Jammy Chicken

Keeping it real.

Sometimes, it's all about your vantage point.

Take this, for example.

It looks like a cake.

It smells like a cake.

It tastes...

...well, it tastes like a vanilla-flavored eraser.

Which is not quite as bad as you might imagine, actually.

So much for trying to make Elvis's favorite pound cake out of whole grain flours.

I am sure Elvis would not approve.

But hey, if you're going to screw up, you might as well own it.

Name it and claim it, people.

In honor of Friday the 13th, what's the worst luck you've had in the kitchen?

Iced Drinks : Iced Cubes.

For the longest time, the British Guy resisted ice cubes.

I think he thought they represented American frivolity, silliness and general ridiculous behavior - this freezing of water to put into drinks that generally come straight out of the refrigerator to start with.

More understandable, perhaps when you realize that this was the strongly held belief of a guy whose favorite (sorry, favourite...) headline growing up was 'Britain Sizzles in the Seventies!'

Nothing like nine (and counting) sweltering midwestern summers of melting into a little British puddle to convince him that ice cubes are not just for fun, they are a necessity.

A right.

A constitutional obligation, even.

Now that he's been won over, however, it's not just me to blame when the empty ice cube tray gets left on the counter, unfilled and not participating in the making of more ice cubes. Even worse, when the near-empty ice cube tray makes its way back into the freezer, because, let's face it, one ice cube left basically counts as empty, whether you think so or not (sweetie...).

Elderflower cordial and grape cubes on left, hibiscus cubes in mint tea on right. Rhubarb shrub and elderflower and lime cordial in background.

The scenario: a glass filled to the brim with ice.

Add a cold drink of choice - tea, coffee, juice, elderflower cordial.

The problem: Mere minutes later, the ice melts and your perfectly balanced drink is watery and diluted.

What to do to fix this summer conundrum?

The solution: Ice your drinks with cubes of frozen drink.

Want iced coffee? Freeze coffee. Or coffee concentrate for rocket-fueled sipping.

Want iced tea? Freeze tea.

Want iced elderflower cordial? Freeze elderflower cordial. Or cordial concentrate, even.

Want to be wild and crazy ?

Mix iced tea with cordial ice cubes. Or lemonade ice cubes, for an offbeat Arnold Palmer.

Fruit juice with tea cubes. Or tea with fruit juice cubes.

Milk with coffee cubes.

It's like those flip books with different heads, bodies and legs to choose from.

Make any combo you want.

Add pieces of fruit, or edible flowers and leaves, for even more interest and texture. Grapes freeze particularly well, and when the cubes melt you have a cool and tasty snack left in your glass.

Use different sized or shaped containers to freeze in, and remember that as an added bonus larger cubes melt slower than smaller ones - it's that whole surface area to volume thing.

One stonking big cube of frozen coffee extract in an iced latte, full of deep coffee flavor from the first to the very last sip?

Cool, chilly, refreshing heaven.

Gooseberry Ices: Sherbet and Sorbet.

Gooseberries (GOOZ-brees, remember?) are something I never even knew about until I moved to the UK, where they grow in unabashed abundance and are used in sweet desserts and savory dishes alike. To me, they taste of crabapple's sharpness and tartness, honey's sweet warm flavors. The British Guy made a face as I bought them at the farmer's market, 'cause he says he doesn't like them.

I don't care.

I was so excited to see gooseberries, delightful green and red and stripey little baubles, that I had to have them. It doesn't matter that I've never cooked with them before, the fun is in the doing.

Or in the trying, anyway.

It's a little full-on to try to woo someone who says he/she doesn't like gooseberries with a sauce for a roast, or a fish, I think (which is what they are sometines used for in the UK).

Too hardcore gooseberry.

Much easier to sweet-talk and tempt with some soft and luscious dessert, cooling and luxurious.

I become greedy at the thought of gooseberry ices, just one thing simply won't do.

I choose two lovely iced desserts to try - sorbet, which is made with fruit puree, sugar and water, and sherbet, which is made with fruit puree, a touch of milk, cream and sugar. The sorbet should highlight the fruit's pure taste, the sherbet might mellow its perceived tartness with a bit of rich dairy as an easy temptation for the gooseberry-disdaining British Guy.

The start is the same, and you can always stop with the puree, using it as a drizzle for vanilla ice cream or stirred into some fizzy water for a refreshing drink.

If you choose to press on, know you will be rewarded with luscious, creamy and utterly unique iced desserts, never to be found in the store (to the best of my knowledge), whose tart and sweet flavors are absolutely glorious in the heat of summer.

Make both, or make one and double the recipe, the choice is yours. But promise me that if you see gooseberries, you'll snatch them up and give them an honest try, whether you think you like them or not. Like the British Guy, who managed to scoff down some of both and proclaimed them 'not bad', you may be surprised. [BTW...he prefers the sherbet. Even though British 'sherbet' is some weird fruit-flavored effervescent powdery thing I have never ever heard of before.]

Gooseberry Puree.

about 2 cups gooseberries (365 grams)
2 tablespoons sugar (30 ml)
3 tablespoons water (45 ml)
1 to 2 slivers of lemon zest

Top and tail the gooseberries - trim off the stem and the brown papery blossom end with a small, sharp knife (or my secret weapon the strawberry huller). Hugh suggests it is not necessary to top and tail if you intend to sieve the puree, but I think the dried blossom bits could get pushed through the sieve and end up in the puree, yielding little brown fleckles, so I do anyway.

It is, as always, your call.

Add the gooseberries, lemon zest, water and sugar to a small pot, then bring to a simmer and cover, simmering on low for about 10 minutes, until the gooseberries are soft and have popped their skins.

Allow to cool, then strain through a fine sieve to remove the seeds and skins

You should have about 1 cup of gooseberry puree. Top up to 1 cup with a little water if necessary.

You can use this as a sauce, with an extra 2 tablespoons of sugar. Or, continue on with the ices.

 

Gooseberry Sorbet (below on left in jar, on right in cup).
Makes about 2 cups. Serves 1 gluttonously, or two with restraint.

1/2 cup gooseberry puree (120 ml)
1/3 cup superfine sugar (65 grams)
1 cup water (240 ml)

Mix all ingredients and refrigerate until cold.

Process in your ice cream maker according to instructions. Transfer to the freezer and freeze for 2-4 hours to firm up before serving.

 

Gooseberry Sherbet (above on right in jar, below on left in cup).
Makes about 2 cups. Serves 1 gluttonously, or two with restraint.

1/2 cup gooseberry puree (120 ml)
1/2 cup heavy whipping cream (120 ml)
1/2 cup whole milk (120 ml)
1/3 cup superfine sugar (65 grams)

Mix all ingredients and refrigerate until cold.

Process in your ice cream maker according to instructions. Transfer to the freezer and freeze for 2-4 hours to firm up before serving.

Both sherbet and sorbet are best eaten within a few days of making, as they tend to harden too much for easy scooping after that. You can leave them in the refrigerator for 5 to 10 minutes to soften a little, but if you re-freeze they will tend to form ice crystals. The easiest solution is to eat them all at once, frankly. It's a tough job, I know, but someone has to do it. I have complete faith in you.

Goat cheese, fruit, herb and honey open-faced sandwiches.

Scandinavian open-faced sandwiches, or smørrebrød, are not just a means of getting nosh into your gob, they represent a way of thinking about food that reflects restraint, simplicity and clarity.

It's not all that surprising, considering that those also seem to be the hallmarks of Scandinavian design.

Simple, functional, and useful.

Also, fast, easy and tasty.

I spent some time in Denmark, so I've eaten my fair share of smørrebrød, and the trick to creating one is to focus on a single ingredient and allow all the parts to highlight that one thing.

The bread is a pedestal, providing support and structure to hold up the filling, and adding texture and flavor contrast. Typical choices are rye (German-style with whole rye grains), white (sometimes toasted), or sourdough. The bread may or may not be buttered. Mayonaise is sometimes used as a garnish on top of the sandwich, but never smeared on the bread. These are usually eaten with a knife and fork.

Sometimes, the open-faced sandwich may consist of only one perfect thing.

How about an open-faced sandwich of plain white sourdough bread, generously buttered, with an artfully arranged row of tiny, impossibly fresh, cooked and peeled fjord shrimp?

Contrast this with a typical American deli sandwich - sometimes with an entire deli's worth of filling.

Now, I am not saying they're not good, those American sandwiches you need two hands to pick up.

I'm just saying, sometimes, something lighter is called for.

This is a hot-weather lunch, one that shows off prefectly fresh fruit. It's simple, fast and you can make it from whatever you want, and make it into whatever you want.

Use what you have, and embrace the open-faced sandwich.

Goat cheese, fruit, herb and honey open-faced sandwich.

For each person, you will need:

Two small or one large piece of fruit: I used one each of a small peach and a nectarine.
Two slices of bread: I used crispbread.
1/4 cup spreadable soft cheese: I used a local handmade soft goat's milk cheese.
Some runny honey, to taste.
Some fresh herbs, to taste: I used English thyme and orange mint.

Spread the cheese onto each of the pieces of bread.

Cut the fruit into 4 good thick slices and lay on top of the cheese. I put nectarine on one and peach on the other.

Drizzle the honey onto the fruit open-faced sandwiches, and any extra pieces of fruit.

Wash and dry the herbs, and finely chop any with large leaves if you want. I put thyme on the peach open-faced sandwich, and very thinly sliced mint on the nectarine open-faced sandwich.

Eat with a knife and fork for a traditional lunch - or with your fingers if you want, I won't tell.

Gluten-free shortbread: two kinds.

I don't care what anyone says, no one looks forward to the end of the school year more than the teachers. These last few weeks have just about killed me, and exam week is always the worst - so close to being done, and yet not done. Absolute torture.

My students (college students, mind you) send me the most amazing emails.

Many of them go something like this:

Hey, I (choose relevant excuse): haven't come to class since January/missed every one of our 18 quizzes/couldn't bother taking notes most of the semester. I am really sorry. Did I miss anything important?/Can I make all this up by tomorrow?/Can you tell me everything I need to know? I really need a good grade in this class. Email me back and let me know. Thanks!

Alright, some pointers:

First, you should at least use my name and spell it right. Otherwise I will assume you are sending the exact same email to every one of your professors in a desperate, last-ditch effort to grub for (undeserved) points.

Second: Why are you apologizing to me? It's your grade. Better yet, skip the sorry and start working.

Third: It was all important, it is physically impossible to do 15 weeks of work in 24 hours, and you should have been paying attention.

Fourth: I hate email.

Is it any wonder the stress eating kicked in? I think not.

I needed comfort food, and I decided shortbread would fit the bill.

Black Pepper, Oat & Pumpkin Seed Barley Biscuit/Cracker.

Small, grain-based snacks are a minefield of confusion.

Take your average biscuit.

To those of us in the US, this conjures up images of fluffy white mounds of bread- or scone-like baked goods, made with leavening of some kind and usually with significant vertical relief. Flaky is generally a positive. These often come smothered in gravy of some kind, or piled high with strawberries and whipped cream. Butter, jelly, honey, all can be applied to great effect.

The British biscuit, or biccie [British person says this should be bickie], as it is endearingly referred to, is closer to what we call a cracker in its savory form, but also often resembles what may be called a cookie when sweet. Its defining attributes are that it is flat, and usually has some bit of crunch to it, separating it from other flat, sweet and generally softer cookie-type edibles.

Complex, no?

I skittered down this rabbit hole via a short but intense fling with crackers over the last week, brought on by the presence of both hummus and flavored cream cheese: feta, kalamata olives, roasted red peppers. Love.

I required some vehicle to transfer to the mouth. Something sturdy, with a bit of a bite, but not so intense that it overpowers. Something portable, for packed lunches. Something tasty.

You'd be surprised at how few cracker recipes I came across delving into my cookbooks. Or maybe not. Buying crackers is ordinary, not may people have the time or interest to make them, probably.

Making them yourself accomplishes a lot of good things, though.

It lets you decide exactly what goes into them.

Want to use healthy grains?

Want lots of spice? Want no spice?

You decide.

They're really not that hard to make, and they don't take a lot of time.

Plus, as with many things, they're much tastier when you make them yourself.

These biscuits are from Gary Rhodes' The Complete Rhodes Around Britian, an interesting mix of classic British dishes and new interpretations. Despite the fact that his haircut makes him look like Sonic the Hedgehog, don't let that fool you - this is good stuff.

Seville Orange Marmalade Cake.

Let's be completely honest here, shall we?

This is not a looker of a cake.

If it were a she, and she were walking down the street, no-one would wolf-whistle.

I doubt she'd really even get a second look.

She's not a glamazon, sugar-bomb, over-the-top confectionary flight-of-fancy.

But don't discount her for that, because it's a feature, not a flaw.

She's an honest, approachable kind of cake. Suitable for all occasions, not just super-fancy frosting-laden affairs. Not that she can't handle a super-fancy, frosting-laden affair, mind you.

She's just understated, that's all.

If she were your friend, she'd be the one you call first with good news, and bad. The one who volunteers to drive you to the airport at 4 am. The one who makes you laugh so hard you can't breathe.

She's just a really good cake, she is. So don't hold her lack of exotic looks against her, because she makes up for it with character. Lots of orange marmaladey character.

For those of us who make jam, we're always on the quest for recipes to use that jam. And jelly. And preserves. And marmalade. Because, you see, our goal in life is to make more jam. And in order to make more jam, we need to use the current jam up, to make more space, free up more jars. So we can make more jam.

It's a vicious, never-ending circle of obsessive-compulsive preserving.

I am sure there's a self-help group out there somewhere. But I can stop any time. Really, I can.

This cake is a holy grail of using the preserves - three-quarters of a cup of marmalade in it, more on it. That's a whole jar gone. Plus you get a really great cake out of it.

So, bust this baby out for an afternoon snack. She's great with tea or coffee. After dinner, as a not overly sweet nibble. Breakfast, even. I mean, it's got orange marmalade in it, and that uses oranges, and so does orange juice, and orange juice is for breakfast, so there you go. Am I right or am I right?

Seville Orange Marmalade Cake.
Based on a recipe from the incomparable Darina Allen's Forgotten Skills of Cooking.

350 g self-rising flour
150 g butter, plus more for greasing the tin
150 g sugar
generous 3/4 cup orange marmalade* 
2 eggs
1/4 cup milk
hearty pinch of salt
powdered sugar for dusting (optional) 

You will need a 6 inch diameter, 3 inch high cake tin or springform pan, and a scale. 

* If the marmalade has coarse shreds, pop it in a food processor and give it a whiz, or chop by hand.

Note: I measured dry ingredients by weight, which I find faster and more accurate. There are internet sites that offer conversions based on ingredient, but I find them infuriatingly inconsistent. That truly irks the scientist in me. If you have the option, go for the scale. I can't guarantee success with a dodgy conversion.

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F, and grease the tin (or use cooking spray).

Rub the butter into the flour and salt until the mixture is crumbly and the butter is incorporated, then add the sugar and mix. 

In a separate bowl, whisk the eggs and marmalade until combined, then stir in the milk. Add the liquid ingredients to the dry ingredients, and mix until just combined. This will make a robust, spoonable batter.

Scrape into the cake tin, smooth the top, and bake in the oven for 75 minutes until the top is browned and a cake tester comes out with only a few crumbs.

Leave to cool on a wire tray, and when ready to serve, dust the top with powdered sugar and eat with a generous slather of marmalade.

Keeps well for several days in an airtight container. Can be frozen for longer storage.

Soured Cream Fig Lemon Scones.

Scones are a beautiful thing. Crispy on the outside, tender on the inside.

Crumbly, delectable, and yet not excessively indulgent.

I never get bored of scones, because they are infinitely variable and can range from classic to exotic, all with a flick of the wrist and a change of flavors.

For all their versatility, they are also both quick and simple to make.

You can go from scone craving to scones in the oven in 15 minutes.

My new favorite technique is emminently suited to scone spontaneity, as it calls for cold butter, cold eggs, cold dairy.

Take 'em out of the fridge, toss 'em in the mixer.

Done.

It's based on a method from Joanne Chang's Flour cookbook, and once you get the how-to down, you can make any kind of scone you can dream of.

The dairy in this particular version is a mixture of creme fraiche and soured cream.

Not sour cream, but soured cream. I often buy a big container of cream to use in all manner of baking, and the dregs sit there, forelorn and unloved, until we take pity on them and rinse them away.

But what a waste. 

Then I thought about it a little. Buttermilk is really just soured milk. So, if we deliberately make sour milk, why don't we use milk that's gone sour? Or cream, even?

I know it's not an earth-shattering revelation. And yet, it makes a lot of sense. Maybe you've been doing this all along, and I'm just slow to the party. Maybe you've just never thought about it, really, like I hadn't. 

I'd like to tell you, though, that this isn't just sloppy seconds. Not only does it use up that soured cream, but it makes a flavorful, light and flaky scone. 

It's almost worth letting some cream sour just to have the excuse. You certainly don't need to feel bad when it does. Or, if you really can't wait that long, add half a tablespoon of lemon juice to half a cup of heavy cream - instant soured cream.

Do know, though, that your soured cream can progress too far down the path of sour. It should have a tangy aroma and still be creamy. If it has curdled or separated (or solidified), it's too far gone. There may well be something to do with it at that stage, but I have yet to find it.

Soured Cream Fig Lemon Scones.
Makes 8 large scones. 

2 3/4 cups flour (385 grams)
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1/3 cup sugar (70 grams)
1/2 cup dried figs, chopped coarsely
1 tablespoon lemon zest, from 1 lemon*
1/2 cup cold butter, cut into 8 or 9 pieces
1/2 cup cold soured cream
1/2 cup cold creme fraiche (or use yogurt)
1 cold egg

*use the juice from the lemon to sour your cream if you need to.
You will also need a scale, stand mixer, baking sheet and baking paper. 

Heat your oven to 350 degrees F and put a rack in the center.

In a small bowl, whisk the cold soured cream, creme fraiche, and egg.

Using the paddle attachment on your stand mixer, mix together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, sugar, lemon zest and figs on low speed for a few seconds, until combined. Scatter the butter over the top and mix on low speed for about 30 to 45 seconds, until the butter is broken down into small grape-sized chunks. 

I know, they look like large pieces. Go with it, this is the key to crisp and flaky scones.

Pour the soured cream mixture over the flour and butter mixture, and beat on low speed until it starts to come together. The dough will be quite stiff and dry, and there will be some loose flour and crumbs at the bottom of the bowl.

Remove the bowl from the stand mixer and gather the dough together with your hands, turning and pressing it into the bottom of the bowl to stick it together into a shaggy mass.

Dump the dough and any remaining crumbs onto your baking paper and smoosh it together a few times to make one coherent mound. Pat it out into a disk about an inch thick and 8 or 9 inches in diameter.

Cut the disk into 8 wedges, pulling the wedges out as you cut them so they are about an inch apart.

The dough can be frozen at this point, tightly wrapped in saran wrap, for up to 1 week. It can be baked from frozen, but will take an extra 5 or 10 minutes.

Bake for 3o or 35 minutes, until the top and edges are crisp and brown.

Serve hot, with butter and jelly or jam, or allow to cool and serve with more butter and more jelly or jam.

These have a generous dollop of Paradise Jelly, whose fruity, sharp and honey notes, and glorious pink color, compliment the earthy figgy lemon scone quite nicely, if I do say so myself.

Orange Flower and Custard Cream Heart Cookies.

Aaah, heart-shaped cookies.

Is anything else quite so smarmy and cute?

Especially with you-know-what coming up soon.

I generally avoid V-Day, as a rule. 

I am trying to formulate a really good reason why, but honestly I just don't care about one day a year overflowing with pink and sugary sweet tidings of love.

Give me any excuse to bake a cookie, though, and I will jump at the opportunity.

Last year it was chocolate sugar cookies.

Love. Love. Love playing in decorating sugar and novelty sprinkles.

This year we're going classy and upmarket with a monochromatic theme and an orange flower water and custard cream filling.

They may be hearts, but don't hold it against them, they're tasty cookies any time you want a little cute smarmy lovin'. 

Orange Flower and Custard Cream Heart Cookies.
Inspired by Nigella Lawson's recipe from Feast.
Makes 18 custard heart sandwich cookies.

For the Custard Cookies.
1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 cup Bird's Custard Powder*
1 teaspoon baking powder
4 tablespoons butter (1/2 stick)
1/2 cup vegetable shortening
1/4 cup superfine sugar
1 egg, beaten lightly

For the Orange Flower Custard Cream.
2 tablespoons Bird's Custard Powder*
3/4 cup confectioner's sugar
1/2 cup vegetable shortening
1 teaspoon orange flower water

* This is one of those British ingredients that we simply don't have an equivelent for here in the US. You can find Bird's Custard Powder online, and it's so useful to have around for instant gratification when you absolutely need to pour custard over cake or fruit right away...which happens more often than I'd like to admit around here.

You will need a food processor, a 2-inch heart-shaped cookie cutter, a rolling pin, and a cookie sheet lined with baking paper.

Mix the flour, custard powder and baking powder together and put into a food processor with the butter, cut into pieces, and the vegetable shortening, scooped in as spoonfulls. Pulse until combined and the mixture forms a crumbly texture.

Add the sugar and pulse again, and with the processor running drizzle in the egg until the cookie dough comes together and clumps into a ball. You may not need to add all of the egg.

Put the dough onto a piece of plastic wrap and press into a disk, then wrap completely and refrigerate for a minimum of 30 minutes. The dough can be stored in the refrigerator for up to 3 days.

When ready to bake, pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees F.

Roll the dough out on a lightly floured surface until it is approximately 1/4 inch thick. Dip the cookie cutter into flour and cut out a heart. Repeat as necessary to keep the dough from sticking. Make an even number of hearts. You can make about 24 from the first episode of cookie cutting, and an additional 10 to 12 if you re-roll the remaining scraps in a second round. The dough will need to be refrigerated before you roll it out the second time.

Space the cookies about 1/2 inch apart on a baking paper-lined cookie sheet. You should be able to fit the first 24 on a single cookie tray. Bake additional cookies in a later batch.

Bake for 15 minutes, until the cookies are gently puffed and just starting to color.

Cool on the cookie sheet for 15 minutes, then remove gently to a rack to finish cooling.

To make the orange flower custard creme, mix the custard powder and confectioner's sugar and add to a food processor with the vegetable shortening. Process until you get a smooth creme, then add the orange flower water and pulse until combined.

When the cookies are completely cool, gently spread 3 to 4 teaspoons of the custard creme on the bottom side of a cookie, and wiggle a second cookie into place on top, bottom side onto the frosting. The cookies are very delicate, so avoid pressing forcefully or they may break.

Cookies can be stored at room temperature, and last for 2 to 3 days in an airtight container.

Wine-Poached Peach and Almond Tart.

This is a multi-step, multi-component recipe, so it is not to be undertaken on a whim and finished in a flash.

Instant gratification, not found here. But don't see that as a drawback, rather it is a bonus.

It is quite a perfect winter dessert (or breakfast, I dare say), in that winter is never really the time of instant gratification, anyway. Breezy summer is when you want to throw something together in a snap, staying away from fuss and complexity, flitting from thought to completion in the blink of an eye.

Winter is for planning, organizing, meticulous attention to detail. No siren song of sweet breeze is calling you out, distracting you with promises. Instead, there is time for thoughtful preparation. Peaceful enjoyment of simple and honest ingredients. Creating something rustic but meaningful and satisfying.

Taking joy in the process.

The process of making this tart is a delight. Basic ingredients transform themselves into a grand design, where each part comes together to become a whole that is so much more than the mere sum of the individual components.

This tart, it is is not overly sweet or cloying. The only sweetness comes from the dried, then wine-plumped, peaches. It is sturdy and robust, what one needs in these wintry days. It glows with a sunny golden radiance, bringing cheer to short hours. Rememberances of this tart will linger with you through hectic, busy days of summer until you again have time to enjoy the process of taking time.

Wine-poached Peach and Almond Tart.
Serves 8 to 10.

Inspired by an apricot tart recipe in Canal House Cooking vol. 3 by Christopher Hirsheimer and Melissa Hamilton.

Makes one 9-inch tart. Requires a 9-inch, removable bottom, fluted tart pan, a rolling pin, and a food processor.

For the Peaches.
1 1/2 cups dried peach halves (about 10 to 12 halves)
2 cups white wine, such as savinion blanc
2/3 cup granulated sugar
zest and juice from 1 clementine
1 mace blade

For the Crust.
2 cups flour
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
12 tablespoons (1 1/2 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into pieces
1 egg
a pinch of salt 

For the Almond Filling.
3/4 cup blanched or slivered almonds (skins removed)
3/4 cup powdered sugar
2 tablespoons flour
8 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into pieces
1 egg
1 egg yolk
2 teaspoons vanilla extract

Poach the peaches by putting the wine, granulated sugar, clementine zest and juice, and mace blade in a small saucepan and bring to the boil. Stir until the sugar dissolves, then add the dried peaches and turn down to a gentle simmer. Cover, and simmer for 20 minutes, until the peaches have plumped up lightly. Let the peaches cool in the syrup. Peaches can be stored in the refrigerator, in the poaching syrup, for up to a week. When ready to proceed, strain the peaches.

Reserve the syrup for another use, such as a flavoring for sparkling water, sweetener for tea, light drizzle for ice cream, or flavorful soak for pound cake.

Prepare the crust by whisking the flour, sugar and salt together in a large mixing bowl. Use your fingers (this is the time to enjoy the process) to work the butter into the flour until it has the texture of cornmeal. Add the egg, begin to mix with a fork, and then press the dough together until all the crumbs are combined into a shaggy mass.

Empty onto a clean, floured counter and press the dough into a rough disk. Use a rolling pin to shape the dough into a 1/4 inch thick disk slightly larger than the tart pan. Transfer the dough to the tart pan, press evenly across the bottom and up the sides, trim any excess dough from the top edge, and fill any holes or cracks that may have formed.

Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least an hour, or overnight.

To make the almond filling, grind the almonds in a food processor until they are the texture of coarse sand. Toast the ground almonds in a skillet over medium-low heat for 3 or 4 minutes, until they become fragrant and just begin to brown. Stir constantly. They will go from pale to toasted in an instant, so watch carefully.

Remove the skillet from the heat and stir in the powdered sugar, then set aside to cool.

While the almonds cool, about 10 minutes, preheat the oven to 400 degrees F.

When the almonds are cooled, return them to the food processor. Add the butter, egg and egg yolk, and vanilla, and process until the filling is smooth. It will smell divinely of the best possible smells you could imagine.

Spread the almond filling in the prepared crust, and arrange the peaches on top, gently placing them in a pretty design. Bake the tart until the filling is toasty brown and puffed around the apricots, about 45 minutes.

Allow the tart to cool and the filling to set. Serve at room temperature.

Celeriac, Caper and Pickled Red Onion Salad.

Celeriac is all over the place right now. I keep coming across it unexpectedly in the veggie aisle and getting a scare, because boy howdy is it ugly.

U.G.L.Y.

Lumpy, hairy, rooty, brown bulbous kinda ugly.

As in, not pretty.

But you chop off all that outside stuff and the inside is an ethereal white, smelling clean and sharp and faintly of anise.

It's what celery wishes it smelled like, if celery weren't so agressively celery-smelling.

And there's this haze of austerity, puritanical cleansing, lurking about right now, brought on by holiday excess and new year re-evaluation, that the clean and calm of celeriac seems to resonate with.

Maybe it's the white, or the crunch of crisp slices, or the subtle palate-cleansing flavor, but raw celeriac just feels like it is supremely good for you. And we'd all like to feel like we're doing good for ourselves, especially right about now, in the long, cold stretch out of winter.

This is a riff on Celeriac Remoulade, which is a French classic, and more often than not uses some combination of mayonaise and mustard in various proportions for a dressing. Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall adds red onions for a little acidic bite to compliment the celeriac crunch, and I decided to quick pickle them. This mellows the sharpness and also highlights the remarkable pink color, making this dish a riot of pastels.

Hugh also makes a dressing using creme fraiche instead of mayonaise, which results in what I think is a cleaner-tasting and less sticky finish. The dressing is a gem in and of itself, and can be used on any robust salad or vegetable, or even spread on a sandwich in lieu of mayo. You can make creme fraiche remarkably easily, and it's dead useful in all kinds of things from sauces to baking.

Creme fraiche scones? Delightful! I'll be sharing those soon.

So, whatever cleanse you're on, even if it's just a mental cobweb sweep-out, take the time to apologize to your body for being such a jerk last year and treat it nicely for a while. Ease back into the real world with something light, crisp and healthy.

Then have another glass of wine.

Celeriac, Caper and Pickled Red Onion Salad.
Modified from a recipe by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's Guardian column.
Serves 6 to 8 as a side salad.

Celeriac Salad

one head celeriac (about 300 g)
1 small red onion
50 g capers, brine-packed
1/2 cup white wine vinegar
1 to 2 tablespoons fresh thyme leaves
a squeeze of lemon

Creme Fraiche Dressing 

1/2 cup creme fraiche
2/3 cup olive oil
3 tablespoons white wine vinegar
1 tablespoon roasted garlic, chopped (I use the kind in a jar)
1 tablespoon grainy mustard (more if you're a super fan of mustard)
1 teaspoon sugar

fresh ground black pepper
flaky salt 

You will also need a mandoline or vegetable peeler.

To prepare the dressing, add all of the ingredients except the oil to a food processor and process until you have a thick, well-blended mixture. With the processor running, slowly drizzle in the oil until it is incorporated and the dressing is  a creamy emulsion. Store in the refrigerator until needed. Keeps for up to a week. Bring back to room temperature before using.

Prepare a bowl of water with a squeeze of lemon. Cut off the rooty, fibrous, brown and lumpy skin of the celeriac. Peel the white inner flesh into very thin slices with a vegetable peeler or mandoline. As you peel, drop the slices into the lemon water. Store in the lemon water until ready to serve.

Finely slice the onion into half-moons and rinse, shake a little to dry off, and put into a bowl with the white wine vinegar. Marinate the onions in the vinegar for about 30 minutes.

When ready to serve, strain and dry the celeriac. Strain the onions. Arrange the celeriac on a large, flat plate. Scatter the onions on top.

Drizzle the dressing artistically over the celeriac and onions, then scatter the capers and thyme leaves over. Generously grind over the pepper and sprinkle with flaky salt.

Serve any extra dressing on the side.

The undressed celeriac will keep for a day or two, but once you assemble the salad it's best eaten immediately.

Lime Curd.

Your first job is to get past the name. Curd is so unflattering, conjuring images of  stodgy. Homey. Lumpy, even.

Which is ironic, considering this traditional English namesake is luxurious, creamy and very, very luscious.

Think of it instead as dreamy tangy zesty lime-imbued sunshiney wonderfulness trapped in a jar.

Although I grant you that curd is shorter. 

Your second job is to make some, because it is one of those things that simply don't mass produce or package very well, and when you do see it, it's usually mind-bogglingly expensive. And it really, really never tastes as good as when you make it yourself.

I have to admit, I think things like curd are some of the hidden treasures of do-it-yourself homecraft. Sure, I can make some pretty good jam, but even if I couldn't, there's still a lot of great jam out there, waiting to be bought.

Some things are a commercial rarity, though, and that makes them extra special. Curds are one of those.

It's not because they are difficult.

Can you stir? Do you have a stove and a pot and a bowl?

Then you can make curd.

It uses quite a bit of butter, and eggs, and in lean times this could be a luxury.

I would argue, though, that the joy of spreading a little luxury on your toast, or into your yogurt, is well worth the couple dollars' worth of ingredients you will use.

Plus, my math says that you're totally saving loads by making it yourself, anyway, so that's like earning money, right?

And no, no one's life depends on my math skills. Cause I know you were wondering.

This curd is not at all puckery. It's just smooth and rich, zesty with green ribbons of lime floating in a golden sea. It's rather intriguingly creamy and light at the same time.

It is utterly delightful as a spread on scones, toast, or may I suggest Cornish saffron cakes? Use it as a mix-in for yogurt or ice cream. Use it as a filling in a tart shell, pre-made or otherwise, and garnish with some fresh fruit, for a simple, fast, yet show-stopping dessert. It will last in the fridge, unopened, for 6 to 8 weeks, and freezes beautifully, for up to a year.

Lime Curd.
Modified from William Sonoma's Art of Preserving.
Makes about 2 1/4 cups. Takes approximately 50 minutes.

2 to 3 large limes, more if small*
1 cup white sugar
4 eggs, beaten well**
14 tablespoons unsalted butter (1 3/4 sticks), cut into tablespoon pieces 
a good pinch vanilla salt (optional)

*You need a total of 1/2 cup lime juice. Some limes are juicier than others, so the number needed may vary.

**If you are concerned about having a completely smooth curd, you will want to sieve the eggs before you cook this. Sometimes the stringy part of the egg - hey, it has a name and it's called a chalaza, isn't google great? - gets a little stiff when it is cooked. Whisk the eggs well and push them through a medium sieve with a spoon, and you'll get that stringy bit out.

You will need one or more sterilized jars to hold a total of  2 1/4 cups.  You will also need a pot and a non-reactive heat-proof bowl large enough to fit over the pot with good clearance.

Start with the first lime, and first grate the zest using a wide toothed microplane, then juice the lime. Then, move on to the second lime, collecting zest and juice. Continue until you have accumulated 1/2 cup of lime juice, using additional limes as necessary.

Stir together the sugar, lime juice, lime zest, and eggs in a non-reactive, heat-proof bowl.

When well combined, set the bowl over a pot of simmering water (do not let the bowl bottom touch the water). 

While stirring constantly, add the butter one tablespoon at a time, letting each cube melt before you add the next.  

Stir  thoroughly, scraping the bottom of the bowl well. It will take about 20 minutes to melt the  butter, piece by piece, and you need to stir for all of it.

Once the buter is incorporated, continue to stir while you cook the curd until it thickens enough to well and truly coat the back of a spoon.

Resist the urge to let fear convince you to stop cooking too soon. You want this nice and thick.

If you have a thermometer, continue cooking until the curd reaches a temperature of 160 to 170 F. 

Do not, however, let the curd boil.

When it reaches temperature, transfer the curd to the waiting sterilized container or containers. Leave 1 cm clearance at the top of each jar.

Cover, and allow to cool completely. Store in the refrigerator, unopened, for 6 to 8 weeks.

Curd can be frozen for up to a year.

Cornish Saffron Cakes.

These craggy and fruit-enriched drop scones gain a sunny yellow glow and a mysteriously exotic nuance from a pinch of saffron, which makes then both sweet and savory at the same time.

They can robustly support sweet spreads such as jam or lime curd, but can just as easily be taken to the savory side with a good slice of sharp cheese and some tomato and basil jam or tomato chutney. 

 

The sweet side with lime curd and a proper cup of tea. The savory side with yellow cherry tomato and basil jam, black pepper asiago cheese, and a side of cornichons.

Cornish Saffron Cakes.
After a recipe from Marguerite Patten's Best British Dishes.
Takes about 20 minutes of active time, and makes 10 drop cakes.

2 cups of self-rising flour*
2/3 cup unsulphered dried apricots, chopped into 1-cm sized pieces
1/3 cup currants
2/3 cup milk (or more if necessary)
1 large egg
1/2 cup cold butter, cut into cm-sized chunks
1/2 cup sugar
pinch of saffron salt, or plain salt
pinch of saffron (optional)

 * You can make self-rising flour by adding 2 teaspoons of baking powder to all-purpose flour.

You will need a strainer, two baking sheets and baking paper, or extra butter to grease the baking sheets.

Turn the oven on to 400 F and position two racks in the upper third and lower third of the oven.

If the apricots and currants are hard, as dried fruit often can be, place them in a bowl and cover with warm water to plump them up a little.

Heat the milk until it is just warm to the touch (about 10 seconds in a microwave) and add the saffron.

Let the saffron milk and fruit (if plumping) sit for 20 minutes. Immediately before proceeding with the rest of the recipe, drain the fruit in a strainer and allow to drip until you need it.

Mix the self-rising flour and salt in a bowl, and rub in the butter until it is broken down to pea-sized pieces. This takes just a few minutes. 

Add the strained fruit to the dry ingredients and use a fork to gently mix together and break up any fruity lumps.

Strain the saffron milk to remove the saffron threads if you'd like, then beat in the egg until well combined. Add this to the dry ingredients and fruit, and mix gently until just combined. The batter should be spoonable but stiff enough to retain its shape when scooped.

Spoon out approximately 1/2 cup sized rough mounds of dough. Leave the surface craggy. I used one spoon to scoop the dough, and a second to gently slide the lump of dough off the spoon and onto the prepared baking sheet. Space about 2 or 3 inches apart. You will need two baking sheets.

Bake for 20 to 22 minutes, until the upper craiggy surface is starting to brown, and rotate trays at the 10-minute mark.

Remove from the oven, cool for a few minutes on the baking tray, then transfer to a wire rack to continue cooling.

These are very delectable warm, and are also very good when cool.

Store in an air-tight container and eat within 3 or 4 days. Can be frozen.

Homemade yogurt: sweet, creamy, rich and delicious (and cheap!) (and easy!).

I know, making your own yogurt was so last year. It swept the food bloggies like a white wave. It even has its own facebook page (which totally proves it's mainstream now). 

However, I have never been cutting-edge trendy. Except maybe for the 6 weeks in 7th grade when I had that hairstyle with a rattail. And then I just looked dorky.

Dude, it was 7th grade. And no, I am not going to post a picture.

Trendy or no, I do make yogurt. I eat it for breakfast most mornings, +/- granola or fruit. I use it in breads, cooking, baking, have it for dessert smothered in honey or maple syrup.

I eat a lot of it. I make a lot of it.

I have tried just about every possible way to make it, with probiotic starters, every brand of plain yogurt ever made, all kinds of dairy.  Honestly? None of them were really great.

You see, I'm a little particular about what I shove in my gob first thing in the morning. I don't like watery yogurt. I don't like bitter or sour yogurt. I don't even like overly tangy yogurt. I don't like thin yogurt. Perversely, I also don't like really thick and sticky yogurt. It sounds whiney, but really, I am not looking for a challenging eat at that hour of the morning.

Sometimes, knowing what you don't like is the best way to get to where you're happy. And this last batch of yogurt, probably the hundred-ish-something-one I've made?

This one was just right.

You don't need a fancy yogurt maker. Frankly, I think the yogurt comes out better without the yogurt maker, and I've spent the last few years using an individual serving cup machine.

The trick, I think, is in the milk. Whole milk. 

I'll wait while you compose yourself.

I have found that whole milk makes a better textured yogurt - it has some body, because all the goodness hasn't been strained, sieved, extracted or whatever they do to get to skim. It tastes better because the sweet and creamy is carried by the little bit of fat. It makes a yogurt that leaves me feeling more full and satisfied, which means I need to eat less, and am less grumpy when I miss out on that giant ball of hunger that shows up 2 hours after breakfast otherwise. It helps deliver fat-soluble vitamins like D, A and E, which help calcium absorption. It's good for me, and for you.

And a high-calcium diet may help lower fat intake, so it's kinda like it cancels itself out, right? Just like all the calories fall out of broken cookies. (Betcha didn't know that, did ya?)

My other secret ingredient is milk powder. I add just a little to give more body to the yogurt (remember up there, the watery yogurt issue?). And the last secret is selecting the right starter to make it sweet and tangy with narry a hint of bitterness. The only yogurt that works for me is Fage. I have tried dozens, and even if they taste fine from the pot, whatever little bacteria cultures are in there multiply into something that's just too tart for me. I only need to buy a small container (7 ounces)  at the store to use as a starter every three or 4 batches, and I only buy a new starter when my own batch starts tasting a little funky, meaning the sweet and fresh cultures are turning bitter.

I did the math, and the difference in price for a year of homemade yogurt versus store bought, 6 ounce containers is like $300. Dude, that's a lot of shoes. Plus way better yogurt. A total win, in my book.

The recipe makes 10 cups of yogurt, which seems like a lot, but it makes the quantities super-simple, and it stores in the fridge for up to two weeks. With this on hand, you will find yourself using it a lot, in everything from cooking to baking to just plain eating.

My new favorite way to eat yogurt right now? With a few spoonfulls of some slightly runny homemade strawberry preserves folded in, showing off the luscious red and white streaks, with the unexpected sweet summery burst of strawberry chunks as you eat it. What a fantastic way to start the day!

Homemade yogurt.
Takes about 25 minutes of actual work and a further 12 hours of waiting. Makes 10 cups.

You will need clean, sterilized glass containers to hold 10 cups (I use 2-cup jam jars), a heavy pot, a thermometer, a baking sheet and dish towel.

1 gallon organic whole milk
7 ounces plain whole milk yogurt, purchased from store or reserved from a previous batch of homemade yogurt
1/2 cup organic milk powder 

First, turn your oven on to 180 F, and as soon as it hits temperature, turn it off again. Put the kitchen towel on the baking sheet, and put the jars on the towel. Put this in the over and turn the oven light on. This will help maintain heat for the 12-hour culturing period.

Pour the milk into the pot and warm it up to 185 F, just as it starts to bubble but before it starts to boil. Let it cool to 100 to 110 F. I pour the hot milk into a new, cold cast-iron pot to start off fast, then whisk and check every 10 minutes. It usually takes about 30 to 45 minutes. If it forms a skin, I whisk it back in.

Don't proceed if the temperature is above 120 F, or below 90 F, or you will have a yogurt fail.

When the milk hits temperature, get the baking tray with glass containers out of the oven. The oven temp should be warm but not hot. Stick your hand in and check - if it's a nice early summer day in there, you're good. If it's an August scorcher, leave the door open a little to cool off.

Add the yogurt and milk powder to the milk and whisk until it is smooth.

The glass containers should be a little warm, but not hot to the touch. Pour the milk-milk powder-yogurt mixture in, dividing equally and leaving a little clearance at the top so you don't slosh.

Now, the hard part. Close the oven door and leave it closed for 10 to 12 hours. Leave the oven light on during this time to provide a little bit of warmth to keep the culture going. I do this overnight, so I am not tempted to peek into the oven and release that precious heat every time I walk past.

When done, cover and store in the refrigerator.

The texture firms up a little more when completely cold, but it is quite good for breakfast first thing the next morning still slightly warm.