with that most of English of things - a summer cold; when I was on a schedule to get the kids home and fed and turned around in time for Pink to go to Brownies at 6.

I should have known not to attempt something with no guidance as to cooking time, only suggestions for 'speeding things up' (i.e. use pre-cooked beetroot). My beetroot were small, so plenty of opportunity to get covered in red as I peeled them (no CSI gloves for me, Ms Lawson). I didn't start cooking early enough, and as the time approached to leave for Brownies, with Pink still not fed, I ended up having to 'butterfly' the sausage chunks (slice them down one side to open them out and cook the middles) in order to get them cooked properly for her to eat. 

And the potato chips I was making in the oven (I was baking bread at the same time, so the oven was on) hadn't cooked, so she had to have bread and butter... The rest of it had to wait on the stove as I dashed down the road to get Pink to Brownies.

Except Brownies wasn't on. In my befuddled summer cold induced haze, I had forgotten that it was cancelled.

By the time I got back home, with Pink in tow, the chips were finished, but everything else - well, let's say it hadn't necessarily benefited from sitting around...

Still good, but I'm willing to bet not quite as good as Nigel's... Better luck next time, hey.

Blackcurrants - reckless cheesecake and easy blackcurrant jam

I made (if I may say so) the most delicious blackcurrant cheesecake for pudding the other day.

I was going to make an almondy orangey cake, the recipe for which I had obtained from an acquaintance, and which I was desperate to whip up, and then share with the world, but the Husband put a spanner in the works by  requesting cheesecake. "But none of your baked cheesecake nonsense" said he, ever to the point. " A proper one". He means a no-baked, cream cheese type, true retro dinner party fodder.

Fortunately for him, I was able to oblige, particularly as the orange cake was going to mean going out to buy eggs (the chickens are reluctant to lay when it's anything less than about 12 degrees outside - very high maintenance) - and by chance I had a tub of Philadelphia in the fridge. The orange cake will have to wait, I'm afraid.

I can't give you the exact recipe for the cheesecake bit because, starting from a combination of a Nigel Slater Vanilla cheesecake with damsons recipe from The Guardian online, and a Nigella one in Express for cherry cheesecake, I basically used up a load of leftover milk products without much regard for quantity. 

The base I had enough fairly traditional digestive biscuits and butter available: 125g crushed digestive biscuits and 75g melted butter mixed together, pressed into the lined base of a 20cm springform tin, and refrigerated while I made the topping.

Here's where I started to scour the back of the fridge and pray.  

I had a full 300g tub of Philadelphia, so I beat that together with the zest of a lemon and 60g icing sugar. tasted good, but not nearly enough, and a bit sweet at that stage. 

I added, VERY approximately, 50ml each of double cream and sour cream, and a good heaped tablespoon of 0% fat Greek yoghurt. I also squeezed in a bit of lemon juice and added nearly a teaspoon of vanilla extract and carried on beating till all was combined. Once the cheese/cream/yoghurt was all combined, I spread it over the biscuit base, put a piece of clingfilm over the top, and put it back in the fridge overnight. The clingfilm idea came from the Nigel Slater recipe. I guess it stops it drying out in the fridge.

I'll try and emulate this again because the sour cream and yoghurt made the cheesecake bit lovely and clean tasting and not at all cloying, which I find can sometimes be a problem for me. I also thought that using the 0% fat yoghurt might generally be a good way to go to bulk this out and make it lighter - although I think I'd always mix it with full fat Philly, because the reduced fat is just not as good in cheesecake. I mean, what's the point (and there's always the Greek yoghurt if you're feeling in need of virtue).

What I can tell you the recipe for, though, is the blackcurrant jamminess that I topped it off with. 

We had a bag of blackcurrants in the freezer from the garden, but you can buy frozen in the supermarket. It was very easy and quick - almost too quick because I'd hoped for a softer set than I got, but it was still fine for topping off the cheesecake.

Easy Blackcurrant Jam

500g frozen blackcurrants
500g preserving sugar
juice of half a lemon

Place these 3 ingredients in a large pan (remember, the mixture will bubble up during cooking), with about 100ml of water and stir over a gentle heat till all the sugar is dissolved.

Bring the contents of the pan up to the boil, then boil it hard for 5 minutes. 

Leave it to cool for 5 minutes or so in the pan, then decant to a sterilised jar or 2, or, if you're using it for a cheesecake, or for breakfast (say) leave it to cool in a bowl.

The sharpness of the jam will contrast beautifully with a creamy, lemony cheesecake: unmould the cheesecake, carefully peel off the greaseproof paper from the base and place on the dish you are going to serve it on. Carefully blob & spread over the jam and leave in the fridge until ready to serve.

Even better, there should be plenty of jam left over. Just the thing to go on some freshly baked bread. 

 

 

 

 

 This month's Forever Nigella is hosted on the lovely Botanical Baker blog , and originates with Sarah at Maison Cupcake . It's the monthly blog event which encourages you to release your inner domestic goddess and bake, make or cook absolutely anything from any of Nigella’s books. This month's theme is Nostalgia, and I'm entering the cheesecake for it's retro nostalgic appeal as it's what cheesecake meant to me before I'd ever set eyes (or teeth) on any of those newfangled baked cheesecakes...

The Marmalade Blues

So it's 7.00 on a Sunday morning and this is what the stovetop looks like:

What I really wanted to make this year was lemon & lime marmalade, which of course I could make at any time, but somehow, January is marmalade time, isn't it? And of course, rather than remembering my desire for lemon & lime, I was seduced by the sight of some Seville oranges, conveniently forgot the kilo or so I had in the freezer left over from last year (and some donated by a friend), and bought a 1.5 kilo bag. "I love making marmalade!"

Er, no you don't, Sally. It's all the setting point stress of jam that you put yourself through every summer, plus numerous opportunities for injury during the making process. And it takes a bloody age. You do not have enough time to make marmalade. You want to be doing OTHER THINGS.

Too late.

We had a lovely day with the kids yesterday. The rain meant the Husband's current exterior project is on hold, so we all went into town in the morning and then after a dog walking/homework pause in the happy family scene, we played board games for nearly 3 hours. I must have come over all maternal, because I normally am no good at playing board games (I am a natural cheat for a start), and I will never never play monopoly again, but we had a good laugh. Amazing (and in case you're wondering, my kids are 9 and 6.5 and up till very recently, playing any kind of game for that long would have been utter hell). Great for family relations, but not so good if you've got over 2 kilos of marmalade oranges to prep.

By the time the kids were upstairs it was nearly 8.30. After the annual "Which recipe do we follow?" "No, Nigel's had too much liquid in it." "What about Delia?" "Didn't we combine Dan and Nigel last year?" debate, I settled on a very helpful method from the Guardian online - How to make Perfect Orange Marmalade . Sounded good to me. I didn't have the same type of sugar, but I wasn't about to add to my woes by heading up to the Co-Op (and actually, I'm not sure they stretch to light muscovado anyway) so bog standard preserving sugar (which I had in the cupboard) it is.

I couldn't work out how to get the food processor juicing attachment to work so started off doing it by hand. Squeezing into the pan, scraping the pips and pith into a muslin lined bowl, putting the empty halves in an other bowl... Just as the RSI was setting in nicely, the Husband came in, clicked the necessary attachments in the right place and got the juicer working. Let me tell you that having your knuckles skinned by a food processor juicer attachment when you're already wondering what madness possessed you to start on this, is just about the pits. Less Seville orange, more blood orange marmalade - I wish I'd stuck with the RSI to be honest (I jest, I didn't actually break the skin, but it hurt a lot - you have to hold the fruit halves down onto the attachment and it spins round very fast making it easy to slip and catch yourself. I say don't try this at home, kids.) 

So, oranges (and lemons - I needed 2 - bang goes my lemon & lime marmalade that I was going to knock up from the various ends of lemon and lime knocking around in the fridge...) juiced, time to shred the peel. Oh hoo - f-ing - ray. By now, the Husband in firmly implanted on the sofa, watching TV & eating the crisps.

Reader, I started, with my sharp little knife, I found something I wanted to listen to on the radio and I set to work. Shred, shred, shred. Shred, shred, shred. AAAARRRGGGGHHHHHHH.

I put it all in the food processor. This time with the knife attachment. Fortunately, the lid has to be on for this to work, so no opportunity for further injury there. How is it possible to feel guilty about shredding orange peel in a food processor instead of with a knife. I really need to get a grip.

By now, you can appreciate that there's quite a lot in terms of volume. I have the juice and shredded (ha!) zest of 2.4 kilos of oranges and lemons (I'd got the frozen oranges out of the freezer to add to the mix). I have 2 kilos of sugar. All in my preserving pan (that's the one on the right in the photo - the other one is the Husband's beer making pan). I need to add 4-5 litres of water.

My pan is not big enough. But I have already put most of it into one pan, so I need to work out how to divide it between 2 pans.

I tried decanting some into the Husband's beer pan, but realised that because the sugar hadn't dissolved, there was a definitely uneven distribution. And I had to divide the contents of my muslin bag up. At that point I went to bed.

So you see, nearly 3 hours on and a night's sleep, I am really no closer to having marmalade. This morning, I have brought the stuff up to temperature to dissolve the sugar and then rather precariously remixed it and then redistributed it back between the 2 pans. It now needs to simmer for some time - the recipe says 2 hours, but working on past experience, this could be any time - to get the peel soft - before you get down to the business of bubbling it up to the dreaded setting point. Once I've done the simmering to soften the peel bit, I will be leaving it again till this evening for the final push. That's 2 nights of sofa surfing foregone in the pursuit of domestic smugness. That will teach me.

So is there a point to all this? Well, homemade marmalade is delicious, no doubt about it, but it's a right old faff, and it takes an age, and I'd like you all to remember that. I'm not saying don't do it, but just weigh up the costs and benefits - is it worth RSI, skinned knuckles and late nights? Do you have better things to do? Just think about that.

My only consolation is that with 2.4 kilos worth bubbling away, I will have enough to last us for a long time, and may be I can get on with my lemon & lime version. Can someone remind me of this next year, please?