Magpie Musings

A couple of years ago, I went on a teaching course led by the enviably creative Literacy guru Pie Corbett. Please note, before you put the RSBP on speed dial, despite his name and the ‘magpie’ focus of the course, there was not the bird equivalent of Sweeney Todd’s pies on offer with token feathers poking out the pastry. There were mini pastries with coffee, but a hungry teacher being in the same room as FREE hot drinks and FREE vienoisseries in a HOTEL is an entirely different story*. Anyway, on this course, Pie taught us the concept of allowing children to ‘magpie’ ideas to improve their writing. Perhaps they could ‘magpie’ a word or two from a book or feel inspired by the way in which an author describes a setting. Perhaps they could ‘magpie’ an idea of their friend’s to use in a story, or use imagery created by the teacher to give their writing that ‘wow’ factor. Two years on, I still raise a smile when a child says “can I magpie that Miss Taylor?”

I suppose it could be argued that ‘magpie’ is a euphemism for stealing, but I prefer to think of it as a term which is largely underpinned by inspiration. Of course, I would never encourage a child to magpie an entire poem, story or paragraph, for this simple exercise of copying would be fruitless in terms of progression of learning, but using the ideas of others to help create an impressive something of our own is an ideal way of igniting that creative spark within us all. For me and many others, this is not only applicable in the classroom, but very much relevant in the world of food and cooking. In the recent 20th birthday issue of Sainsburys magazine, Nigel Slater states that “TV cooks (…) are inspiring and empowering people”, not necessarily because they are teaching us to cook, but because the simple act of watching them do their work makes us want to get up, cook our socks off and eat delicious food. Us amateurs may not produce exact replicas of what we see on our TV and read in our recipe books – our piping on our cupcakes may be wonky, our mash may be slightly lumpy and our presentation is more home kitchen than Michelin – but we are empowered by the range of ideas given to us by chefs and cookery writers.

Of course, unlike in the classroom, it is far from a ‘sin’ to copy a lot when cooking. Indeed, it is from copying others and reading recipes that I have learned how to cook, and it is an impressive skill being able to reproduce a recipe really well in a home kitchen. Nevertheless, there are times when I don’t want to follow a particular recipe, but instead magpie the ideas I have come across in recipe books, from watching others and from the TV, to make my own dishes. Yesterday, when Spring had finally sprung in the form of “you don’t need your winter jacket” sunshine, I decided to make cookie dough ice cream by magpie-ing two recipes which I know always work. For the cookie dough, I used the lovely Joanne Wheatley’s Chocolate Chip Cookies recipe, which can be found on page 183 of her wonderful book, ‘A Passion for Baking’ (a must-have book for home bakers). For the ice cream base, I used Jim Fisher’s foolproof techniques and ingredients which I learned about on a cooking holiday in France. This was the result:

Cookie Dough Ice Cream (double quantities if you’re feeding more than 4)

• 300ml double cream
• 3 egg yolks
• 50g caster sugar
• 1 tbsp vanilla bean paste or seeds of 1 vanilla pod
• Joanne Wheatley’s cookie dough

1) Put the cream, sugar and vanilla in a pan over a medium heat. Meanwhile, make sure the egg yolks are ‘waiting’ in a heatproof bowl.

2) When the cream mixture has reached boiling point, pour over the egg yolks and whisk like you have never whisked before!

3) To test if the custard base is ready, turn the bowl slightly in a clockwise direction. If the mixture ’tilts’ then goes back into position, it is ready. Leave to cool.

4) Once cool, add small chunks of cookie dough (as much or as little as you like. You won’t use it all – use the rest to make cookies!). Churn in an ice cream maker and enjoy.

Note – you don’t have to fork out on an expensive ice cream maker. I promise you, homemade ice cream is better than shop bought and this little beauty from Lakeland, which I use, won’t break the bank!

So, if you are stuck for inspiration in the kitchen, a little magpie-ing goes a long way. Figuratively, of course. Even Masterchef doesn’t go beyond pigeons.

*I pay nine quid a term for instant coffee and digestives. Free carbs and caffeine in a hotel will always, always be exciting.

Sultana and Ginger Drop Scones

Those of you who know me will most certainly be able to confirm that while my baking (hopefully!) delivers on taste, it would be awarded the wooden spoon in a beauty contest. When I bake, there are no sugar butterflies or flowers. There is no edible gold or glitter. Icing is not beautifully piped in aesthetically pleasing swirls, nor is it a beautiful calligraphy of letters, numbers or anything that defines the ‘special’ on a special occasion. There are no cakes that look like shoes, handbags, trains, caterpillars or beach scenes. Indeed, if I even attempted any of these, one would imagine that I had recreated a scene from the apocalypse. Instead, the words ‘dollop’, ‘slathered’ and ‘wonky’ come to mind, not to forget the euphemistic adjectives ‘wholesome’ and ‘rustic’. It may be a clichéd expression, but with my baking, it really is what’s on the inside that counts.

Admittedly, while I am no cake decorator, I still prefer it if my cake sponges are at least a little bit even and look mildly acceptable on the aesthetic front. Nevertheless, there are times when no fuss baking is the order of the day and there are certain bakes where having the manual dexterity of an elephant doesn’t matter a jot. It makes no difference whatsoever if these bakes are wonky or if one is bigger than the other. In fact, they may even resemble something you made years ago at primary school which inevitably got bashed on the way home, but was always devoured by 5pm leaving a smattering of crumbs at the bottom of the tin.

A few weeks ago, feeling tired and grumpy, I decided to engage a little bit of no fuss baking by making that primary school favourite – drop scones. In addition to indulging my love for anything remotely like a pancake, drop scones are very easy to make and epitomise versatility due to the fact that they can be made with a variety of ingredients such as dried fruit, chocolate chips or even a little mashed banana. I decided to opt for sultana and ginger, mainly because this was what I had in the flat and consequently meant I didn’t have to change out of my spotty M&S pyjama bottoms to take a trip to the Co-op. I may show my pyjamas a bit too much love from time to time, but shopping in them is a step too far. Anyway, I had mine (my drop scones, not my pyjamas) with golden syrup, but a little honey, butter and jam, fruit compote or (if you’re feeling decadent!) clotted cream, are also ideal accompaniments.

Sultana and Ginger Drop Scones (makes approximately 6 although you can make yours bigger or smaller)

• 70g plain flour
• 1/2 tsp baking powder
• Small pinch of salt
• 10g caster sugar
• 1.5 tsp ground ginger (use less if you find ginger quite strong)
• 1 egg, beaten
• 15g butter, melted
• 50ml milk
• Handful of sultanas

1) Put the flour, baking powder, salt, sugar and ginger in a bowl.

2) Make a ‘well’ in the middle and pour in the egg and the melted butter.

3) Start whisking and gradually add the milk until you have a smooth batter that ‘drops’ off the spoon. If your mixture is too thick, add more milk. If it is too runny, add a little more flour.

4) Add the sultanas and stir gently.

5) Heat a frying pan over a medium-low heat. Grease with a little butter. ‘Drop’ the mixture in little dollops into the pan. They will spread when cooking, so you will have to cook them in batches. When the surface starts to bubble, flip them over and cook until the other side is brown.

6) Serve with an accompaniment of your choice such as butter, jam or golden syrup.*

*There is no shame in eating these in your pyjamas. Just make sure you put your jeans on to buy the ingredients.

A Chilli Spring

I have always loved chilli. When I think of chilli, I imagine it bubbling away in a cauldron; its rich, copper tones creating an aesthetic sense of warmth. I think of fireworks; an exploding palette of colours lighting up a cold, dark atmosphere.  Chilli also reminds me of bonfires; their orange flames licking the sky while a homemade Guy Fawkes perishes to the sounds of shrieking, rosy cheeked children holding sparklers. I was never one of those children. While I always felt a distinct sense of pride at my homemade Guy whose limbs were constructed from newspaper and whose head was made from a balloon complete with facial features etched on with permanent marker, I secretly hated holding sparklers. I still do. In fact, I would much, much rather eat a bowl of chilli.

Dressed for “Spring”…

Clearly, chilli reminds me of November. And, at the moment, as I wake up to face numbing (what I like to call weather ‘botox’) temperatures and a car windscreen covered in an almost impermeable frost, I could be forgiven for thinking that it was, in fact, November. Except November it ain’t. It’s March. Nearly April, in fact. Moreover, in just over 3 weeks time, it’ll be “Summer” term at school. I cannot help but laugh at this when the trees outside my living room window have yet to bare a single leaf, their bare branches shivering in the Spring “breeze” (ahem). However, while Jack Frost has most certainly overstayed his welcome, there is no better excuse than an extended winter to make chilli.

Chilli purists, avert your eyes immediately. This chilli contains no beef. It is even suitable for vegans. Those of you who know me are acutely aware of the fact that veganism and I would most certainly have a tumultuous relationship, were we to be a reality. Indeed, I am as likely to become vegan as a value burger is to contain 100% beef DNA. Nevertheless, equine jokes aside, there are times when only vegetables will do. And, after a week of long working days fuelled by pizza, Skips and Tunnocks caramel wafers, becoming a vegan for an evening and feeding my soul with the fruits of Mother Nature’s labour seemed rather appealing. Best of all, the majority of this was made from store cupboard ingredients. However, if the idea of a chilli with no meat fills you with abject horror, replace the beans with good quality minced beef.

Don’t be put off by the large list of ingredients. Most of the cooking of this dish involves chucking the ingredients in the pan and leaving it. Of course, ‘chucking’ and ‘leaving’ may not be in the lexicon of the professional chef, but professional I am not. Also, it gave me more time to catch up on Bondi Rescue and imagine I was on the receiving end of sunshine and a tan instead of blizzards and winter pallor.

Black Bean and Butter Bean Chilli

• Olive oil
• 1 red onion, roughly chopped
• 2 tsp paprika
• 1 tsp oregano
• 2 bay leaves
• 2 tsp chillies from a jar (I use lazy chillies. You may use more or less depending on how hot you like your food!)
• 1/2 tsp cinnamon
• 2 tsp cumin seeds
• 1 small mug of coffee
• 2 tbsp dark muscovado sugar
• 2 garlic cloves, crushed
• 2 peppers, chopped
• 1 400g tin/carton tomatoes
• 1 400g tin/carton black beans, drained
• 1 400g tin/carton butter beans, drained
• Salt and pepper to season

1. Put a large casserole type pan/pot over a low heat. Add a glug of olive oil, the onion, paprika, oregano and bay leaves. Fry for ten minutes.
2. Next, add the chillies, cinnamon, cumin seeds, coffee, sugar, garlic, tomatoes and salt and pepper to taste. Simmer this chilli ‘base’ for around an hour on a low heat or until it has started to sufficiently reduce.
3. Once the base has reached this stage, add the peppers, black beans and butter beans. Taste and add seasoning (including more of the spices if need be) and leave to simmer for around half an hour or until you are happy with the chilli’s consistency.
4. Serve with rice, potato wedges, mash or sweet potato mash.

So, while the interminable cold snap continues to chill us to our inner core, it is comforting to know that when eating this, 2013′s British Spring need not be so chilly after all. Just leave the sparklers in the drawer, please.  ;)

Tiffin for Adults

Chicken and chips. As a child, this was my cordon bleu meal of choice in an Indian restaurant in Dubai frequented by my family. Apart from the chicken and chips option, it was what I would call a pretty ‘authentic’ Indian (pardon the cliché, it is at times like this that I can use interminable brain fog as an excuse for hackneyed expressions) because it had dishes on the menu I have yet to see in most western Indian restaurants. In addition to this, its car park was not one of smooth, shiny tarmac with neatly painted bays, but a sandy dirt track that always made your flip flops look like they’d spent the day at the beach. I don’t know why, and I am acutely aware of the ridiculousness of this suggestion, but its dusty surroundings somehow added to its authenticity.

In any case, it remains a good example of a restaurant where the adults ate what I always called ‘adult’ food and us kids ate, well, kids food. I always questioned why my parents would choose to have a potato dish (whose name escapes me except I know it ended in ‘kofta’) which was coated in something which reminded me of sick, when chicken and chips was on the menu. And this was exactly what it was. The chicken was not corn fed. It was not organic. And I imagine it wasn’t allowed to wander freely with its chicken pals in a lush green field before ending up on the table of an Indian restaurant with a blob of ketchup on top of it.  Furthermore, the chips were not hand cut. They were not twice fried. They were not seasoned with Cornish sea salt. They were, I suspect, something very similar to those made by Mr McCain. The meal was just chicken and chips for kids. And I loved it.

Nowadays, you’ll be glad to know that I am no longer the chicken and chips girl. In fact, I can guarantee that I would probably like the potato with its sick coloured sauce and would most certainly opt for that over chicken and chips. It wasn’t that I was a fussy child (far from it!) but there were certain foods that were adult territory only and I wasn’t interested in trying them. For me, these included cooked vegetables (I only ate raw!), Parmesan cheese, prawns and, interestingly, dark chocolate.

Last week, I was standing in my new kitchen and I had a sudden craving for dark chocolate and ginger. As a child, this would never have been the case and I would always have fancied a sweeter option, perhaps a Feast ice lolly (which, in my opinion, always tasted slightly stale, yet was somehow delicious) or a doughnut smothered in sickly sweet fondant icing. Admittedly, I still like these things but my palate has  definitely grown up. As a result, I decided to experiment with my own version of Dark Chocolate and Stem Ginger Tiffin, aka ‘Tiffin for Adults’.  Of course, I hate to generalise and I am aware that some children out there may devour such rich flavours with gusto. However, all I know is that given the choice between this and a milky, sweet alternative, my ten year old self would most certainly have opted for the latter.

Tiffin for Adults (and children with grown up palates!)

• 120g unsalted butter
• 1 tablespoon dark muscovado sugar
• 2 tablespoons golden syrup
• 1 1/2 tablespoons of stem ginger syrup (taken from a jar of stem ginger)
• 4 tsp cocoa powder (I used Bournville)
• 225g rich tea or digestive biscuits, broken into small pieces
• 1 handful sultanas
• 3-4 stem ginger balls, finely chopped (I used 4 as I love ginger, but if you find ginger quite strong use 3)
• 300g dark chocolate (70% cocoa solids)

1) Over a low heat, melt the butter, sugar, golden syrup, stem ginger syrup and cocoa.

2) Add the biscuits, sultanas and chopped stem ginger into the melted mixture. Stir and press down into a square or rectangular tin lined with greaseproof paper.

3) Break the chocolate into pieces and melt it over a very low heat. Once melted, pour the chocolate over the top of the mixture in the tin.

4) Leave to cool for around 15 minutes then pop into the fridge for 45 minutes  - 1 hour to set. Once ready, cut into squares and serve.

Tip – if your tiffin is hard to cut when it comes out the fridge, dip your knife in warm water before slicing.

So, while there are times when I like nothing more than indulging in a little childhood nostalgia with a flourescent coloured party ring; a milk chocolate coated krispie cake and, dare I say it, breaded chicken and chips (not in an Indian restaurant, mind), there are times when only ‘adult’ flavours will do. Now, is there such a thing as a dark chocolate Feast?

The 90s Club

Despite being born in the 80s, it is fair to say that my childhood memories are firmly underpinned by all things 90s. I played with Polly Pockets; collected Pogs; wished I was an extra – complete with shoulder pads and clip on earrings – in Saved By the Bell; my mum had a perm; I listened to ‘Wannabe’ excessively on my boombox; I managed to keep a Tamagotchi alive for a whole 22 days in 1997 and, for many years, harboured a relentless desire to be one of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five so I could follow all my adventures with an outdoor picnic and lashings of ginger beer. A most definite fantasy, really, for a girl who hated anything fizzy.

I also have fond memories of 90s eating which was undoubtedly quite different to what I eat today, but most certainly enjoyable in its own way. Indeed, rocket was not found in a packet in the salad aisle, but was something you made at primary school from cereal boxes, toilet rolls and poster paint. Vanilla ice cream was not from Madagascar but from the factory down the road and was always suspiciously yellow, particularly when part of the much loved Neapolitan brick. Findus French bread pizzas were utterly delicious (and, I confess, if I could get my hands on one now I’m pretty sure I’d enjoy it); Pizza Hut pizza was the best in the world (let’s blame the immature palate for that one) and crisps were always, always Golden Wonder. Oh, and my favourite foodie toy was, ironically, a size zero Barbie.  Dominos Pizza Barbie to be precise. Sorry, Pizza Hut.

As mentioned in a previous post, I also have distinctly pleasant memories of the king of 90s sandwiches – the club sandwich.  With its streaky, salty bacon; toasted middle layer; cold roast chicken and over-easy egg, a club sandwich was the only way to get the childhood me to eat an egg yolk. So, on a day when the temperature is not likely to exceed zero degrees and the pavements are just perfect for cross country skiers, I decided to keep warm and indulge in my fondness for nostalgic eating by making a club sandwich for lunch. To my dismay, a lot of ‘classic’ club sandwich recipes don’t contain a fried egg. For me, this is what makes a club sandwich. Perhaps this means the ones I have had in the past aren’t ‘classic’ so to speak, but if you like fried eggs, this is (pardon the cliché) a ‘must have’ ingredient. Oh, and before I forget, don’t substitute the ingredients for healthy alternatives. The bacon should be streaky and the bread must be white. This sandwich ain’t going to be found on the desks of the health police.

Club Sandwich

Serves 1 (adapt quantities to suit numbers)

• 3 slices of white bread
• 1 egg
• 3 slices streaky bacon
• A generous handful of cold roast chicken
• Mayo
• Lettuce

1) Heat a pan over a high heat (no oil needed). Add the streaky bacon.

2) Meanwhile, toast 3 slices of bread. When toasted, put the mayo on one side of each of the slices.

3) When the bacon is crispy, remove it from the pan and add the fried egg into the same pan.

4) While the egg is frying, commence sandwich construction. Start with 1 slice of toast, mayo side up. On top of this, put some lettuce, all of the bacon and some of the chicken.

5) Top this with the ‘middle’ slice of toast, mayo side up. On top of this slice, put the rest of the lettuce and the chicken.

6) In the frying pan, turn the egg over so that it cooks ‘over easy’. A slightly runny yolk is nice, but your sandwich will be one big mess with a very runny yolk. An over easy egg will keep things nice and tidy (well, as tidy as a club sandwich can be).

7) When the egg is ready, put on top of the final chicken and lettuce layer, as detailed in step 5. Top with the remaining slice of toast, mayo side down. Cut in half. If serving to people, put a cocktail stick through the sandwich halves to stop them from collapsing. If you want to be REALLY 90s, use cocktail umbrellas.

Please note that despite its name, this sandwich is NOT a member of the dignified eating club. You will end up with a little bit of mayo on your face. And a smattering of crumbs. And perhaps a smidgen of egg yolk. But it is bloody good, and if you’re anything like me, you’ll agree that a bite of nostalgia now and then is good for the soul.

Now, where did I put that Spice Girls CD?

Love Sandwiches? Join the Club!

In the 1700s The Earl of Sandwich decided to put his dinner between two slices of bread. From this simple yet genius marriage of carbs and filling, the humble sandwich was born. Even in a world of Dukan, Atkins and the merde that comes out of the mouths of the ‘bread is evil’ brigade, it can’t be denied that underneath it all, most of us like a bit of sandwich in our lives from time to time. Indeed, across the world, particularly in the UK and the USA, there are entire shops devoted exclusively to sandwiches. A popular option is the ‘made in front of you’ sandwich where you are greeted by a wide array of tempting ingredients leading to what I can only describe as the ultimate sandwich dilemma. Will it be a creamy Brie and salty bacon baguette? Or maybe nutty houmous and roasted peppers on granary? Or perhaps the traditional mature cheddar and thick cut ham on doorstop white? You know you’re having a good day when this is the most important decision you will make. At one well known chain, you can even get yourself a whole foot of sandwich. Of course, some are better than others and I’ll readily admit to sandwich snobbery, preferring freshly made sarnies to their industrial cousins which, for some reason, always find themselves in the fridges of newsagents, held together in their plastic packaging by PVA glue quality mayonnaise. And they always, always taste of vinegar.

Like much of today’s food, sandwich fillings have diversified. While many of us continue to enjoy the sandwiches of old such as the faithful tuna mayo and cheese and ham, sometimes only a ‘contemporary’ sandwich will do. Falafel, houmous, parma ham, runny brie, mediterranean tuna served with lashings of rocket, pulled pork…the choice is endless. Sandwiches are also becoming meals in their own right. At the Good Food Show, people enjoyed steaming hot hog roast buns that were so big they could only be enjoyed sitting down to avoid the inevitable ‘half of sandwich down t-shirt’ situation. I even saw someone eating theirs with a fork. Now, when someone says that they have had a sandwich for dinner, especially one which can only be eaten sitting down and one which involves cutlery, part of me is always slightly envious.

Pig in a bun. Done.

Then there are the ‘closet’ sandwiches. These sandwiches contain fillings that are, quite honestly, a little strange and which are often on the receiving end of ‘ugh that’s, like, seriously rank’ from those who haven’t tried said filling, but which, for the eater, are a little slice of sandwich perfection. A personal favourite of mine is tuna mayo with salt and vinegar crisps. And they must be the type that are so vinegary, your mouth waters almost indecently as soon as you prise open the packet. Interestingly, it seems that quite a lot of us are strange sandwich lovers and proud. Here are some of the favourites of family and friends:

• Banana and sugar/banana and jam or just good old plain banana.
• Marmite and cheese and onion Walkers crisps.
• Ready salted crisps with salad cream.
• Cheese and beetroot.
• Banana and cheese (on toast, so not strictly a sandwich but interesting enough to make this list!).
• Peanut butter, jam and bacon.
• Peanut butter, cheese and pickle.
• Peanut butter and salad cream. And the peanut butter must always, always be crunchy.

While it seems that peanut butter is the king of ‘unique’ sandwiches, there is still a place in my heart for traditional, retro sandwiches. Recently, I found myself craving a club sandwich. A staple on 1990s menus with its white toasted bread, fried egg, crispy bacon, lettuce roast chicken and side of salty shoestring fries, the club sandwich appears to have faded into obscurity slightly. Consequently, when I saw it on a menu in Dubai – despite having already shared 4 hot bar snacks with my parents – I just had to have it. Indeed, so delighted was I to indulge in this nostalgic sandwich, I forgot to take a photo of it in my hurry to gobble it up. Yes, gobble. Sandwiches and dignified eating? Forget it! Greedy urges – 1. Blog photography – nil.

Anyway, unfortunately I am no longer in Dubai sipping bellinis and indulging in club sandwiches. Instead, I am at home in Blighty with a craving for another club sandwich. Unfortunately I have no white bread and the bacon in my fridge is too virtuous, for in my mind, the bread must be white and the bacon must be streaky. Detox schmetox. So, I have decided that my next post will be devoted to the club sandwich. No salad cream involved . Or peanut butter.

Watch this space!

Banana Stacked Pancakes

You can’t deny the utter simplicity of pancakes. Flour, milk, eggs, pinch of salt. Done. Despite this, pancakes are surprisingly versatile. One of my favourites is the French style crepe, a thin pancake which, in my opinion, is always best served al fresco in bitterly cold weather; the kind that bites you in the face a bit and makes your eyes slightly watery.  Indeed, in such temperatures, nothing beats getting that hot, triangular parcel of greaseproof paper hiding a steaming hot crepe within, perhaps dripping with sour lemon juice and gritty, sweet sugar, or, for chocolate lovers, thick, milky Nutella that coats the roof of your mouth with every bite, is always a firm favourite.  Delicious.

As much as I adore crepes, I’ll freely admit to undermining my loyalty to all things French when it comes to breakfast pancakes, preferring to turn to our neighbours across the pond. For me, American style pancakes immediately conjure up images of oversized pancake stacks, dripping in maple syrup and served with lashings of a chosen accompaniment. This may be crispy bacon; indulgent whipped cream; a sharp coulis or an array of fresh fruit in between each layer. American style pancakes should be thick on the outside and fluffy within, with a slight pillowy texture felt with each bite. And they should always, always be stacked.

Last weekend, I had a craving for such pancakes. However, the only accompaniment I had in my kitchen was a rather sad looking, slightly over-ripe banana. The kind that kids squirm at when they see one in their packed lunches. The kind that, if carried in a handbag, would make everything smell of eau de banana. However, I was neither making myself a packed lunch, nor planning on carrying said banana in my Cath Kidston, so decided to use the banana for pancakes. Notably, I am a stickler for traditional pancakes and often avoid adding anything ‘extra’ to the batter, quite happily sticking to flour, milk, eggs and a pinch of salt in the belief that pancake batter really doesn’t need to be composed of a cornucopia of ingredients. Indeed, from past experience, any ‘extras’ I have used have never resulted in a significantly better pancake. Nevertheless, last weekend, I decided to go against my ‘pancake principles’ and add half a mashed banana to the batter. Granted, this is hardly an extraordinary addition, but I was keen to find out what the pancakes would turn out like.

Banana Stacked Pancakes

Serves 1 generously. Adapt quantities to suit numbers

• 50g self raising flour (do not use plain. SR results in a much fluffier pancake)
• 60ml milk
• 1 egg
• 1 slightly overripe banana, half mashed and the other half cut into slices
• Pinch of salt (do not omit this. This pinch of salt enhances the flavour of the pancakes).
• A little butter for cooking
• Maple syrup, to serve

1) Put the flour, milk, egg and salt in a bowl.

2) Using an electric whisk, whisk the batter until it is frothy.

3) Add the mashed banana to the batter and stir gently.

4) Over a medium heat, melt a little of the butter. Add 1/3 of the pancake batter. Flip the pancake over when the uncooked side starts to bubble on the top (I have found that this is a good indicator that the other side is cooked). As for the flipping, I use a fish slice to ensure the pancake doesn’t end up on the floor. Expert tosser I am not.

5) Repeat step four until you have 3 pancakes. Stack them up with the sliced banana.

6) Serve with maple syrup.

And the verdict? Well, never again shall I look upon an overripe banana with such disdain. Instead, I’ll put it in a pancake! Thankfully, the banana flavour of the pancakes was not overpowering, which I found ideal particularly because I included sliced banana in between each of the layers. For the particularly sweet toothed among us, these pancakes would also be delicious with a dollop of Nutella instead of maple syrup, or perhaps some thick, whipped cream and berries. And as for me? Well, I’m a maple syrup kinda gal. And I’ll definitely be making these again. 

Now, where’s that overripe banana?

A Slice of Julia Child. Au Chocolat.

A little over a year ago, I started this blog with a post about the wonderful, larger than life Julia Child. Since watching the film ‘Julie and Julia’, I have fallen in love with Madame ‘Shield’, as the French so affectionately called her, from the moment I saw how that buttery, soft sole meunière, eaten in Rouen in 1948, quite literally, changed her life. This blog post is going to celebrate one of her recipes, but behind every good recipe there is a story. Here is Julia’s in a nutshell.

At the moment, I am reading Julia Child’s biography (written by Bob Spitz) and am reveling in spending rainy evenings indoors finding out about her fascinating life and unmitigated passion for France and French cuisine. It is clear from both literature and visual media, that, underneath the dazzling array of cooking skills acquired by Julia over the years,  her preparation of la bonne cuisine was, above all, underpinned by passion and love. Like many fans, I like to think I can see a little of myself in Julia. Apart from my height, of course. Unlike me, at 6’2, a short arse Julia was not!

Her height was certainly not the only ‘stand out’ aspect of Julia. It is fair to say that her  love of food and eating was practically tangible, so much so that when she was searching for a hobby to fill her time in Paris,  her loving husband Paul noted that she was rather good at eating, a formidable talent if I say so myself! It was of little surprise, therefore, that she only lasted a few minutes at a hat making class. Indeed, why make hats when you can eat? And in Paris! Hat design or cheese and wine? No contest.

Feeding her desire to eat and cook, Julia subsequently enrolled at the Cordon Bleu cooking school. Undeterred  by being in a class full of American GIs and being under the constant scrutiny of the school’s snooty secretary, Madame Brassart, Julia nevertheless thrived. Not content til she had achieved perfection with every recipe (who knew that warming the bowl is the key to a perfect mayonnaise?) Julia was the driving force behind ‘Les Trois Gourmandes’, a food loving trio composed of Julia and her friends Louisette Bertholle and Simone Beck who, after years of hard graft both at the typewriter and in the kitchen, co-wrote the legendary cookbook ‘Mastering the Art of French Cooking’, first published in 1961.

If I didn’t have to work full time (ah that old chestnut again), I would love to do a Julie Powell (the American writer who blogged her way through Mastering in 2002) and work my way through Julia Child’s recipes. How Julie managed to do this in her tiny kitchen in Queens, while also working full time, is nothing short of admirable. I certainly wouldn’t be prepared to boil a lobster (you see, while I am no vegetarian, I would most inevitably name it before its execution and therefore would struggle to resort to said execution), nor battle with aspic after a nine hour working day. And apparently there are seven aspics in Mastering! Seven! Furthermore, at the risk of sounding like a petulant child, I just cannot imagine liking a jelly tasting of meat. Non, merci. Aspic prejudice aside, shamefully, for someone who is such an admirer of Julia Child, I have only ever cooked one of her recipes, the blog post for which can be found here. Consequently, today, I decided to attempt Julia’s Reine de Saba Avec Glaçage au Chocolat (in other words, Queen of Sheba Chocolate and Almond Cake with Chocolate Icing). References to ancient royalty or not, doesn’t food sound so much nicer in French? So much more, well, seductive? I’ll leave you with that thought…

Before I delve into the recipe, let’s quickly mention butter. The cake contains butter. And so does the icing. Creamy, soft, golden, shiny butter. I love butter. Julia loved butter. She and Paul each lived to the ripe old age of 91 and 92 respectively. If we can learn just one thing from Julia Child, it is to embrace this culinary jewel. Don’t ever, ever be scared of butter.

Julia Child’s Reine de Saba Avec Glacage au Chocolat (Chocolate Almond Cake)

Taken from Mastering The Art of French Cooking. The units have been converted, by me, to metric and the recipe has been slightly adapted to suit ingredients found in Britain.

The Cake

• 113g dark chocolate
• 1/4 tsp of instant coffee dissolved in 2 tbsp water
• 113g softened, unsalted butter
• 113g castor sugar
• 3 egg yolks
• 3 egg whites
• 1 tbsp castor sugar
• Pinch of salt
• 56g ground almonds
• 1/4 tsp almond extract (I omitted this as I didn’t have any).
• 56g self raising flour (I used plain by mistake – don’t do the same as me! See why below).

1) Break the chocolate into pieces. Over a very low heat or, in a glass bowl over hot water, melt the chocolate and the coffee.

2) Meanwhile, beat the butter and sugar until they form a pale yellow, fluffy mixture.

3) Beat the egg yolks into the butter and sugar mixture.

4) Beat the egg whites and salt in a separate bowl until soft peaks are formed; sprinkle on the 1 tbsp sugar and beat until stiff peaks are formed.

5) Blend the melted chocolate into the butter and sugar mixture, then stir in the ground almonds and almond extract. Fold in 1/4 of the egg whites. When partially blended, add 1/4 of the flour, and continue folding, alternating with more egg whites and more flour until all is used.

6) Turn the mixture into a cake tin and cook for 25 minutes at 180C. The cake is ready when a needle comes out oily.

7) Leave the cake in the tin to cool for 10 minutes. After this, turn out onto a wire rack and leave to cool completely before icing.

The Icing

• 56g unsalted butter
• 56g dark chocolate
• 1/4 tsp vanilla extract (I have used this instead of 1 tbsp coffee to add a bit of sweetness to the icing)

1) Melt the chocolate

2) Beat the butter into the chocolate over a bowl of cold water until the icing is of spreading consistency. (Julia advocates adding and beating the butter a tablespoon at a time. Being impatient, I didn’t bother and the icing turned out fine).

3) Spread over the cooled cake with a spatula or knife.

Clearly, I don’t speak American…

When I took the cake out the oven, I immediately saw it hadn’t risen well. This was because I mistakenly assumed that the USA ‘cake flour’ was plain flour when, in fact, the UK equivalent is self raising flour! Merde.  Nevertheless, despite its lack of height (oh the irony when cooking a Julia Child recipe of all things!) the slightly gooey, rib sticking texture of the cake is lovely. The taste of almonds is very subtle which, for me, is ideal as I’m not the biggest fan of strong almond flavour, but as Julia advocates, you could decorate the cake itself with almonds to finish it off. Feeling festive and taking advantage of Sainsbury’s promotion of cake decorations, I put chocolate stars on mine instead.

So, thank you, Julia, for a lovely recipe. I’ll definitely be making this cake again. With self raising flour, however.  Ahem.

Five Spice Tuna with Noodles

No prattling prose today characterised by superlative spew about crushes on celebrity chefs! Instead, here is a recipe that I came up with on Friday night to satisfy a sudden craving for Asian flavours. This would also make an ideal midweek supper as it’s very quick and healthier than a takeaway.

Five Spice Tuna with Noodles

Serves 1 (double, treble etc quantities to suit)

• Groundnut oil (or other flavourless oil)
• 1 tuna steak
• 1 tbsp five spice plus a little extra for seasoning
• 1 small pepper, chopped into strips
• A handful of mangetout
• 2 spring onions, chopped
• 1 portion of dried noodles (or half a pack of straight to wok noodles)
• A handful of unsalted cashew nuts
• Grated ginger (I haven’t put a quantity here as it depends on how much you like ginger. I love it so tend to be quite generous)
• 1 tbsp dark soy sauce
• 1 tsp sesame oil
• A little fresh coriander, chopped (optional)
• Lime wedge

1) As far in advance as you can, sprinkle the five spice over both sides of the tuna steak and rub it in.

2) When ready, heat up a wok over a high heat. Once the wok is really hot, add the oil.

3) Put the tuna into the wok and sear for a minute on each side. Turn the heat down slightly. If you like your tuna rare, cook for approx 1 minute more on each side, 1 and a half  - 2 minutes for medium, 3-4 minutes for well done (these are approximations, as how quickly it cooks really depends on the thickness of the steak itself).  The tuna steak I used was particularly thick, however, so I gave mine about 2 and a half minutes each side which resulted in medium tuna.

4) While the tuna is cooking, add the peppers, mangetout and spring onions. Once the tuna is cooked to your liking, remove from the wok and set aside. Turn up the heat.

5) If using dried noodles, boil them for 2 minutes, drain and add to the wok with the vegetables. If using straight to wok noodles, add them to the wok straight from the packet.

6) Add the cashew nuts, ginger, soy sauce and sesame oil. Stir to combine. Taste and season with five spice if needed.

7) Plate up the noodles and place the tuna on top. Squeeze the juice of a lime wedge over the tuna and noodles, garnish with fresh coriander if using and serve.

Good Food and a Little Bit of Swooning

For the last few months, television has been graced with a rather charming array of silver foxes. In the summer, we had the delightful Mark Foster commentating on the  Olympic swimming, leaving females of all ages (including me) wishing they’d perfected their front crawl that bit more just to meet the man himself. Last month, we had Paul Hollywood inspecting pastry for soggy bottoms and bringing back the retro rum baba whilst gazing into the camera with those piercing blue eyes. More recently, we have had Michel Roux Jr, one of the very few 2 Michelin star chefs in Britain and owner of classic French restaurant Le Gavroche. Never have I known so many ladies, of all ages, to swoon over Michel. And last Sunday, I got to meet him.

A number of months ago, I was searching for food events to go to and came across the Good Food Show. These three words alone were enough to persuade me to buy a ticket. Not only would there be stalls of beautiful produce and, enticingly, enough free samples to satisfy even the fussiest of palates, or, conversely, spoil the greediest (aka yours truly), there was also the Supertheatre. Where I could see John Torode. And Gregg Wallace. And Monica Galetti. And, to the delight of France and food lovers around the land, Michel Roux Jr. A Masterchef geek and proud, never has my mouse clicked ‘Buy Tickets’ at such speed. Some dream about strutting down the red carpet in Manolos at a film premiere, gazing in awe at Hollywood’s A-list. Not me. Dressed in my finest Primani attire and gazing in awe at the very existence of Chocolate Wine, the Good Food Show was my film premiere.

Yes, that’s right folks, CHOCOLATE wine. Despite chocolate and wine being on my desert island list, I can’t quite decide if combining the two is a win or a sin. You see, the first gulp went down very well. Almost too well, in fact. I simply had to have another, despite being aware of the fact that by doing so (this was, admittedly, after an ‘aperitif’ of toffee vodka), I was most certainly increasing the precariousness of that well known London Underground hazard ‘the gap’ which, after too much sweetshop alcohol, would most certainly not be ‘minded’. Anyway, tube risk assessment clearly defied, I gulped down the second wine sample, but immediately found it rather sickly. It reminded me of a strange tasting Bailey’s Irish Cream which, as a sweet toothed, Smirnoff Ice swigging teenager, I adored, but which I have gone off slightly as I have got older. Nevertheless, where else would you get the chance to try chocolate wine but at The Good Food Show?! ‘Nuff said.  This, along with the free samples of spicy, fruity curry sauce and naan bread; delectable cake; beautiful, artisan cheeses; an artist’s pallette of gelato clouds; the silky chocolate fountain and pillowy marshmallows along with absolutely delicious tangy chutneys (I bought three!), among many other delights and without an ounce of pretension in the air, Kensington Olympia had, quite simply, been transformed into a food lover’s Shangri-La.

Did I mention I met Michel Roux Jr? But of course I did. In fact, I have mentioned this so many times to so many people, I am just asking for a little bit of “oh here she goes again” eye rolling. I’m not going to dress up meeting a two Michelin star chef with flowery, saccharine language. In fact, I’ll be unapologetically clichéd. Prepare yourselves for an onslaught of superlatives, readers.  Meeting Michel was brilliant, amazing, incredible. In fact, so overwhelmed was I with excitement and, quite frankly, utter awe, my heart was going like the clappers (and the award for prattling prose goes to…) as Michel signed my book. Not only was I lucky enough to get my very own autographed cookbook, he also agreed to have a photograph taken with me, resulting in the immediate evaporation of any hope of remaining cool, calm and collected. Swooning women aside, he really was as lovely as he is on TV, further confirmed by his fantastic demonstration with Monica Galetti and Ash, last year’s Masterchef the Professional’s winner. And Monica? Well, like any cook worth their salt, I’d be terrified putting a plate of food in front of her. But she is seriously cool. Like, seriously cool. And bloody well nice too. If I could take any chef out for a drink, it’d be Monica Galetti.

And then there was John Torode and Gregg Wallace. Not only did I learn about beef fillet, how to peel and cook an artichoke, how to make polenta chips and Turkish inspired biscuits from the Masterchef Duo, I got to see them dance. Gangnam style. That alone was worth every penny. What I enjoyed most about John and Gregg, however, was their unashamed love of food. Their joy at tucking into a polenta chip and piece of artichoke was practically tangible. Had there not been an array of burly security guards ensuring acceptable restraint of (let’s face it, mainly female) fans, I would have been tempted to join ‘em in the polenta chip ecstasy. Instead, I opted for a four quid Masterchef tea towel on the way out.

So, BBC, Your Good Food Show was pretty damn well good. In fact, I think the word ‘good’ is rather modest. It has certainly been one of the highlights of my year and, although it’s a little early to be making New Year’s resolutions, I’ll most certainly be back in 2013. And as for cool, calm and collected?

Forget it