Hello everyone, hope your February isn’t looking too gloomy. Here’s something to cheer you up: news that season B of A is for Apple: An Encyclopaedia of Food & Drink has kicked off.
For those not in the know A is for Apple is a podcast hosted by Sam Bilton, Alessandra Pino and me. Each season we take a letter and focus on it; last time we did A, so now we are doing B. We all present a very short piece about our chosen topic and then discuss it. There’s usually a theme to the episode, but Sam (who was the head host in episode 1) was kind and gave us a free choice. I chose berries, Sam chose the Banting diet, and Alessandra bananas. It’s available to listen to on all podcast apps, just search for “A is for Apple” and hit subscribe. If you’re not a podcasty person, here’s a Spotify inbed for you:
For my piece I interviewed Rachel Webster, Curator of Plants at Manchester Museum, and quickly following episode 1 was the uncut interview talking about berries, flowers and fruits – and comes with some gob-smacking facts! Listen here:
You can also follow the podcast on Substack for free: click this link to check it out. There are bonus recipes and other bits and bobs to be found there.
Next episode Alessandra is in the driving seat and she gave us a theme: Places. What places beginning with B would you choose!?
Merry Christmas everyone! It’s time for my annual Christmas boozy drink recipe, and this year I’m going with a classic Irish coffee. Many have been made and drunk in the Buttery household over the last couple of weeks: all in the name of research, you understand.
The Irish coffee was invented soon after the end of World War Two in 1945; transatlantic flights had just recommenced and there were flights from the US full of visiting dignitaries landing at Shannon airport. Chef Joe Sheridan was tasked with making a special drink for the travellers that was comforting and evocative of Ireland’s warm hospitality. He came up with a ‘Gaelic coffee’, a mixture of whiskey, brown sugar cubes, hot coffee and cream. It was a great success and was given to all travellers landing at Shannon Airport thereafter.[1]
In the 1950s, the drink, now called Irish coffee, was taken to the USA where it was made bigger and sweeter, and sugar syrup replaced sugar cubes.[2]
From a personal point of view, I have great memories of going to a lovely little Indian restaurant with my parents in Pudsey, West Yorkshire in my late teens. We always ended our meal with one of their delicious Irish coffees. It didn’t occur to any of us to ask why an Indian restaurant in Yorkshire was serving Irish coffee.
This recipe is based on the one provided by Matthew Roberston in the excellent Cocktail Bible.[3] (Robertson, 2018) It’s made extra special with the inclusion of a dash of coffee liqueur and a sweetening of vanilla syrup, though you could just use regular sugar syrup and miss out the liqueur. I think one shot of syrup is too much, though not everyone in the family agreed with me on that one, so add to taste.
Merry Christmas everyone!
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Per person:
1 ¾ shots Irish whiskey
2 shots espresso, or very strong coffee
½ shot coffee liqueur such as Kalua
½ to 1 shot vanilla or sugar syrup
2 good tablespoons of lightly whipped double cream
Warm all of the ingredients, except the cream, in a saucepan until they just begin to simmer—don’t boil it hard, as you’ll lose much of the alcohol!
Pour into a small glass such as a rocks glass and spoon over the floppily-whipped cream; as it melts it will form a delicious layer of cream.
Notes:
[1] MacMahon, J. (2024) An Irish Food Story: 100 Foods That Made Us. Nine Bean Rows; Wondrich, D. and Rothbaum, D. (eds) (2021) The Oxford Companion to Spirits and Cocktails. Oxford University Press.
It is very simple to enter: All you need to do is go to the foot of this post, “like” it and leave a comment declaring your favourite Christmastime dessert.
I will select one person at random on 2 December at 7pm GMT. That’s your deadline. Good luck!
If you like the blogs and podcast I produce and would to start a £3 monthly subscription, or would like to treat me to virtual coffee or pint: follow this link for more information.Thank you.
Hello there folks. A very quick post just to let you all know that I am giving two free talks this December.
The first is taking place at Manchester Central Library at 6pm on 5 December and is entitled The History of Pies & Puddings. Because it’s December I shall be looking at some festive examples but also a few other favourites. There will also be some of the library’s antiquarian cookery books to view as part of it. Book your spot here.
The second is a free Zoom talk on 17 December at 7pm (GMT) called The Philosophy of Puddings where I will look at the history of this very British food in the kitchen and in our culture. Will any of your favourites be mentioned?Book your spot here.
There are new events cropping up all of the time so make sure that you check the Upcoming Events tab regularly.
Looking forward to seeing some of you there!
If you like the blogs and podcast I produce and would to start a £3 monthly subscription, or would like to treat me to virtual coffee or pint: follow this link for more information.Thank you.
In my book Knead to Know: A History of Baking, I made sure that there was a full chapter focussing on griddlecakes: food baked on hearthstones, bakestones and iron griddles. Of course, when writing the chapter, I took much inspiration from Jane Grigson’s baking recipes in English Food. I was surprised by the great variety. These days the English barely think beyond the crêpe.
It’s been a while since I posted a recipe for a griddlecake, and I have had this one, for singin’ hinnies, waiting in the wings for a while. These little cakes are a rather forgotten speciality of Northumberland. I first made these for the Neil Cooks Grigson project in its very early days and I didn’t do a great job of interpreting Jane’s recipe.[1] I have improved greatly since then. The real prompt to get this recipe out there was my conversation with Sophie Grigson, Jane’s daughter, for a recent episode of The British Food History Podcast all about Jane’s work. The topic of singin’ hinnies cropped up because Jane’s entry for it in English Food is particularly evocative. Listen to the episode here:
These griddlecakes, enriched with lard and butter and sweetened only by dried fruit, were eaten by all, and were especially at children’s parties where tuppeny and thruppenny pieces were hidden inside.[2] These once ubiquitous cakes were, for many families, sadly the ‘substitutes for the birthday cake [they] could not afford.’ The word ‘hinnie’ is a dialect one for honey, a term of endearment, and the ‘singin’’ refers to the comforting sizzle of the butter and lard from the cooking griddlecakes, although Jane does point out that ‘the singin’ hinnies made less of a song for many people as they could not afford the full complement of butter and lard.’[3]
I have found other mentions of singin’ hinnies elsewhere but recipes and descriptions are very vague. I did find two nineteenth-century descriptions that really emphasised their importance at the dinner tables of miners – Northumberland being very much a colliery county. The job required very calorific food, so these griddlecakes served an important function. One stated that ‘miner’s food consisted of plum pudding, roast beef and “singing hinnies”.’[4] Another, written by J.G. Kohl, a German travel writer, informs us that ‘[the colliers] even have dishes and cakes of their own; and among these I was particularly told of their “singing hinnies”, a kind of cake that owes its epithet “singing” to the custom of serving it hissing hot upon the table…They are very buttery, and must never be absent on a holiday from the table of a genuine pitman.’[5]
Jane reckons they are the second-best British griddlecake; for her, Welsh cakes take the top spot.
If you like the blogs and podcast I produce and would to start a £3 monthly subscription, or would like to treat me to virtual coffee or pint: follow this link for more information.Thank you.
Recipe
I give you my interpretation of Jane’s recipe with more precise ingredients and method. I have found all other recipes to be either too vague in the amount of liquid that should be added, or, when specific, far too dry. I do hope you find this recipe clear; I know it must work because the hinnies sing loud and true as they cook on the griddle.
A proper singin’ hinnie should be made with equal amounts of butter and lard. If you are vegetarian, avoid using shortening such as Trex, instead go posh and use all butter.
Makes 24 to 28 griddlecakes
500 g plain flour, plus extra for rolling
1 tsp baking powder
¾ tsp salt
125 g lard, diced
125 g butter, diced
180 g dried mixed fruit
220-240 ml milk
Extra lard for frying
Extra butter for buttering the insides of the singin’ hinnies
Mix the flour, baking powder and salt in a bowl, then rub in the lard and butter until the mixture resembles breadcrumbs, then add the dried fruit and mix again.
Make a well in the centre, add most of the milk and mix to make a nice soft dough – it’s a good idea to use the old-fashioned method of combining everything using a cutting motion with a butter knife; that way you ensure the liquid is combined with the other ingredients without overworking the gluten in the flour. Add the remaining milk should there be any dry patches.
Lightly flour your worktop and knead the dough briefly so that it becomes nice and smooth. Let it rest as you get your bakestone, griddle or pan ready.
Place the bakestone on a medium heat and allow to get to a good heat; because there is no sugar in the mixture, the cakes don’t burn easily.
As you wait for it to heat up, roll the dough on a lightly floured surface to a thickness of around ¾ centimetre and cut out rounds. I used a 7-centimetre cutter, but 6- or 8-centimetre cutters will be fine. You might find it easier to cut them out if you dip your cutter in flour and tap away any excess. Reroll the pastry and cut out more.
Take a small piece of lard, quickly rub it over the surface of the bakestone and cook your first batch: mine took 5 to 6 minutes on each side to achieve a nice golden brown colour on the outside and a fluffy interior (I sacrificed one to check inside). Split each one with a knife and add a small pat of butter, close and keep them warm in the oven on a serving plate as you cook the rest.
Serve warm with your favourite toppings. I went with good old golden syrup (and an extra knob of butter).
We’re kicking off the new season with a 3-part special about Jane Grigson and her ground-breaking book English Food – the book that taught me how to cook, write and appreciate England’s diverse and delicious food legacy. You can read allabout that on the other – and original – blog Neil Cooks Grigson.
In the first episode, I speak to Grigson appreciators (and previous guests) Sam Bilton, Ivan Day and Annie Gray, and – new to the pod – publishing legend Jill Norman about the influence of the book, and where she sits in the study and promotion of English food history and traditions.
We talk about the unique way Jane’s book was published, Jane’s approach to research and writing, her attention to detail, her friendship with Elizabeth David, favourite recipes, her frustrations regarding low-quality shepherd’s pie and much more.
If you are not a podcast person, you can listen to the episode here:
If you are a £3 monthly subscriber, you can also hear the full interviews with Sam, Ivan, Annie and Jill – so much had be cut out to keep the episode to reasonable length.
If you like the blogs and podcast I produce and would to start a £3 monthly subscription, or would like to treat me to virtual coffee or pint: follow this link for more information.Thank you.
Next episode I’ll be talking with Jane’s daughter, Sophie – all very surreal.
There will also be episodes on the history of baking, Alexis Soyer, medieval ale, crisps and more!
If you’ve never listened to the podcast before (there are over 60 episodes now) you can find it on your favourite podcast app simply by searching “The British Food History Podcast”. Don’t forget to follow the podcast so that you don’t miss an episode.
I’m very excited to announce that my next book The Philosophy of Puddings with be published on 24 October 2024, published by the British Library – part of their excellent The Philosophy of… series.
The word ‘pudding’ is a confusing one if you are not from the British Isles because so many things can be a pudding: steamed sponge, Christmas pud, sticky toffee pudding, plus black and white pudding AND haggis. Add to this the fact that pudding can also be a byword for any dessert. Convoluted craziness.
I have tried to tackle the tricky etymology of the word before – puddings change and morph into so many different things across time that it’s pretty mind-boggling, and I’m so glad to have the opportunity to really study it in depth: a dream come true really. As far as I know there isn’t a book that tracks the word right through history, focussing not just on trends and fashions but also why puddings are so important in British identity.
To pique your curiosity: The contents page and a couple of the fantastic illustrations from the British Library’s collections
Here’s what the blurb says:
Just what is a pudding? We all have our favourites, whether it is a school-dinner jam roly-poly with custard, or a Yorkshire with onion gravy, a Burns’ Night haggis or the Christmas plum pudding. The humble pudding started out as a meat boiled in either animal intestine or in a cloth. With the advent of pudding bowls and moulds, the pudding assumed a myriad of identities. Neil Buttery traces the long history of pudding and its importance in British culture and language. He has tried and tested many recipes from across the centuries in his ‘Pud Club’ and shares his extensive knowledge and expertise.
The Philosophy of Puddings features stunning images and photographs from the Library’s collections.
I will present some of my research an online talk in December – the date is to be announced, so make sure you keep an eye out on social media or the ‘Upcoming Events’ page on the blog.
I have been thinking and reading about baked goods rather a lot this year, having written Knead to Know: A History of Baking (out 12 September, preorder here). One thing I mention in the book is the activity we in Britain no longer partake in: dipping little sponge cakes in sweet alcoholic drinks. The closest we get to this is when we soak them in booze for a trifle, but fewer and fewer of us are making traditional trifles these days, I’d say.[1] Cakes made especially for dipping are well known: financiers, madeleines, boudoir biscuits (which are actually dry cakes). We used to dunk cake in wine though, and even came up with one of our own (the ones listed above are all French in origin); the now rather passe Madeira cake. It’s dismissed as a rather dry, plain sponge cake,[2] and perhaps it is, but that’s because we are no longer consuming it in the way it was designed to be, as Jane Grigson tells us in English Food, ‘this cake was served with Madeira and other sweet wines in the nineteenth century.’[3]
Madeira is a sweet wine made on the island of the same name (sugar was made there in the early modern period[4]), and it was a popular export to Britain from the seventeenth century.[5] The first time recipes for cakes specifically made for dipping in wine pop up in handwritten manuscripts from the eighteenth century, and the first printed recipe for Madeira cake (according to Laura Mason and Catherine Brown) appears in Eliza Acton’s 1845 classic Modern Cookery for Private Families.[6]
To produce a cake that can be successfully dipped without breaking up, it must be made on the dry side compared to, say, a pound cake or Victoria sponge: more flour is used, and no extra liquid is added (there’s no dropping consistency here). Whilst searching the internet for recipes, I spotted that people commonly search for ‘moist Madeira cake’ recipes. Well there is no such thing, it isn’t supposed to be moist. Yes, there are recipes to be found on the internet for apparently moist Madeira cakes that include additional ground almonds, milk and/or a reduced amount of flour. Well, you can do that, of course – be my guest, it will be delicious I’m sure – but it will no longer be a Madeira cake.
Creating lift is very important when it comes to sponge cake-making, and in Eliza Acton’s recipe, it is achieved by whisking eggs and sugar until frothy, before folding in flour mixed with a little ‘carbonate of soda’, and then cold, melted butter.[7] We’d call this a genoise-style cake these days. Recipes today use the more familiar creaming method and more raising agent, but don’t be tempted to use self-raising flour – that would give the mixture too much of a boost; we’re aiming for small, densely packed, bubbles here, so a more restrained amount of baking powder is required.
The characteristic crack of a loaf-shaped Madeira cake is most pleasing, but only achieved because a dry mixture is used.
Older recipes ask for Madeira cake to be cooked in a round tin (or hoop), but I prefer baking mine in a 900 g (2 lb) loaf tin.[8] I like the characteristic crack you get that runs down the length of the baked cake. Very pleasing. When it comes to flavouring, just a little lemon zest is traditional. Some ask for a decoration of candied citron strips, but I don’t think it’s necessary.
This recipe is adapted from the one given by Jane Grigson in her classic tome English Food,[9] first published in 1974, making it 50 years old this year!
If you like the blogs and podcast I produce and would to start a £3 monthly subscription, or would like to treat me to virtual coffee or pint: follow this link for more information.Thank you.
175 g softened, salted butter
175 g caster sugar
275 g plain flour
1 level tsp baking powder
4 large eggs (or 4 medium eggs + 1 tbs milk)
Grated zest of a lemon
Preheat your oven to 160°C, then line a 900 g (2 lb) loaf tin with baking paper.
Beat the butter and sugar until light and fluffy with your beaters, a most important stage as it seeds lots of air bubbles in the batter, making for a lighter cake. Now crack the eggs into the mixture one at a time: put the beater on a medium speed, add your first one, and when fully combined, add the next. If the egg and butter mixture begins to curdle (and it probably will after egg number two), add a spoonful of flour and beat on a medium-high speed until incorporated fully, then continue until all of the eggs are used up.
Mix the flour and baking powder, and tip into the mixture along with the lemon zest. Stir on a slow speed until the mixture is smooth. If your beater’s slow speed isn’t that slow, it is better to mix in the flour by hand. If you used medium eggs, add the milk at this point and mix into the batter.
Spoon the mixture into the lined loaf tin and level off. Bake for 1 hour (though check after 50 minutes) until cooked through. Do the good old test of pressing the cake with a finger: if it springs back, it is ready. You can always skewer the cake with a wooden toothpick to see if it comes out clear of any uncooked batter.
When ready, cool in the tin on a wire rack. Best eaten within the first 24 hours of baking.
Notes
[1] In Britain, the only thing we’re dunking is our biscuits in our tea.
[3] Grigson, J. (1992). English Food (Third Edit). Penguin.
[4] This is covered in Buttery, N. (2022). A Dark History of Sugar. Pen and Sword History.
[5] Mason, L., & Brown, C. (1999). The Taste of Britain. Harper Press.
[6]Ibid. I searched too and could not find an earlier example.
[7] Acton, E. (1845). Modern Cookery For Private Families. Quadrille.
[8] Most recipes, even modern ones, describe loaf tins by the weight of bread dough they are designed to bake: 450g (1 lb) or 900g (2 lb). Exact dimensions vary, but in the case of a 900g (2lb) tin, the dimensions are around 21 cm long x 11 cm wide x 7 cm high.
I am very pleased to announce that I have a new book out next month. It’s called Knead to Know: A History of Baking, published by Icon Books and out in the shops on 12 September 2024.
Notice it’s A history, not THE history of baking. I’ve taken what I think are the most important parts, or thing I have found the most interesting with respect to the history of this huge sprawling subject. I’ve broken it up into five broad chapters: Griddlecakes & Pancakes; Biscuits & Cakes; Bread; Pies & Puddings; and Patisserie. Really, I could have written a whole chapter on each of these subjects!
It’s in a different format to my previous books in that the chapters are broken up into short pieces, the length of a blog post. This means that you can dip in and out of it like a coffee table book, or read it cover to cover.
It’s not a recipe book, but there are lots of baking tips and rules of thumb. Of course, recipes for many of the foods that crop up in the book you can find on this blog, and I’ll be adding more as the year goes on, so keep a look out.
It is available to preorder from your favourite bookseller.
There are several upcoming events: online and in-person talks, plus festival appearances, details of which can be found on the Upcoming Events tab of the blog.
I have to admit something: I have never made proper puff pastry. If a recipe calls for it, I buy some or make rough puff pastry instead, and I tell myself that I have neither the time nor the space to go ‘full-puff’. The truth, I think, is that I don’t have the inclination, otherwise I would have got around to it by now. Modern puff pastry is made by rolling out a rectangle of dough, then sitting atop it a square of butter, thoroughly beaten flat with a rolling pin. The dough is folded around the butter, the dough and butter are then rolled out, rotated 90 degrees, folded, then rested and chilled. This single ‘turn’ is repeated six more times to produce a laminated pastry dough containing 729 layers of butter.
Rough puff pastry, on the other hand, is not made with a single layer of folded butter, instead very cold diced or grated butter is used, a non-continuous layer of butter means that those great sheets of crispy pastry are not made, hence rough puff, or flaky, pastry. The process of making it is similar to puff, except there are fewer turns, though it still needs to be rested in the fridge between them. My method (see below) is much easier than this, however.
The differences and semantics break down if we hit the historical cookbooks because at one point all ‘puff pastes’ were what we would call ‘rough puff’ today. There are many stories and theories regarding who invented puff pastry and when, and they are either apocryphal or impossible to confirm. When it comes to British cookery books, the earliest example I can find is the late Tudor classic The Good Houswifes Jewel by Thomas Dawson (1596). Here, a dough made from flour, water, egg yolks and some rubbed-in butter, is rolled out, peppered with diced butter, folded and rolled. More butter is added after each turn. This basic method seems to remain the same for the next two-and-a-half centuries: Sarah Harrison (1751), Elizabeth Raffald (1769) and Eliza Acton (1845) all have puff pastry recipes just like it.[1] The first time I find a puff pastry recipe that uses a single layer of bashed-out butter is in Alexis Soyer’s classic A Shilling Cookery for the People (1855 edition).
Sarah Harrison’s 1751 recipe for Puff Paste: it would be considered rough puff today.
I admit that my search was not a comprehensive one, but I think it’s safe to say that in recipes older than c.1850 if puff pastry is asked for, what we should be making is a rough puff.
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Recipe
My recipe is based on a Jane Grigson’s for Quick, Foolproof Puff or Flaky Pastry, from her book English Food,[2] which is, in turn, adapted from a recipe by New York pastry chef Nicholas Malgieri. I’m not sure if it is foolproof, but it is by far the easiest method I know. The reason for this is that the cubes of very cold butter are mixed into the dough. As you roll and fold, you can see the cubes of butter eventually turn into large, flat discs within the dough. Very satisfying. Mixing the butter into the dough itself also means that the butter is evenly distributed and doesn’t end up leaching out of the sides.
I have given instructions to make this dough by hand, but you can use a machine. However, you must mix the ingredients very slowly and add liquid in a steady stream, so the lumps of butter don’t turn into breadcrumbs.
This type of rough puff pastry doesn’t need to be rested between rolling and folding unless it is very hot where you are, then you may need to pop it in the fridge for 15 minutes or so between turns.
This pastry only needs two ‘turns’ before it is ready for rolling and use, however, if you want a pastry that is just flaky, then do a third turn before rolling it out for use.
250 g strong white flour, plus extra for dusting
½ tsp salt
250 g very cold, unsalted butter, cut into 1 cm dice (approx.)
Juice of half a lemon
Water (see recipe)
Mix the flour and salt and add the butter, squashing the pieces between your thumb and forefinger, without rubbing them in or breaking them up.
Next, place a jug on a weighing scale add the juice from the lemon and then top up to a weight of 125 grams.
Stir in most of the liquid to form a ball of dough, using the remainder to pour on any dry-looking patches of flour.
Bring the dough together into a single mass and place on a well-floured worktop. It will look a right mess, but do not worry, it will neaten up in the rolling and folding stage.
Shape it into an approximate rectangle, then use a rolling pin to roll it into a large rectangle around 30 cm wide and 20 cm deep. Ensure you keep your work surface well-floured because the dough is quite sticky at first.
Now fold the sides into the centre of the rectangle and then fold it in half, so it looks a little like a book. Allow it to rest for 2 minutes.
Turn it 90 degrees clockwise and then roll it out again, roll it out thin enough to flatten the cubes of butter.
Fold up and roll out one more time, before wrapping in cling film and allowing it to rest in the fridge for 30 minutes, and roll out as required.
After the first turn the pastry looks a little untidyThe pads of flattened butter are obvious on the second rolling-outThe pastry is much neater and smoother after the second turn
Notes:
[1] i.e., Harrison, S. (1751) The House-keeper’s Pocket-book And Compleat Family Cook. 5th edn. R. Ware; Raffald, E. (1769) The Experienced English Housekeeper. First Edit. J. Harrop; Acton, E. (1845) Modern Cookery For Private Families. Quadrille.
[2] This is the third edition: Grigson, J. (1992) English Food. Third Edit. Penguin.
British Food: A History 