Popcorn With Panache

When I was asked by new popcorn company ‘Savoury and Sweet’ to sample their brilliantly named ‘Lord Poppington’ popcorn, I squealed with excitement. I was, however, also confused when I read the word ‘mushroom’ on their website. How, I asked myself, was it possible to make popcorn from mushrooms? Was this some new age superfood I had never heard of? How on earth would they get it to look like popcorn? Upon giving the website a second glance, however, it became very clear that my mushroom-to-popcorn hypotheses had quite clearly reaffirmed the ‘dumb blonde’ stereotype. The popcorn, you see, is made from mushroom kernels. A special type of corn, Frances, not actual bloody mushrooms you eejit. Nevertheless, my raging stupidity thankfully did nothing to undermine my excitement which, incidentally, had me proudly declaring to the postman, in a high pitched, over excited tone, complete with slight excited flapping of hands (ahem), that my popcorn had finally arrived. No wonder I’m still single…

I digress. Back to the focus of this post. Popcorn. The first thing that struck me about Lord Poppington was its packaging. Defying the old “don’t judge a book by its cover cliché”, I immediately engaged in said ‘judging’ by elevating the ‘class’ of this popcorn to somewhere between middle and upper, exclusively based on its aesthetically pleasing, bold and colourful packets displaying a suave silhouette of Lord Poppington himself in retro suit and top hat. Allergy information is clearly displayed, as is the remarkably low number of calories per packet (under 100 cal!) which, if you’re watching your waistline, assuages the guilt so often associated with snacks. If there was such a thing as designer packaging, Poppington’s is certainly more Prada than Primark.

Given the diversity that characterises individual tastes, I figured it would be a good idea to take my stash of popcorn into work. For those of you who don’t know, I am a primary school teacher and, whenever there is any snack in the staffroom, it is lucky to survive beyond lunchtime. In fact, so attracted are us education workers to snacks, the David Attenbourough-esque voice describing the ‘pack’ attacking it’s ‘prey’ in a matter of seconds is practically tangible everytime someone squeals that the biscuit tin contains Bourbons or someone has brought in cake. I was in no doubt,therefore,that my work friends would be the ideal taste testers and unfailingly honest reviewers.

However, was this popcorn a case of panache over pleasure? Was its enticing packaging indeed deceiving? Or, conversely, was it a reliable indicator of the tantalising treats that lay within? Here are our thoughts on Lord Poppington’s Lightly Salted, Salty and Sweet, Four Cheese and Chilli and Lime popcorn flavours.

Lightly Salted

The most traditional of the bunch, salted popcorn has long been a favourite of children and adults alike. Cinemas, with their “take out a second mortgage” popcorn buckets, continue make a hell of a lot of money from their salted variety and have done so for years. Popcorn, it seems, has never fallen off the snack catwalk. What I and others noticed about Lord Poppington’s classier (and I imagine infinitely more affordable!) version of salted popcorn, however, was that it contained significantly less salt than its cinema counterpart. For me, this was a welcome change, as I often come out of the flicks feeling like I have spent the last hour and a half licking a carpet due to the stroke inducing high levels of salt in the popcorn. However, for others with a penchant for stronger salt seasoning, it was only at the bottom of the bag that they received their much longed for salty ‘hit’. However, I did point out that Poppington’s popcorn is LIGHTLY salted, and the product therefore lives up to its name. In addition, Cornish sea salt is used to season Poppington’s light, slightly chewy kernels and, for me, any product which takes advantage of good quality, local produce will always give it that slight edge over its more commercial cousins.

Sweet and Salty

This delectable combination emerged as one of the favourites of my work friends. Despite being distinctly more sweet than salty, a ‘hint’ of savoury was noted by a number of tasters. As for me, I have never liked sweet popcorn; its sweetness being far too potent and most certainly lining the pockets of delighted dentists round the country. However, I found Lord Poppington’s version to be rather enjoyable, mostly because the sweet flavour was not overpowering and was most certainly undermined, (in a good way), by the salt, even though its flavour was perhaps not as distinct as it could be. For lovers of salted popcorn who would like to live on the wild side a little (ahem) and introduce their palates to the sweeter side of life, Lord Poppington’s ‘Sweet and Salty’ is an ideal starting point, but ‘Sweet with a Hint of Salt’ would be a more fitting description nonetheless.

Chilli and Lime

While supermarkets have been saturated with lime flavour tortilla chips, lime popcorn is most certainly a new concept here in Blighty where salted and sweet popcorn have retained their popularity crowns for years. While I can’t see cinemas jumping on the chilli and lime popcorn bandwagon anytime soon (though if I owned a cinema, I would proudly defy convention!), I can most certainly predict this classy snack taking pride of place on nibbles tables at dinner parties. Indeed, before I even tasted Poppington’s Chilli and Lime popcorn, I pictured myself swanning around with a frozen margharita and a handful of said snack, boring my friends with my incessant foodie chat about how popcorn flavours are a-changing. While the colour of this popcorn is a distinct chilli red, the lime flavour is definitely present, albeit subtle. As a lover of lime, I feel this could have been stronger, but I appreciate that striking the balance with eye wateringly acidic lime can be pretty tricky. Nevertheless, this is certainly a popcorn I’d be proud to serve as a lighter alternative to lime tortilla chips and it would most definitely be the perfect partner to a frozen margharita or two. Or three.

Chilli and Lime popcorn would go brilliantly with one of these bad boys…

Four Cheese

Now, I don’t have many phobias. I’m happy to pick up a spider and put it outside and have been up many a skyscraper. What breaks me out in a cold sweat, however, is anything covered in cheese powder. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good portion of fromage and like nothing more than a wedge of runny brie and a hunk of cheddar, but cheesy snacks are another story. Just the smell of Wotsits and cheesy tortilla chips is enough to send tidal waves of nausea coursing through my stomach and a few heart palpitations to boot. I was always the kid at the party who turned up her nose at Wotsits, wishing the birthday boy had opted for Ready Salted. Consequently, it was with trepidation that I tried Lord Poppington’s “Four Cheese” popcorn. What immediately struck me was the popcorn’s colour. Gone was the neon orange “highlighter pen” colour that so often defines savoury cheese snacks and, miraculously, my olfactory nerves were not assaulted upon engaging in the obligatory “sniff before tasting” test. Indeed, the cheese flavour was subtle, not what I would expect from a product described as ‘Four Cheese’.  However, my Wotsit and cheese Dorito loving friends immediately declared that the flavour just wasn’t strong enough. For a cheese snack phobic like myself, this was ideal, but I can appreciate that for those with palates more receptive to this popular savoury flavour, Lord Poppington needs to be more generous with his cheese seasoning.

The Verdict

Overall, it is fair to say that we enjoyed Lord Poppington’s popcorn, particularly the Salty and Sweet and Chilli and Lime flavours. The common consensus was that the Lightly Salted and Four Cheese flavours could do with more seasoning, though if you’re like me and have a penchant for delicately flavoured snacks, Lord Poppington is your man. In addition, Savoury and Sweet have also created popcorn with panache, which, in a market where snacks are becoming stylish, no doubt conforms to 21st century classy snacking trends. This alone is a reliable indicator for Lord Poppington’s future as a popcorn maestro.

Now all I need is a frozen margarita…*

*Typed at 9.37am. Oh dear.

Even Bad Crumble Tastes Good

When I hear the word pudding, I instantly think ‘British’. Despite our continental neighbours producing some rather enviable puddings – sharp Tarte aux Citron from France, smoky, rich and creamy Tiramisu from Italy and flaky, buttery strudel from Germany and Austria, to name but a few – nothing quite beats a good old rib sticking British pud. Our puddings may not have been christened with such, erm, elegant names as their European counterparts (Spotted Dick vs Crème Brulée anyone?), but if food could be hugs, British puddings would be hot contenders and would most certain blow many of their international rivals out the water on the comfort stakes.

No, I didn’t make this. It’s far too pretty, after all.

Indeed, sticky toffee pudding, custard, syrup sponge, Eton mess with thick, velvety cream – all of these exude unctuousness and conjure up images of sweet, homely delights which are simply begging to have a spoon plunged into them and be savoured slowly, with accompanying mmms and aaahs. Such puddings are cuddles on cold days; a heartwarming finale to a roast dinner and are underpinned by images of cosy houses, family and friends laughing round the table and full bellied grandparents retiring to the sofa caving into the post-pudding snooze.

Take crumble. Ah, crumble. Nothing beats sinking one’s spoon into this classic dish, revelling in breaking the buttery, sweet rubble on top to find hot, acidic fruit underneath. While many would argue that the juices breaking through the crumbly surface is a culinary disaster, particulary on the aesthetics front, I rather like the odd smattering of bubbling fruit juice on the top. Crumbles don’t care about being good looking. In fact, for me, an oversized dollop of crumble in an ill fitting bowl with vanilla ice cream threatening to melt all over it is infinitely more inviting than ‘posh’ crumble served in a circle formation so symmetrical it looks like it has been on the receiving end of a mathematician. Where’s the hug in that? Remarkably, even if crumble is slightly overcooked, gluey and messy, it still somehow manages to be enjoyable. As noted by Nigel Slater, “even bad crumble tastes good.”  I have to agree. With my wild hair and disregard for fashion’s latest trends, I think if I were a food, I’d most definitely be a homemade crumble (see the end of this post for my version of apple crumble; an oxymoron in its own right!).

One of my favourite puddings which us Brits have a love affair with is ice cream. Despite our ice cream conjuring up nostalgic images of the 1970s vanilla-strawberry-chocolate Neapolitan brick and the infamous Mr Whippy complete with stale flake – which, when compared to Italy’s pillowy, soft gelato hardly places Britain in a high position on the global ice cream stakes – it cannot be denied that we just can’t get enough ice cream. In all weathers, the ice cream van, complete with its traditional tinny tune, can be heard making its merry way down local streets, while supermarket freezers burst at the seams with an overwhelming array of choices and flavours, marking a seismic shift from the days when Arctic Roll and Vienetta were considered the bees knees of ice cream based desserts.

Nevertheless, while we are now undoubtedly spoiled for choice by ice creams incorporating all sorts of ingredients from mango to fairtrade chocolate chunks and those which  are, essentially, a pudding within a pudding (I, myself, have a penchant for strawberry cheesecake flavour!), British ice cream, it seems, is going back to its humble roots. And no, I’m not talking about the return of Arctic Roll with its fascinatingly thin layer of jam ‘drawn’ on with the precision of a surgeon. Indeed, what I have noticed, is the very welcoming comeback of ‘traditional’ ice cream flavours (most notably vanilla) which are made from British milk and cream and, unlike their 1970s distant relatives, are of exceptional quality. Green and Blacks do a rather good vanilla, for example, and it is pleasing to see some supermarket own brands championing British dairy produce. While I am more than happy to be labelled a British ice cream lover (Mr Whippy and I are on very positive terms and I have been known to enjoy the extremely artificial yet somehow pleasing “this has never seen a cocoa bean” chocolate section of a cheap Neapolitan tub), I do enjoy making my own versions of ice cream, using British double cream and free range egg yolks. My latest creation is raspberry ice cream. I have never really liked its strawberry counterpart (too sweet), but I enjoyed the raspberry version so much I even ate a little bit of it for breakfast. Yes, really. Minus the cone, however. That was reserved for lunch. So, while British puddings may lack elegance (unless on the receiving end of a professional chef, of course, who can manipulate a sticky toffee pudding into an aesthetically pleasing cuboid, see photo above)  there is something significantly reassuring knowing that serving highly asymmetrical dollops of crumble mingled with blobs of cream and custard, will result in wide eyed grins from kids and adults alike.

Because even messy puddings taste good, right?

Messy ‘Posh’ Apple Crumble

Serves 2-3 (2 greedy people)

For the ‘posh’ caramelised apple filling

• 250g of Braeburn apples, cut into chunks
• 25g butter
• 1 tbsp brown sugar
• 1 vanilla pod, seeds scraped out OR 1 tsp good quality vanilla extract

For the ‘messy’ crumble

• 65g plain flour
• 35g caster sugar
• 35g unsalted butter
• 1/4 tsp cinnamon
• 1 tsp brown sugar

1) Preheat the oven to 170C.

2) Start by preparing the fruit. Melt the 20g of butter in a pan over a low-medium heat.

3) Once the butter is melted, add the apples, vanilla seeds and brown sugar. Put in the now ‘empty’ vanilla pod to add flavour. Stir and turn the heat down.

4) While the apples are caramelising in the pan, prepare the crumble by combining the flour, caster sugar and butter in a bowl. Rub with your fingertips until the mixture resembles breadcrumbs. Then, stir in the cinnamon.

5) When the apples have caramelised (this should take about 6-7 minutes, or until the apples have started to go soft and have taken on a slight caramel colour), remove the vanilla pod.  Put the apples into the crumble dish.

6) Top the caramelised apples with the crumble mix and sprinkle with brown sugar.

7) Heat in the oven for 15-20 minutes.

8) Serve messily with cream, vanilla ice cream or thick Greek yoghurt.

My Big Fat Ode to Burgers

In a world of Michelin starred restaurants, molecular gastronomy à la Heston and increasing incidences of French vocabulary on menus (let’s face it, ‘jus’ has a certain elegance about it which ‘gravy’, erm, lacks slightly…), one of my favourite meals to eat involves no knife and fork. It defies social etiquette. The bigger and fatter the better. It can be cooked horrendously badly and resemble the texture of a shoe sole, or it can be cooked beautifully using such high quality ingredients, it melts in your mouth from the first bite. Indeed, at the risk of sounding juvenile, a burger is one of my favourite meals in the whole wide world.

Burger. Bun. Tomato. Lettuce. Done. (Thanks Giraffe!)

Nothing beats that first bite into tender meat, preferably cooked medium or medium rare for a beefburger, while its various condiments spill down the side of the bun, undermining all notions of polite eating and creating a rather spectacular yet deliciously satisfying mess. I know I’m not the only one out there who enjoys the rather aesthetically displeasing yet beautifully tangy mélange of mustard and ketchup, and I know I’m not the only one to discover a rogue blob of said sauces on my face two hours after the last bite. Unfortunately, in my case, this often happens after taking some form of public transport or when I’m with someone who is too polite/too unobservant to say anything. Nevertheless, for me, a good burger is just so damn, well, good, that the “oh lordy she has ketchup on her FACE and doesn’t ACTUALLY realise” situation is worth each and every disapproving stare.

In your own home, however, sauce on your face and perhaps in your hair doesn’t matter a jot. Indeed what matters, is the cooking. Like most cooking, the key to a successful burger lies in its seasoning, which can be tricky to get correct. Too much and the flavour of the burger is overpowered, while too little leaves a burger that screams bland and ultimately, boring. I know I’m not the only one who has bitten into a disappointing burger and felt my heart sink just a little bit. So, in my attempts to create burgers that are heart stoppers (not literally, of course, I’ll leave that to the ‘Heart Attack Grill’ in Las Vegas) and not heart sinkers, I decided to indulge in a little bit of burger experimenting. I was never much of a scientist at school, but then again, experimenting with burgers and the seasoning of burger patties was not part of the National Curriculum. Mind you, neither was cake eating. Or restaurant going. If I were prime minister…

It was during this experimentation process that I managed to come up with two winning burgers, the first of which defies the old “moment on the lips, lifetime on the hips” adage. My Thai Turkey Burger with Coriander and Lime combines classic Thai flavour combinations and, thankfully, defies the perception of turkey burgers as dodgy school dinner fare which ought to be consigned to history with its cousin the Turkey Twizzler. In fact, so pleased was I with this burger, at the risk of sounding like a boastful burger diva (what an accolade), notes of the ‘Hallelujah (I’ve cooked a successful burger) chorus’   interspersed with adolescent “OMGs” (apologies to you Handel purists out there) were practically tangible when I was eating it.

Thai Turkey Burgers with Coriander and Lime (Serves 4)

• 500g turkey mince
• 50g Thai green curry paste (shop bought or homemade)
• Juice of half a lime
• 2 tbsp Matzo meal*
• Pinch of sea salt
• A generous handful of coriander, chopped
• 4 good quality burger buns
• Toppings and condiments (e.g. rocket leaves, sauteed spring onions, and, despite its association with Indian food, mango chutney goes well with these burgers as the sweetness of it provides a good contrast to the sharpness of the lime. For the less sweet toothed among you, replace this with a more acidic mango pickle)
• Lime wedges to serve

* Matzo meal are crackers that are ground very finely to resemble breadcrumbs. They are often used in Jewish cooking and I like using them as a binding agent as they don’t spoil the flavour or texture of burgers but are very effective in preventing them from collapsing during cooking. Thankfully they are not hard to find – I bought mine in my local Sainsburys.

Method

Combine all the ingredients in a bowl and mix carefully

Shape into 4 patties, put on a plate and cover with clingfilm. Put the burgers into the fridge for at least an hour.

Turn on the grill to a medium heat. Grill the burgers on each side (approx 6-7) minutes per side, or until the burgers feel firm and the juices run clear.

Serve in burger buns spread with chosen condiment (e.g. mango chutney), salad leaves and lime wedges.

And, if you’re feeling naughty, serve with chips

 

Of course, it would be a foodie sin to blog about burgers and fail to pay homage to the humble beefburger. Like Nigel Slater, I am a fan of the “less is more” approach when it comes to beefburgers. Often accused of being a burger bore, nine times out of ten I opt for the ‘classic’ burger which comes with nothing more than lettuce, tomato and onions (preferably caramelised). That way, I feel the flavour of the burger can be closely scrutinised. Of course, I’m not saying that the addition of cheese to a burger is a sacrilege and/or crime against the art of burger making, but I’m a girl of simple tastes. If there were ever a ‘Plain Jane’ of burger lovers, little burger munching moi would fit the bill (bloody hell, don’t I know how to make myself sound attractive…). So, here’s my version of a burger that is low on fuss but strives to be high on flavour (just make sure you buy the best quality beef you can afford).

Plain Jane Burger with Caramelised Onions (Serves 4)

• 500g good quality minced beef, or, even better, ground chuck steak
• 2-3 tbsp Matzo meal
• A generous pinch of sea salt
• Freshly ground black pepper
• 4 good quality burger buns
• Toppings and condiments (e.g. lettuce, tomato, mustard, ketchup)

For the caramelised onions:

• 2 large onions, chopped into slices
• 1 tbsp brown sugar (when cooked slowly, onions release their natural sugars so you don’t need a lot of sugar in order for them to caramelise)
• Pinch of salt
• A glug of olive oil

For the burgers

Combine all ingredients in a bowl .

Shape into patties and put in the fridge for at least an hour.

Grill under a medium to high heat (roughly 3-4 minutes each side for medium. Give your burgers a little longer if you like the meat well done)

Serve in buns with the caramelised onions (below) and chosen condiments.

For the caramelised onions

Put the olive oil in a pan over a medium heat. Once hot, turn the heat down and add the onions and salt. Cook slowly for 15-20 minutes, stirring occasionally.

When the onions are softened, add the sugar and cook the onions for a further 5-10 minutes, stirring occasionally til sticky. Taste and, if you like your onions particularly sweet, add a bit more sugar if needed. If the onions begin to dry out during cooking, add a little splash of water.

When ready, serve on top of the burgers.

.

So, while burgers will never win a beauty contest, I love the fact that what you see is what you get. No facades, no fuss, no fakery. Indeed, what you will hopefully get is that feeling of contentment that a big, fat honest burger, defined by its simplicity, achieves so effortlessly.

Oh, and if you’re anything like me, a little bit of ketchup on your face

From Custard Creams to Custard ‘Leans’…

In a world of Atkins, Dukan, Weight Watchers, Lighter Life and liposuction, there is one food that continues to openly defy the diet gurus and cosmetic surgeons. Biscuits. Here in Blighty, we may be lining the pockets of CEOs of slimming clubs, but underneath our healthy facades, we are, without doubt, a population of biscuit lovers.  Being a teacher, I can vouch for this biscuit love Monday to Friday as, seeking our ‘prey’ in the form of biccies at break time, our hands dive into the tin craving a post maths lesson sugar rush. Indeed, so desperate are many of us to get to the biscuits, a David Attenbourough-esque voice would be most fitting – “today, it is clear that the most popular species with the pack are the Bourbons, though it appears that, in a moment of solidarity, the last Bourbon is split in half by the two on the left, waiting patiently with cups of tea.”  Indeed, from the humble Digestive to posh nosh biccies containing organic extracts of vanilla (sourced in Madagascar, naturally), the biscuit tin is not only a staffroom institution, but a British institution.

For many, the biscuit tin is more than the sum of its parts. It is something which, when life isn’t going so well, brings people together; a sort of sweet analgesic which, when accompanied by a hug and kind words, makes the world a slightly better place. It it something that results in cheeky grins from kids, whose little hands dive eagerly into the tin, subsequently leaving a trail of crumbs five minutes later; hard evidence of the utter pleasure derived from this universally loved confection. The biscuit tin is also ubiquitous in its presence, featuring in millions of homes, staff rooms, offices, building sites and workplaces who frequently delve into the biscuit tin for elevenses, anticipating the contents within. Will there be Bourbons? Custard Creams? A handful of fiery Ginger Nuts? Or perhaps a cheeky, E number riddled Party Ring which, despite its artificial tendencies, is laden with nostalgia which somehow makes it strangely satisfying.

Given the vast array of biscuits available to us on supermarket shelves, it is no easy task choosing a favourite one. Having conducted some ‘research’ via Facebook, the following biscuits came up trumps:

• Malted Milks. Interestingly, my heart sinks a little when I tentatively take the lid off the biscuit tin to reveal Malted Milks within. For me, they are just a bit too plain, though they are superior on the dunkability stakes. Unfortunately, they also take me back to my days as a hospital cleaner when I regularly found half chewed Malted Milks sitting out on tables beside dusty sets of false teeth.
• Bourbons. Despite not actually containing any real chocolate and tasting ever so slightly stale, Bourbons are paradoxically delicious. A biscuit tin isn’t a biscuit tin without Bourbons.
• Chocolate Hob Nobs and Digestives. Undoubtedly the crème de la crème of down to earth indulgence biscuits, there is something deeply satisfying about biting into one of these, your palate teased by the combination of textures created by the crumbly biscuit and coating of velvety chocolate which, when dunked, turns into that a sort of chocolate-y liquid velvet on an oat-y, crumbly rubble. If there were such a thing as biscuit Utopia, these biscuits would be hot contenders for the throne.
• Ginger Nuts. Hot and fiery, these potential denture and crown wreckers may be small but pack a mighty punch. Combined with melted butter, they also make a fabulous alternative cheesecake base.
• Custard Creams. A bit like a creme egg, the custard cream poses the universally known “how do you eat yours?” question. Some, in the style of a python, eat it whole, while other choose to nibble tentatively, savouring the sweet, milky filling and its surrounding golden biscuit. I, however, go for the method of consumption that defies social etiquette and has the potential to scare off a first date. Lets just say it involves precise removal (and eating) of the top of the biscuit followed by licking. And I know I’m not the only one who does it, by the way.
• Fig Rolls I have never tried these (and I call myself a foodie, the cheek!). However, upon Googling (because I’m sad like that), it appears to have the appearance of a cake and not a biscuit, giving rise to ye olde ‘is it a cake or a biscuit?’ VAT debate. Now that’s my kind of politics…
• Dunkables. Hob Nobs, Digestives and Rich Teas – occasionally avoided by the extremely sweet toothed among us due to their perceived ‘plainness’, but which reign superior in terms of dunkability. Of course, the art of dunking is alarmingly precarious and one must be careful not to over dunk. After all, we all have our anecdotal tales of losing half a biscuit in our tea, resulting in an aesthetically displeasing, not to mention slightly palate curdling, brew. Indeed, a PG tips and mushy Rich Tea hybrid does not one’s satisfying cuppa make.

The custard buttercream filling

What is overwhelmingly clear, however, is our unmitigated love for the humble biccie. Consequently, in celebration of the Great British biscuit, I decided to make a homemade version of custard creams, inspired by a recipe I came across in Jamie magazine. Apart from sending a tornado of edible dust (icing sugar) across every nook and cranny of my kitchen, I had a jolly good time making these.

And the verdict? Well, as you can see, they don’t look like custard creams. My excuse? I don’t own a rectangular biscuit cutter and, given that I have the manual dexterity of an elephant, cutting out perfect and evenly sized little rectangles was about as likely as Michel Roux offering to cook me dinner. Sigh. Indeed, such is my alarming lack of precision, my wonky biscuits are more custard ‘leans’ than custard ‘creams’. Aesthetically pleasing? Non. In addition, they do not taste like their shop bought counterparts but then again, home baking is meant to taste of home, not the corner shop. The winning part of my custard leans, however, is the buttercream, which, featuring the addition of custard powder, is a delight. Indeed, there is something deliciously satisfying about taking that first bite and immediately getting a generous mouthful of this thick, sweet and creamy filling, secretly hoping it will spill over the edges of its crumbly, buttery outer shell.

Nevertheless, while I adore home baking, I have realised that there is something comforting about the conventional biscuit tin with its collection of perfectly sized, shaped and ready-for-dunking delights. So, from Monday to Friday, my hand will continue to dive into the staffroom biscuits, ready to dunk my chosen confection into my coffee while I revel in the ‘Great’ of the Great British biscuit.

After all, Mr McVitie didn’t invent the Custard Lean, did he?

Balcony Bliss and Holiday Houmous

Sun, sea and sand – the 3 Ss that one conventionally wishes for when leaving drizzly Blighty with a pale complexion and increasingly pronounced eye bags – undoubtedly encompass many people’s archetypal wishlist when embarking on a holiday in the sun. And who can blame us Brits for craving a slice of holiday brochure cliché? While I, myself, am partial to the 3 Ss like any normal person – often likening the first blast of heat one gets when stepping off the plane to a hug – for me, an integral part to a successful holiday is not so much returning with a tan to rival a member of the St Tropez club, but returning with a belly full of decent grub. Sun vs cinnamon bun? No contest.

It is no surprise, therefore, that my holiday food starts at the airport. And I ain’t talking about a packet sandwich held together with claggy, industrial mayonnaise. As soon as I get to the airport, my first interest lies not in which gate my flight will depart from, but where I’m going to eat. Indeed, getting stopped at security for forgetting to put my mascara in the liquids bag is not an inconvenience because I object to getting my bag searched and end up feeling embarrassed at security’s discovery of an old, dusty mint in the abyss that is my hand luggage. It is an inconvenience because it means less airport eating time and therefore greater potential for resorting to above processed sandwich and subsequent chronic indigestion. This time, I opted for tried and tested pancakes chez Giraffe:

Chicken in a "I think it's curry" sauce. Help.

Of course, airport food is guilty of being rather generic and is designed to be cooked and eaten in a hurry so is hardly ground breaking in terms of foodie discoveries. However, it is infinitely better than universally awful airline food. Sigh. I mean, even Heston couldn’t successfully undermine the negative connotations associated with the universal “chicken or beef?” main courses presented to subsequently nauseous passengers closely eye-ing up the sick bags as that well known “plane food” smell permeates the cabin. I, myself, am just about recovered from sampling the above ‘specimen’.

As some of you may know, I am the lucky recipient of a biannual trip to Dubai where my parents live. The 3 Ss are, of course, prevalent in Dubai all year round, but what ‘makes’ every trip for me is not lying on a beach attempting to get a tan that would rival Ross’ in Friends (Miss Hawaiian Tropic I am not), but catching up with my parents and escaping my Monday to Friday 2-Weetabix-and-half- a-chopped-banana-rammed-down-my-throat-in-5-minutes routine. For me, a key food luxury of my trips to Dubai, especially this time round, is eating al fresco. At the risk of sounding nauseatingly romantic and perhaps rather twee, there is something deliciously satisfying about eating outside, safely enveloped in the comforting warmth and listening to the birds tweeting whilst sinking my teeth into pools of salty butter and sweet jam on toast for breakfast, deliciously decadent cupcakes for afternoon tea and, best of all, home cooked food for dinner.

Breakfast on the Balcony. Sure beats breakfast with the Barlows...

However, one of the highlights of being on holiday in Dubai is being able to indulge in Middle Eastern food. While many Western homes have pizza, Chinese and Indian takeaways on speed dial, I can’t help but feel that the cuisine of the Middle East remains a very ‘foreign’ and subsequently neglected entity to western palates. This is not because we lack adventurous taste, but because the only thing vaguely (and extremely badly) resembling such cuisine here in the UK is the infamous donor kebab, most often eaten at 3am after copious vodkas. With the exception of the wide availability of houmous and perhaps a handful of Middle Eastern influenced restaurants found in big cities like London, Middle Eastern food remains something of a mystery. I, for one, would not know where to start if I fancied a portion of fattoush with a side order of moutabel. Heck, til this most recent trip to Dubai, fattoush and moutabel could have been the Middle Eastern altar egos of the Kardashians for all I knew. Thankfully, they are not attention seeking celebrities, but a ridiculously good salad and smokey aubergine dip which were part of a meal in a modest, roadside Lebanese restaurant called Al Safadi; a little flavour haven whose food epitomises culinary ecstasy. In true Taylor style, the waiter was pushed for space on his ordering notepad, stating the usual “you’re hungry” when running out of space after dish number six. Yes, we were hungry. And I was there. You know Joey Tribbiani doesn’t share food? Frances Taylor doesn’t waste food.

What I love about Middle Eastern food is the variety of flavours it encompasses and this meal was no exception. Clean, refreshing tabbouleh provided a stark contrast to the smokiness of the thick, velvety moutabel while the acidity of calamari rings drenched in lemon and the sweetness of the fattoush complimented each other beautifully. Salty, grilled halloumi, so tasty my heart still races with excitement just thinking about it (no, I’m not ashamed!), was eaten ravenously while delicately spiced chicken and lamb schwarma made the perfect ‘sandwich’ when eaten with Arabic bread and houmous. No premature bread removal here like so many restaurants nowadays – our bread basket was refilled quickly, each slice used as a ‘mop’ to scoop and soak up the array of delights on our table.

As they say in Aberdeen, that was 'affa fine'!

On the receiving end of this edible cutlery was Al Safadi’s stupendous houmous (pardon the rather OTT adjectives, but I can’t help but give in to such hyperbolic tendencies which come from eating great food). Ah, the houmous, a dip underpinned by its simplicity and its beautiful texture and earthy flavour; a definite contender for the imaginary “if you were stranded on a desert island….” item list. Never in my 26 years have I tasted such good houmous, resulting in an air of ‘houmous snobbery’ about my person. This seems to manifest itself largely when faced with the shop bought variety, not because it tastes bad, but because I have failed to find houmous which replicates the feelings of utter joy and excitement created by that of Al Safadi’s. God I’m a saddo.

Consequently, I have decided to experiment and come up with my own version which I’m going to call ‘Hopeful Houmous’ in the hope that it tastes better than its shop bought counterpart. Glass half full and all that…

Hopeful Houmous

• 400g tin chickpeas
• 3 tbsp olive oil
• Juice of 1 lemon (start with 1/2 a lemon if you’re not a citrus fan)
• 1 fat garlic clove, crushed (I used a garlic press)
• 1 heaped tsp tahini
• Pinch of sea salt

1) Drain the chickpeas in a sieve or a colander, reserving approximately 1/4 of a tin’s worth of the chickpea water. Rinse the drained chickpeas under cold running water and transfer to a food processor or blender.

2) Add the olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, tahini and salt. Blend.

3) Taste! Add more lemon juice, tahini or salt to suit your tastes. If the mixture looks dry or grainy, add the reserved water from the chickpea tin.

4) If desired, drizzle with olive oil and decorate with a few whole chickpeas. Serve with your chosen accompaniment (carrot and cucumber sticks, pitta bread, falafel etc).

The question is, was my houmous hopeful or hopeless? Well, it wasn’t as good as Al Safadi’s, but then again I really wasn’t expecting it to be. However, it was much nicer than the shop bought variety and, as I expected, the balance of flavours in homemade houmous is very much to do with one’s personal preference – some may add more tahini for a nuttier flavour, while I was more generous with the lemon juice.

So, while the holiday houmous continues to reign supreme in the houmous stakes, my own version is a more than ok alternative. Now, where and when in the UK can I enjoy this on a balcony? Hmm…

Herman the German

Easygoing. Low maintenance. Fairly laid back. Tasty. German in origin. Goes by the name of Herman. Sounds like a good guy, right? Wrong. Herman, you see, is not on the receiving end of clicks from single gals on match.com, nor is he propped up against a bar mit bier und bratwurst trying to pick up the ladies with his suave charm and German accent. Herman, my friends, is a cake. A sourdough cake to be exact. While even I am  not weird enough to think of Herman as a catalyst in escaping the claws of singledom (even I don’t like cake that much), I will avoid using the impersonal pronoun “it” in this blog post and, instead, will refer to Herman as “he”. Before you cringe in horror, your mind overwhelmed by terrifying future images of me as a spinster in her sixties surrounded by a ‘family’ of named cakes and cackling insanely in an armchair with a smattering of cake crumbs on my chin, fear not. Herman is commonly referred to as “he” by many others and not just me, perhaps because he does indeed have a name. Herman the German. It’s got quite a ring to it, n’est-ce pas?

Herman is also unique. Herman, you see, is a friendship cake. While I believe that all cake brings friends together, Herman, in his precooking stages, is split into 4 mini Hermans, 3 of which are passed onto friends. Big Herman is then cooked, while mini Hermans need looking after for ten days in three cake loving households which, at the end of this time period, will then pass on their very own 3 mini Hermans while their very own mummy Herman transforms into a real cake. And so the cycle continues. Phew.

Herman, Day 1

I got my Herman on a day when I was feeling under the weather, a day which had resulted in me spending much of the day in my dressing gown torturing my brain cells watching daytime tv, much of which seems to involve analysing tabloid gossip and the results of DNA tests. The arrival of Herman, therefore, was a welcoming ‘break’ from finding out whether the bloke from the corner shop really was the father, despite vehement denials from the mother. I digress. As soon as I got Herman, I transferred him into a large mixing bowl covered with a teatowel, as, worryingly, Herman risks death if he is left in a container with a lid. Yes, that’s right, death. If Herman is not looked after properly for ten days, he WILL die. Eek.

Thou must look after one's cake...

This sentence alone proved to be rather menacing, given my past history. Indeed, plants fear crossing the threshold into my flat, as they know their lifespan is going to be cut short. Flowers desperately cling onto life; their shriveled, wilted petals screaming blue murder for the lack of care imparted by yours truly There was a reason I never had hamsters or gerbils as a child, although I did, at the tender age of 11, have a Tamagotchi which lived for a record breaking twenty two days. Surely this achievement, circa 1997, was relevant? Furthermore, Herman is a cake and we all know I love a good gateau. Surely even I couldn’t kill a cake?

Despite needing a week and a half of care, Herman proved to be surprisingly low maintenance. Most days, he required nothing more than a thorough stir and on days 4 and 10, I was instructed to “feed” Herman with sugar, flour and milk. Job done. The secret to a good Herman is to keep him bubbling. No bubbles equates to sending Herman to the place for failed cakes in the sky. Thankfully, Herman seemed to thrive in my kitchen. In fact some days, Herman was so huge, I feared he would take over my small flat. Thankfully, when beaten into submission with a wooden spoon, Herman reduced in size, but I was continually struck by the effects of the yeast which saw Herman undergo a radical metamorphosis from baby to beast in only a few days.

The Bubbling Beast

No Prizes in the Looks Department

As a cake batter, Herman was not blessed in the looks department. Beige and bubbly, he looked like something which wouldn’t go amiss in a witches’ cauldron permeated by evil cackles. Furthermore, far from the sweet smelling, velvety cake batter kids and adults love to indulge in before washing up the mixing bowl, Herman was an assault on the senses. Far from the pleasurable olfactory experience one so often associates with baking, Herman, in his raw state, did NOT have the Lynx effect. Herman smelled of yeast, yeast and more yeast, coupled with a hint of hops; that tongue curling taste you always get at the end of sipping a beer. I realize that some of you will be slightly horrified at my aversion to said taste (after all, I was the only one at the top of the Guinness factory in Dublin squirming at my free pint wishing that Guinness had branched out into prosecco), but then seeing me with a yeasty, hops infused beer is as likely as Jeremy Clarkson owning and driving a Smart Car. Would I, therefore, like my Herman?

Starting to look a bit more attractive...

On day 10, having dutifully split Herman into 4 and revelling in the fact that I had not murdered him, I added all the ingredients specified by the final recipe (for my dried fruit I chose sultanas and cranberries as they were all that I had in the house). Stirring Herman in his final stages is no mean feat. At one point I could feel sweat forming on my brow and I am convinced that my right bicep is now at least half a centimetre bigger than my left. That’s right ladies, Herman is huge. In fact, so enormous was Herman, I had to put him in a traybake tin to accommodate his gargantuan proportions. An hour or so later, Herman had undergone a radical makeover. No longer a pile of bubbling, yeasty, malodorous slop, Herman now sported the bronzed look, complete with golden crumb. While I most certainly wasn’t disappointed by the taste, he wasn’t quite up there with some other cakes that I have made, but he was by no means consigned to the bin or the birds. In fact, some of Herman is currently residing in my freezer, ready to defrost on days characterised by lethargy when only coffee and cake will do. My friend’s one, in my opinion, tasted better than mine, perhaps due to the addition of a Bramley apple which I was too lazy to go out and buy. Should I make Herman again, I will definitely include an apple in the final stages.

So, would I give Herman a home for 10 days again? Absolutely. He doesn’t talk back, is the epitome of low maintenance and, most importantly, satisfies one’s (cake) urges. Oh, and he’s continental European.

What’s not to like?

Soft Peaks and Rosy Cheeks

Sad Spatula. My Finest Piece of Modern Art.

Until about eight months ago, my kitchen was sadly devoid of gadgets and decent kitchenware. In fact, it was positively weeping with kitchen gadget shame. My knives were blunt. My wooden spoons looked like relics found on an archaeological site; a form of cookware which wouldn’t go amiss in the hands of Fred Flintstone. My plastic spatula was still suffering from the permanent aftereffects of my cooking dunce moment when I dipped it in very hot, melted chocolate, giving it the appearance of an abstract ‘modern art’ piece you’d find in the Tate. My toaster often produced blackened (a toasted/burnt hybrid) bread, even on its lowest setting. And my pans. Well, let’s just say fried eggs came out seasoned with a salt, pepper and a hint of pan.

Just writing this makes my inner foodie gasp in horror. What was I thinking? I was too busy. Too much to do. Decent cookware and gadgets, unlike a certain brand of shampoo, weren‘t “worth it”, right? Wrong. At the tender age of 25, the time had come to snap out of my student days of blunt knives and health and safety defying equipment. The time had come, my friends, to delve into the exciting world of kitchen gadgets. Compact disc? Nah. Gimme a whisk (an electric one, mind. The circumference of my wrist rivals that of a peanut).

The Joy of Decent Knives!

But what about a decent knife? Non stick pans? A spatula that doesn’t look like it had been on the receiving end of a wacky modern artist? A wooden spoon carrying a reduced risk of splinters? Fear not, those essentials were dutifully purchased, but what excited me most was worrying my local bank manager over my purchase of ‘essential’ (ahem) kitchen gadgets. For me, in addition to the welcoming sight of home cooks, rosy cheeked from the pleasure of the alchemy of cooking in their own kitchen, kitchen tools are a key catalyst in making a kitchen come ‘alive’. A whirring food processor, the churn of an ice cream maker, the buzz of a blender, the roar of an electric whisk, the hiss of a wok; all create a cacophony of sounds which may not always be harmonious, but which, in addition to the manual dexterity required in cooking, suggest that the home kitchen has a pulse. A strong one. It is of little surprise, therefore, that using kitchenware raises smiles from little ones and excites foodies in a way that iPads excite technobuffs. The kitchen gadget, you see, can sometimes be the Apple of a home cook’s eye. Having conducted a bit of research with friends, it seems that many items of kitchenware are imbued with a smattering of love for a number of reasons:

• Blender/electric chopper – these epitomise versatility and put the essential finishing touches to soups, smoothies and curry pastes. I, however, am a liability round a hand blender and have been known to decorate both myself and my kitchen with splatters of soup. Butternut squash in one’s eyebrows is not a good look.
• Measuring spoons and scales - preventing sunken cakes for years.
• Cutters – the lesser known apple cutter has been described as ‘quick’, ‘easy’ and ‘satisfying’, a description which has persuaded me to Google it (current affairs can wait). In addition to this, the user friendly pizza cutter was mentioned, not just exclusively for the family Margerita, but also for cheese on toast, naan breads and even crumpets. Crumpets! Who knew?!
• Fondue set – a centrepiece for the table which is not only home to an inviting abyss of warm, melted goodness, but which also so effectively brings people together; a sort of focal point for conversation and laughter which so nicely permeate the house during social gatherings.
• Slow cooker - “bung everything in and leave it for the day”. ‘Nuff said.
• Cast Iron Casserole Pans – versatile and home to many a melt in the mouth dish which emanates the scents and tastes of home. They are also aesthetically pleasing, especially those made by a well known company mentioned on wedding lists across the nation.
• Potato Ricer – consigning lumpy mash to history. And school dinners.
• Microwave – often perceived as the evil driving force behind meals in a box, yet I can’t help but feel that this reputation is a little harsh. I can reassure you that after a twelve hour working day, re-heating last night’s Thai Green Curry in three minutes brings happy tears to one’s tired eyes.
• Meat Thermometer – eliminating the need for steak and shoe sole comparisons.
• Pasta Maker - having never made fresh pasta, I can’t comment personally on this one but I wholeheartedly agree that it would be great fun and “feel like an accomplishment” making my own linguine. I do, however, think that if I did buy one I would use it once then it would end up home to a thriving colony of dust particles. Unless I ended up writing about food to make a living…#agirlcandream.

Like my friends, I am lucky enough to have experienced many of these kitchen treasures. However, one of my own personal favourites, whilst arguably perceived as non essential by some, is my forty quid ice cream maker. Until eight months ago, I had never made ice cream. In fact, the last ice cream I had eaten before ever attempting homemade was a Mr Whippy garnished with mandatory stale chocolate flake and sprinkled with the highest quality E numbers. Something had to change. Thankfully, I was granted my wish on a cooking holiday at Cook in France where I learned that homemade ice cream was not as terrifying as I had previously thought. After mastering the art of vigorous whisking and gauging the correct level of sweetness, my confidence grew, albeit whist quivering slightly at the mandatory speedy transition of boiling cream to egg yolks. Thankfully, ice cream failures have been few and far between back in Blighty where I have enjoyed making a variety of flavours, including vanilla, salted caramel and dark chocolate.  Indeed, nothing beats the texture of homemade ice cream churned in an ice cream maker which so effortlessly transforms a custard base into a thick, velvety, sweet gelato that coats the tongue and the back of the throat; a sort of dessert ‘Shangri-La’ which teases even the fussiest of palates. You see, homemade ice cream may not warm you from within, but will most certainly leave you rosy-cheeked with pride.

Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream With Stewed Apples.

Another kitchen invention I love, despite its simplicity, is the electric whisk. With my electric whisk, I have transformed butter and icing sugar into rich, fluffy buttercream; a sweet, more-ish adhesive between two airy sponge cakes. I have obliterated lumps from cupcake batter, ensuring a smooth mixture worthy of licking the bowl. Furthermore, I have whisked egg whites to soft peaks creating mellifluous, shiny clouds in the mixing bowl ready to turn into chewy meringues or a feathery light sponge. What I love most, however, about the electric whisk is that its usage is characterised by effortlessness, which, with circumferentially challenged wrists like mine, is a little slice of cooking luxury.

En Route to Soft Peaks

From Soft Peaks to a Feathery Light Sponge

Of course, kitchen gadgets are not, and will never be, a replacement for the intrinsic motivation and love that home cooks have for food and cooking but it cannot be denied that they are key catalysts in helping this love blossom into innumerable delicious dishes enjoyed by family and friends whilst giving their creators a real sense of tangible, rosy-cheeked (and edible!) pride.

Now, that said, which freestanding electric mixer makes the best Victoria sponge? Answers on a postcard.

Or should that be a credit card?

I have entered this post into a competition run by Foodies100 and Morphy Richards with the hope of becoming a Morphy Richards Innovator.