Category Archives: General

Favourite Cook Books no.4: ‘Great British Classics’ by Gary Rhodes

I have been meaning to write a post on this excellent cookbook for quite a while, and it is such a shame that my prompt to pull my finger out was the sad and untimely death of Gary Rhodes at the end of last year.

When I was asked to submit my list of favourite cookbooks to the 1000 Cookbooks project, I put New British Classics as my number one choice, my comment at the time being: “simply the best book on British food around. Everything from lowly haslet to lobster.”

Favourite recipes include salad cream, lardy cake, prawn cocktail, rhubarb and rack-on-black – lamb roasted with black pudding.

My favourite books on food tend to be by food writers rather than professional chefs because they write about their love of food and its importance in our culture and history. Chefs tend to be, well, cheffy; there’s no evocative description of the hustle and bustle of a French market, and they assume that you want to be cooking restaurant-level food at home. This is where Rhodes was different – sure there are cheffy dishes like the very complex rich pigeon faggot – but there are basics such as fried bread, porridge and jam roly-poly. Everything is represented and everything has equal billing, meaning that whatever your ability level there is a way in. You can start off with basics like scrambled eggs or go straight in at the deep end with pigs’ trotters Bourguignonne.

The full gamut of British food is here: fish and chips, steak and kidney pie, pork faggots, white pudding, Welsh rarebit, and the massive range of techniques contained within makes it the most comprehensive book of British recipes there is. What’s more, every single recipe works perfectly; he goes through every stage, assuming you know nothing but never patronises. If you don’t own a copy and you’re interested in cooking British food, it really is essential.

The secret to his success was his attention to detail. Every move made, and technique used was meticulous and done with deftness, even the way he picked up an ingredient to show to camera had an air of precision about it. Take a look at this clip from the accompanying BBC programme, where he shows us how to make cabbage and bacon soup, and you’ll see what I mean:

He was a classically trained chef who applied French techniques to classic British dishes, taking them to new heights while keeping them authentic. His approach definitely rubbed off on me when I was teaching myself to cook; use the best ingredients and don’t cut corners, every stage is there for a reason, so you need to understand why it is there. Only when that penny drops will you develop a cook’s intuition. This approach to cooking won him his first Michelin star at the age of 26, eventually receiving an OBE for services to the hospitality industry in 2006.

On television, he was very enthusiastic, polite and well-spoken; he seemed a little odd and socially awkward (as all the best people are), making him all the more endearing. He got me interested in cooking and wanting to spend my precious leisure time in the kitchen, learning new techniques and tackling novel ingredients.

He was rarely off the telly during the late 1900s and early 2000s, his trademark spiky hair and over-enthusiasm caused many to pooh-pooh him as gimmicky. Eventually the fickle eye of entertainment focused upon other, younger chefs and so he stopped appearing so regularly. But his books and their accompanying TV shows are great; his Rhodes Around Britain and Cookery Year series are worth checking out too (his apple pie recipe from the latter is the best in world in my opinion).

He died on the 26 November 2019 at the age of 59 from head injuries after a fall – no way or age to go, I’m sure you’ll agree. Of course, when someone dies, there work is revaluated and I hope people recognise what he did for British cuisine, because he put it on a pedestal when everyone else was looking elsewhere.

Braised Oxtails

He was ‘discovered’ on the Keith Floyd programme Floyd on Britain & Ireland. On the segment he makes his signature dish: braised oxtails. Ironically, by the time New British Classics was published his most famous dish was illegal to eat – cooking beef on the bone was banned because of health fears surrounding the BSE crisis. Eventually the ban was lifted, and I could make it for myself. Back in my pop-up restaurant days it was the main course at my first ever Odd Bits offal evening.

This is my version of Gary’s signature dish; it’s slightly simplified but just as gutsy. It really is one of the most delicious things you will ever cook. Nothing else needs to be said – except ‘cook it’!

Enough for 6

2 oxtails, trimmed of excess fat

Salt and pepper

Beef dripping

Around 100 g each carrot, onion, celery and leek

1 tin of chopped tomatoes

2 tbs tomato purée

Small bunch thyme and rosemary

2 bay leaves

1 clove garlic, crushed

300ml red wine

1 litre beef stock

Season the oxtails and fry in dripping until well browned, transfer to an ovenproof pot, then fry the vegetables until nicely brown too. Tip those into the pot along with the tomatoes, garlic and herbs and bring to a simmer. Pour the wine into the original pan and reduce until almost dry. Add to the pot with the stock.

Simmer very gently on the hob or braise in an oven set to 160⁰C. Whichever you choose, it needs to tick away for 3 hours.

Remove the cooked meat and keep warm and pass the cooking liquor through a conical strainer, really pressing the vegetables hard to get all the flavour out.

Throw in a big handful of ice cubes, and stir so they freeze the fat; you should be able to lift out ice and fat in one nice big satisfying lump.

Reduce the liquor to a sauce and season with more salt and pepper, then add back the oxtails to heat through.

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The Snowball

Merry Christmas everyone!

As you may know, I like to write a boozy post at this time of year and this year’s is small but perfectly formed: the Christmassy and rather kitsch classic, the Snowball, a blend of the Dutch egg yolk-based liqueur Advocaat and lemonade.

A lot of people think Snowballs are a bit naff, but I love them. The problem is that they can be too sweet and cloying, but that’s because folk don’t realise that there are two other very important ingredients – brandy and fresh lime juice. They both cut through the custardy sweet Advocaat and subtly transform it. I recommend you go out and buy the ingredients right now!

The Snowball cocktail was invented in the 1940s but didn’t become popular until the 1970s, where it was stripped of all sophistication by those who used only Advocaat and lemonade, missing out the ingredients they supposed to be superfluous producing the sickly cocktail we all know today.

Advocaat is a Dutch liqueur. Its name is a bit of a mystery; most reckon it comes from the Dutch word for advocate or lawyer. The 1882 edition of the Dictionary of the Dutch Language says it is ‘…a good lubricant for the throat and thus considered especially useful for a lawyer, who must speak in public.’

There is another theory that it was originally made by 17th-Century Dutch settlers in the Americas using creamy avocados, sugar and rum. I am assuming that because this is the most exciting story of the two that it is the apocryphal one. Occam’s Razor and all that…

Anyway, I hope you have a great Christmas – and a good few PROPER Snowballs.

xxx

~

Per person:

25 ml (1 shot) Advocaat

12.5 ml (a ½ shot) brandy

Juice ¼ of a lime

Ice

Around 75 ml lemonade

To garnish: a thin slice of lime

Pour the Advocaat, brandy and lime juice in a cocktail shaker and add plenty of ice.

Shake well and strain into glasses. Add a single ice cube per glass and top up with a little lemon (it will fizz up!).

Stir and garnish with the slice of lime.

~

References:

The History of Christmas Cocktails (2015), Make Me a Cocktail https://makemeacocktail.com/blog/the-history-of-christmas-cocktails/

The Origins of Advocaat, By the Dutch http://www.bythedutch.com/about/origins-of-advocaat/

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How to Kill a Dragon with Pudding (or Parkin)

I was supposed have written and posted this for Hallowe’en, but then life got in the way. Hey-ho.

I found an excellent old story that goes right back to Anglo-Saxon times and I thought would recount it for you.

Gather round for…

The Tale of The Dragon of Knucker Hole

The Knucker – a type of water-dragon – sat in its bottomless pool in Lyminster, Sussex. It had been terrorising the village for weeks by eating its cattle, men and fair maidens. The townspeople were terrified of the beast and they hardly dared leave their homes.

Lyminster, Sussex (westsussex.info)

King of Sussex one day declared, “Whoever can rid us of this Knucker, shall be greatly rewarded.”

The only person brave – or perhaps foolish – enough to take the King up on his offer was one Jim Pattock who, one day, made the biggest Sussex pudding you have ever seen. It was so huge that he had to heave it into his cart so his horse could pull it the dragon’s pool.

The Knucker was snoozing, heard a distant rumbling sound and opened one eye only to see some idiot walking right into his lair. He rose.

“What you got there?” boomed the Knucker.

A rather cute looking Knucker for the Dragonology book Series

“Pudden”, said Jim.

The Knucker looked over the pudding, gave it a sniff and promptly devoured the pudding, cart and horse in one single bite!

“Bring me more!” demanded the Knucker.

Off home he trotted; he knew the dragon would ask for more Sussex pudding because it is so delicious. He made another pudding just as big as the last one and dragged it over to the Knucker hole.

The dragon licked his lips and devoured it, but then the dragon suddenly came over with the collywobbles.

“I don’t feel so good”, the Knucker grumbled and slumped forward.

Jim Pattock rushed in as though he was going to help the terrible creature, but that is not what he was doing it all. Instead, he pulled out his axe from behind his back and cleaved the water dragon’s head clean from its body.

Jim returned to the town of Lyminster triumphantly holding the Knucker’s head high and was hailed a hero by the townspeople and richly rewarded by the King.

Now you know what to do should you live near a pool should a Knucker make its home there.

So there you go: I would tread carefully if you live near a lake or pond because it might be a Knucker hole too! The moral, I suppose, is beware that second helping of pud.

In another version of this story, Jim laces the second pudding (or pie in some versions) with poison, killing the dragon. When he gets back to the town, he is bought a huge flagon of ale, but has some of the poison on his hands and dies! Poor old Jim.

The word knucker, comes from the Anglo-Saxon word nicor, which means water dragon, and there were many similar stories told around the country. In Yorkshire for example, the dragon is fed by Billy Bite when the dragon steals his delicious parkin. The Knucker demands more and his rather belligerent wife is so angry with him she brings the parkin to the dragon who promptly eats both gingerbread and wife.

The parkin is very sticky and gets it all over his teeth “clinging so lovely like ivy-bine”, the Knucker is distracted and is quickly done away with by some of the townspeople.

The moral here is beware of sticky gingerbread, I suppose.

I quite like this version as it subverts the usual tale of the hero saving the townspeople; poor old hen-pecked Billy is completely passive in the story, yet is responsible – albeit indirectly – for the riddance of the foul beast.

References:

Folklore of Yorkshire, Kai Roberts, 2013

Knucker Hole, the Home of An Ancient Sussex Dragon, 2019, Odd Days Out website, https://odddaysout.co.uk/knuckerhole

Supernatural Stories: 9 amazing British Folktales, 2016, History Extra

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Clotted Cream

There’s nothing more Cornish than a good blob of clotted cream on a lovely cream tea. Unless you are from Devon of course, then there’s nothing more Devonian than a good blob of clotted cream on a lovely cream tea.

For those not in the know, clotted cream is a very thick cream with a much higher butterfat content than double (heavy) cream; weighing in at 64% and 48% respectively (for comparison, single cream is 18% fat, and full-fat milk is around 4%).

Clotted cream has a long history in Devon and Cornwall, and it is reckoned that it was first introduced to England by Phoenician settlers around 2000 years ago. Phoenicia was on the eastern Mediterranean coast in, what is now Syria, Lebanon and northern Isreal. The clotting of cream was a way of preserving buffalo milk. By removing the watery liquid, leaving mainly butterfat, the growth of spoilage organisms is retarded. The folk of Devonshire knew of its efficacy in this area; it was said that not even a witch’s breath could turn it sour.

If you have ever tried it, you will know that clotted cream – aka clouted cream or scalded cream in older books – is absolutely delicious and is well worth buying. It is possible to make your own and there is a recipe at the end of the post of you would to try your hand at it.

The best thing about it is the buttery, nutty crust that forms on the top as part of the manufacturing process. It is made by gently heating rich milk or cream in large shallow pans to a temperature of 80 to 90°C, the heat traditionally coming from cinders or charcoal. Once the buttery crust had formed, it was carefully but quickly moved to a cool place and sat upon some slate so make the cooling process as rapid as possible; the cold shocking the thin skimmed milk into sinking quickly and making a layer underneath the thick cream. These days, it’s all done with centrifuges, which is rather less romantic.

Once completely cooled, the clotted cream was lifted away with cold, wet hands and mixed in cold, wet wooden bowls to remove the last of the watery milk. It was then layered up in pots. I found a 1755 home recipe from an Elizabeth Cleland who recommended sprinkling rose water and sugar between the layers – the result must have been delicious!

The left-over skimmed milk, by the way, was taken away and either drank or used to make scones or Devonshire splits.

From the point of view of butterfat extraction, clotted cream is a much more efficient method than basic skimming techniques. The reason it is not the standard technique, I assume, is that double skimming requires no heating or centrifuges, tipping the balance of economy in double cream’s favour. Couple this with the fact that modern refrigeration and pasteurisation is doing the lion’s share of the preserving today means that the process of clotting cream is no longer required for that purpose. We eat it for the sheer love of it (ditto smoked fish and meat).

Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management says that there are two types of clotted cream: Devonshire and Dutch. She goes on to explain the difference – Dutch clotted cream is thick enough to stand a spoon up in. Now, in my (humble) opinion, it ain’t clotted cream unless you can stand a spoon up in it, so I can only conclude that English clotted cream – at least from a Victorian Londoner’s point of view – was relatively runny compared to that of today’s

Clotted cream is used to make ice cream, some biscuits and as a topping to the old-fashioned pudding Devonshire junket, a sweetened milk dessert set with rennet, producing curds and whey. It can be used to enrich sauces and soups too but use with caution – things can end up too rich.

Rodda’s is the largest producer of clotted cream and is based in Cornwall. There is much debate between the folk of Devon and Cornwall as to whether the cream should be added before or after the jam. Nick Rodda reckons his grandfather knew why:

We always put our cream on top because we are proud of it, Devonians are slightly ashamed of theirs, so they cover it up with their jam.

I must confess to siding with the Devonians on this one. It’s all down to what you think the buttery cream’s role is. The argument goes something like this:

The Cornish: it is the cream, and you wouldn’t put cream under your fruit salad/trifle/fruit tart etc, now would you?

The Devonians: it is the butter, and you wouldn’t spread butter over the jam on your toast/crumpet/muffin etc, now would you?

Your choice.

Home-Made Clotted Cream

All you need to make your own is some double cream, an oven and patience.

Before…

Preheat your oven to 80°C. Pour around 1 litre of double cream into a wide, shallow ovenproof dish, place it in the oven and leave in there for 12 hours. If you are really patient, leave for 18 hours to achieve a darker, more delicious caramel-flavoured crust.

…after

Carefully remove from the oven, cover with kitchen foil and pop straight into the fridge to cool quickly and undisturbed.

Once fully chilled, lift the clotted cream from the dish and layer up in pots. I filled three good-sized ramekins with mine. The amount of skimmed milk at the bottom will vary depending upon how long you left the cream in the oven for.

The cream keeps for 7 days in the fridge.

References:

Clotted Cream, RS Chavan, A Kumar & S Bhatt, 2016, In Encyclopedia of Food and Health

The Complete Housewife, Elizabeth Cleland, 1755

How do you take your cream tea?, BBC Cornwall website, 2010 http://news.bbc.co.uk/local/cornwall/low/people_and_places/newsid_8694000/8694384.stm

Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management, Isabella Beeton, 1861

My Devonshire Book, Henry Harris, 1907

William’s Practical Butter Book, Xerxes Addison Willard, 1875

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Cornish Pasties

As promised, some Cornish recipes and I start with a classic. Cornish pasties are a simple combination of chopped (not minced) beef, potatoes, turnips and onions. It’s seasoned well – especially with black pepper and baked in shortcrust pastry. You can moisten it with a bit beef stock and season it further with some thyme leaves if there’s some hanging around, but you really don’t need to. Sometimes you may find some carrot in your pasty, if you do, thrown it back the face of the person who gave you it, because there is no place for carrot a Cornish pasty.

Cornish pasties were given to Cornish tin miners or field-workers so they could slip one into their pockets and eat them for lunch, the thick crimp being a useful handle protecting it from dirty fingers. The meat-to-vegetable ratio varied depending upon what folk could afford at the time. It don’t think it should be too meaty, but if you disagree simply alter my proportions in the recipe below.

Cornish tin miners, pasties in hand

Also, for a Cornish pasty the crimp must go down the side, not over the top, as you might see in some bakeries. That is a Devonshire pasty, I believe.

As discussed in the comments in my previous post, these pasties did not have a sweet filling at one end and a savoury one at the other. What you have there is Bedfordshire clanger, but I’m sure you knew that.

One final thing, some advice from Jane Grigson: “Cornish pasties are pronounced with a long a”. We use a short a Up North, and I refuse to change.

Pasties ready for the oven

If you’ve never made a pasty in your life, this is the one to start with; the ingredients are raw so there is no messy gravy and juices getting everywhere and making things difficult. It seems too simple to be delicious, but it is. The secret is in the seasoning. I use a rounded teaspoon of salt, but you can use less; be warned though, use no or little salt, and you will have a bland stodge-fest before you, my friend.

On the subject of salt, notice the crazy amount of salt in the egg wash – a good half-teaspoon of salt in your beaten egg provides a strong and appetising shine to the final product. I believe that is, as the kids say, a kitchen hack.

For 2 large or 4 medium-sized pasties:

For the shortcrust pastry:

400g plain flour

100g each salted butter and lard, diced

around 80g water

For the filling:

300g chuck, skirt or braising steak, gristle and fat removed

125g onion (a medium-sized one), chopped

125g turnip, peeled and thinly sliced

250g potato, peeled and thinly sliced

salt and freshy-ground black pepper

thyme, fresh or dried (optional)

4 tbs beef stock or water

Egg wash:

1 egg beaten with ½ tsp salt

Begin with the pastry. Place the flour, butter and lard in a mixing bowl. If you have an electric mixer, use the flat beater and turn on to a low speed until the mixture resembles breadcrumbs. If you are doing this by hand, rub the fat into the flour with the tips of fingers. It shouldn’t take longer than five minutes.

Trickle in the water with the mixer on its slowest speed and stop it as soon as the dough comes together. If doing by hand, add half the water and mix in with one hand, trickling in the rest of the water as you mix.

Either way the dough should some together and not feel sticky – it shouldn’t stick to your worktop, but it will feel a little tacky.

Lightly flour your work surface and knead the pastry briefly. This is where you may go wrong – over-kneading results in tough, shrinking pastry. The way to tell you are done kneading is to pinch some of the dough between your thumb and forefinger – it should just split around the edges when you pinch it hard (see pic).

Cover the dough and pop in the fridge to rest for 30 minutes.*

Meanwhile, get the filling ready. Place all the vegetables and a good pinch of thyme if using in a large mixing bowl. Season and mix with your hand, then add the meat, season that and then mix in. Remember to be generous with the black pepper – add what you think is sufficient, then do a couple more twists of the milk.

Remove the pastry from the fridge and split into two or four equal pieces. Form into balls and roll each out on a lightly floured surface, using a lightly floured rolling pin. I rolled out two large dinner plate sized circles of dough to around 3mm thickness – that of a pound coin. Don’t worry if they are a little wonky, they get tidied up as we go. That said, if it’s looking more like a map of the Isle of Wight than a circle, you might want to neaten up a little.

Now heap up the filling in a line just slightly off centre, dividing equally between the circles of dough. Sprinkle with the beef stock or water. Brush a semi-circle of egg wash down the edge nearest to the filling and then fold the dough over leaving the dough beneath poking out by 5 or 10mm.

Next egg wash the side again and crimp down the edge –  this makes things extra-secure as the filling expands in the oven. To crimp, fold over one corner inwards with a finger, squidge down the next section of pastry and repeat until you have worked all your way around the pasty.

Place on a lined baking tray, egg wash the tops and poke in a couple of holes with a sharp knife. Bake for 1 hour at 200°C, turning down the temperature to 180°C once the pastry is golden brown, around 20-30 minutes into the bake.

Remove and eat hot or cold.

*I will write a more in-depth method for pastry at some point, honest!

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Cornish Food

Last month I managed to grab a little getaway to one of the most beautiful parts of the United Kingdom – Cornwall. I’ve always loved going there, having wonderful memories of holidaying in places like Newquay and Torquay as a child. It was only when I arrived that I realised that the last time I visited was August 1999, the year of the total eclipse of the Sun – twenty blinking years ago! I felt so old.

Tintangel (pic: Hugues Roberts)

This time I visited with my partner, and avoided the obvious holiday places, our headquarters being a picturesque seventeenth century cottage in the lovely little town of Camelford. The nearest place to visit from there is Tintagel with its ancient castle and apparent birthplace of the mythical King Arthur. We also had a nosey round the Boscastle, which is worth visiting for the eerie Museum of Witchcraft and Magic if nothing else. We climbed Exmoor and hiked around the lovely harbour town Fowey (pronounced to rhyme with joy). Padstow was on the itinerary too, where I had the best fish and chips I’ve ever had.

Wandering over the Tintagel moorland (pic: Hugues Roberts)

For those of you not familiar with the geography of the UK, Cornwall is a county that takes up the tip of the long peninsula that makes up the very south-west of England. Because it is out on a limb, Cornwall feels different to the rest of England. The is due to the fact that the indigenous people – the Britons – were never conquered by the Anglo-Saxons in the fourth century BCE. As a result they retained their own language, Cornish, just as the other unconquered Britons did such as the Welsh. It really does feel ancient and magical – and this coming from a devout atheist! It has wild and untouched landscapes, beautiful dramatic skies and a real connection with the past. It’s also great for foraging – I spotted wild cabbage, fennel, rock samphire, sea kale and rocket all lurking about the sandy and rocky beaches.

A map of Cornwall (pic: Google Maps)

To the east of Cornwall is the county of Devon. The two have a friendly rivalry (I’m sure this wasn’t always the case!) especially when it comes to food, as you will see.

I tried to eat as many Cornish things as possible during our three-night stay, so I thought I would write a quick guide to Cornish food and follow it up with a few regional recipes.

A beautiful Cornish sunset (pic: Hugues Roberts)

Pasties

The Cornish pastry is probably Cornwall’s most famous food. It’s a simple affair, containing beef, potato, turnip and onion, all generously seasoned with ground black pepper. On no account must you add carrot to your Cornish pasty, and the meat must be chopped, not minced. They are crimped down one edge; never have your crimp go across the top of the pasty, because what you have there is a Devonshire pastry, and that will never do. There are other pasties – or “oggies” as the are called colloquially, made with apples or jam. There’s also a squab pie which is made from lamb and apples.

A cream tea (I must admit, I prefer the Devonshire method!)

Cream teas

One of my most favourite things in the world is a cream tea. It is made of a nice pot of tea, a scone (plain or fruit), jam and clotted cream. Now – this is very important – for a Cornish cream tea you apply the jam first and then the clotted cream, in Devon however, it’s cream first and then jam. Both counties believe that the other’s way is the work of heathens. Clotted cream is a very thick cream made by evaporating double cream over a very low heat, resulting in a cream that is butter-like in consistency and topped with an appetising pale crust. It is also used to make heavenly Cornish ice cream.

Fish

I’ve always found it odd that as an Island nation, we British don’t really like fish. Cornwall lands some of the best quality fish and seafood in the world, and yet its most identifies with a meat pasty. Cornwall has particularly fine – and plentiful – crabs, and one of the best things anyone could eat is dressed crab, brown bread, salted butter and fresh lemon. You’ve to look for it to find it, but it is available.

An infamous dish in these parts is stargazy pie a simple dish of sardines baked under a pastry crust. The fishes are boned, but their little heads are left on so that they can peek out the pie’s edge looking up to the heavens.

A stargazy pie (pic: Jusrol)

In Padstow, we visited Rick Stein’s fish and chip shop. Mr Stein (a food hero of mine) gets a hard time from the locals because he has so many businesses there; so much so, they have nicknamed it rather glibly ‘Padstein’. We didn’t get the chance to visit his restaurant, but we were not disappointed with the chip shop – I had the best cod and chips I have ever eaten. Beautifully crisp batter, creamy soft fish and proper made-from-scratch tartare sauce. Delish!

Cornish Splits

Another sweet treat made up of simply a bun made from a bread dough enriched with sugar, egg and butter, filled with jam and whipped cream. The grandfather to the doughnut, I would imagine.

Saffron Buns

Very popular – and very regional to the south-west are these delicious little buns. They are very similar to a hot cross bun, except it is a beautiful golden-yellow colour due to the healthy pinch of saffron which is added to the mix.

A brace of lovely saffron buns

There are other regional dishes too, such as hog’s pudding – often found on a Cornish fried breakfast instead of black pudding. There is Cornish heavy cake (aka hevva cake), which is similar to a the Chorley cakes one finds in North West England, and the delicious cheese known as Yarg which is similar to the Welsh cheese Caerphilly but is wrapped in nettle leaves.

Apologies if I have missed anything off – if you spot anything, please add to the comments section below. I’ll be back soon with some Cornwall-inspired recipes.

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Baked Gooseberry Pudding

The last in a quartet of gooseberry posts – I promise I will change the subject next post.

In my honest, humble opinion this is the best gooseberry dessert recipe. It’s old-fashioned and simple to make – gooseberries are baked with a little brown sugar and a knob or two of butter, all covered in cake sponge. The berries are still very sharp and are perfectly balanced with the warm, sweet sponge. This is much more superior to the better-known Eve’s pudding – stewed cooking apples covered in sponge cake. I suspect this would work excellently with blackcurrants.

This recipe crops up in my traditional English or British cookery books, but I first heard of it from Jane Grigson (as I have many dishes) in her book English Food.

For the pudding, you can make any amount of topping, it’s dependent upon whether you like a thin or thick layer of sponge and the dimensions of your baking dish. I used a soufflé dish of diameter around 7 inches/18 centimetres. I think this is a good amount for this size, and for most family-sized dishes.

The sponge is made using the all-in-one method, so make sure your butter is extremely soft to ensure a light topping.

2 tbs Demerara or soft light brown sugar

a couple of knobs of salted butter

gooseberries, topped and tailed

100 g very soft, salted butter

100g self-raising flour

100g caster sugar

2 eggs

Set your oven to 180°C.

Scatter the sugar and dot the butter on the bottom of your baking dish and cover with the gooseberries; you are aiming for a generous single layer of them.

Place the butter, flour, caster sugar and eggs in a bowl and beat together with an electric mixer until the mixture is smooth and well-combined. Using a large spoon or spatula, add the cake batter in big spoonfuls over the gooseberries and level it, you don’t have to be very neat here, the baking batter will flatted itself out.

Place in the oven and bake for around an hour until the top is a deep golden-brown colour.

Serve immediately with custard or lightly-whipped cream sweetened with a little icing sugar.

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A Gooseberry Sauce for Mackerel

Last post I wrote about the delicious gooseberry. Since I wrote it, I have seen them in quite a few shops, including Morrison’s, so I am feeling good about the gooseberry’s culinary future.

You’d think after all these years, I’d be better at taking photographs!

It is important to remember that gooseberries can be served with meat and fish in rather the same way as tart Bramley apples are: oily fish such as mackerel is the classic pairing, but I have found recipes that match it with chicken, goose, pork and mutton or lamb. Sauces and stuffings are made with the small new tart berries, with just a little sugar. The simplest sauce being made from halved berries, chopped mint and sugar. The ingredients are mixed, covered and left to macerate for several hours. Delicious with barbequed mackerel or herring, and the fact it isn’t cooked means the gooseberries retain their vibrant green colour.

I mentioned that in France it is known as the mackerel currant, because it is only ever really served with the oily fish, and even then, it’s considered particular only to Normandy. It did start life as an English dish, but as there was much communication between England and Normandy during the mediaeval period, it’s no surprise that they picked up some tips from the English during centuries of toing and froing.

I’ve taken elements from three different recipes to come up with mine: Jane Grigson’s English Food (1992), Eliza Acton’s Modern Cookery for Private Families (1847) and Elinor Fettiplace’s Receipt Book (1604). Talent borrows, genius steals and all that. Many of the ingredients are optional, so if you want a cleaner tasting sauce, omit the cream and maybe the butter too. If you are interested, there’s also a great recipe for a gooseberry stuffing for mackerel on my other blog.

It’s a delicious combination – simply grilled mackerel and the tart sauce, and maybe a green salad on the side. It’s telling you that summer is here! This pairing is largely forgotten now, but look in some older British cookery books and you’ll see it crop up again and again.

Young, green, small gooseberries are required for recipes that are served with savoury food – the later, large sweet ones are best used in desserts (recipes for those coming soon).

250 g gooseberries, topped and tailed

50 ml water

50 ml white wine, or a dash of cider vinegar

50 g sugar, or to taste

good pinch of ground ginger

salt and pepper

a knob of butter (optional)

2 to 3 tbs double cream (optional)

Put the gooseberries, water, wine or vinegar and sugar in a saucepan and cook until the gooseberries go pale in colour and start to become very soft, crushing them against the side of your pan with a wooden spoon. Season with salt and pepper.

If you want a very smooth sauce with no seeds or pulp, whizz the whole thing in a blender and pass through a sieve. I like to leave mine with some texture, but it’s up to you. If you did pass it through a sieve put it in a clean pan and put it over a medium heat.

Smooth or pulpy, beat in your butter with whisk or spoon until it becomes glossy, then add the cream.

Add more sugar if you like – remember it isn’t supposed to be sweet like apple sauce.

Serve alongside grilled or fried mackerel, but also pork, chicken or goose.

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‘Neil Cooks Grigson’ moves to WordPress

Hello lovely followers. Just a quickie to let you know that the sister blog to British Food: A History, Neil Cooks Grigson has moved from Blogger to WordPress. It makes much more sense to have them on the same format.

If you’ve never checked it out, now is your chance – there’s over 400 recipes on there, all fully reviewed. There are some amazing ones, and a fair few disasters, warts and all. So if there’s a classic English dish or recipe you’ve always wondered about, chances are I’ve cooked it up.

Just click on this link here and follow – I’d be most grateful!

I’ll be putting a few posts on there to help newcomers get up to speed on the project in the coming weeks, so keep an eye out.

Over and out!

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Blancmange

Last post I wrote all about the mediaeval dish Blanc Mange, an almond and rice stew served with chicken or fish. Obviously, I couldn’t let the opportunity pass to give you a recipe for the dessert blancmange we know and love (or hate).

Blancmange went from a savoury to a sweet dish somewhere around 1600 – 1604 is the earliest recipe for it I can find that sounds like the pudding we eat today.

When one thinks of blancmange, a shuddering over-sweet pale pink mass doused with cloying raspberry flavouring is imagined. This is not a proper blancmange. When I make one, I go back to basics.

photo: unknown

Blancmange should be a simple affair: cream, milk, sugar and almond extract set with gelatine. In the recipes from earlier than the 20th Century, the gelatine would have been prepared in house from calves’ feet or pigs’ trotters. There was an alternative setting agent called isinglass which is made from the dried swim bladders of fish.

By the way, the pronounced almond flavour of almond extract is not supposed to emulate that of regular almonds, but of bitter almonds which were high in cyanide and therefore used in small, highly aromatic doses. Other things were sometimes added to this basic mixture: lemon zest, cinnamon, brandy and rose water all crop up in recipes through the centuries.

The blancmange went rather downhill once you could buy it in packet form. The almond extract or bitter almonds replaced with almond flavouring and instead of gelatine, cornflour was used. This is the dessert that many people hate. I must confess to quite liking the preparatory blancmange, but then, I’ll eat anything. It shouldn’t be called blancmange though, as it is quite a different beast; fake flavour and thick cornflour base making the final pud less jiggly and delicate. I suppose that after the realisation you could set custard with cornflour instead of egg yolks, the ‘magic’ formula was applied to blancmange.

I like to serve blancmange with a compote of cherries flavoured with a dash of kirsch and some delicate shortbread biscuits, but it is pretty good served all on its own. Who needs panna cotta!? If you want to turn the blancmange out of its mould, it is worth brushing the inside with a thin layer of sunflower oil so that it is easier to turn it out.

Makes 600 ml:

250 ml whole milk

gelatine leaves (see method)

100 g caster sugar

300ml double cream

1 tsp almond extract

Heat up the milk in a saucepan and as you wait, soak the gelatine leaves in cold water – check the instructions in the packet and use the correct number to set 600 ml except use one leaf fewer than instructed – you want a good wobble.

A good wobble…

When the milk is very hot, squeeze out the excess water from the gelatine and whisk it into the milk along with the sugar. Once dissolved, add the double cream and almond extract. Pour into your mould or moulds, cover with cling film or a plate and refrigerate overnight. If you like, you can whip the cream until floppy and stir it through the milk when it is just warm. This way you get a mousse-like consistency – good if you want to serve it at a dinner party.

To turn out the blancmange, dip the moulds in hot water for around 10 seconds. To make it release you may have to carefully coax the blancmange from the inside edge of the mould with your finger; if you can move it away easily, it should come out. Place a serving plate on top and quickly flip it over – the blancmange should release, if not, simply dip it in the water for a further 10 seconds.

Once turned out, you may find that some of the blancmange has melted, so tidy up the plate with a piece of kitchen paper before serving.

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