Roast beef, truffled polenta and summer vegetables


I don't exaggerate when I say that I can count on one hand the number of times I have cooked beef. I've made a couple of beef stews; a gorgeous warming one with ale, carrots and onions on bonfire night a few years ago, which was the perfect antidote to standing around in the freezing cold to watch the pretty lights in the sky; this rather delicious tomato and pepper stew enriched with cinnamon and stirred into pasta ribbons; and a couple of weeks ago I made an improvised beef goulash for eighteen hungry Navy people. Tender cubes of lean stewing beef, in a rich tomato sauce with strips of red and green peppers, lashings of paprika and cayenne pepper, and dumplings. It was unexpectedly delicious, and inspired me to experiment a bit more with the humble cow. I don't know why I hardly ever cook beef; I think it's because it's a meat that you can't really experiment with, and by that I mean pair it with fruit. Anyone who's ever been cooked for by me will know that I adore the combination of fruit and meat, which is why I usually cook with lamb or pork. Beef doesn't really lend itself to such weird and wonderful combinations, so I usually assume it's 'boring' and steer clear.


However, having caught the beef 'bug' from the delicious goulash and a little bit of my boyfriend's roast at the pub the other day, I decided to give beef another go. Luckily, fate seemed to be on my side, as the butcher had an enormous piece of topside on offer. It was gigantic, over two feet long, weighing over three kilos, and a bit of a bargain. I struggled home with it and then had a think about recipes. Initially I had the idea of serving it very rare, thinly sliced, with truffle oil, parmesan and rocket, rather like the classic Italian beef tagliata. I was going to bake bread to accompany it, but eventually I couldn't be bothered and therefore the need arose for more carbohydrate. I was intent on using truffle oil somewhere in the dish, ever since I had an incredible starter of wild boar ham drizzled with the stuff in Italy in April. It goes very well with beef, I think - beef and mushrooms are a great combination, and truffle oil is just taking it one step (well, several steps) closer to gastronomic luxury; the earthiness of the truffles have a great affinity with the earthy, iron-rich flavour of good beef. Firmly set on an Italian interpretation, I decided to make some wet polenta infused with truffle oil, imagining that its richness and slightly grainy texture would match the tender meat perfectly.


I suppose the obvious thing to do with the topside would have been roast beef with all the usual trimmings, but we're nearing June now and the weather is (or was, at least) just too summery to start whipping up Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes and thick, dark gravy. For that reason, I decided that some simple summer vegetables would be the perfect accompaniment; their flavour would bring freshness to the dish and their flavour wouldn't overpower the truffley aromas emanating from the polenta, or the richness of the beef. Tagliata and carpaccio usually pair very rare or even raw slices of beef (usually fillet) with a rocket salad; I decided to serve the meat with a peppery combination of rocket, watercress and spinach, to complement its deep flavours.



I roasted the topside on a bed of onions, sprinkled with a few thyme sprigs and some seasoning. It barely fit in my oven dish due to its enormous size, and there was something immensely satisfying about just sticking a huge piece of meat in the oven and forgetting about it, without having to slave over the hob for hours. The beef I just seasoned with coarse sea salt, black pepper and olive oil, rubbed into the skin. I read somewhere that patting the skin with flour helps it crisp up during cooking; it worked like a charm, resulting in the most incredibly delicious crunchy texture around the outside of the meat, with delicious little nuggets of sea salt. The best bit of all, though, was the 'gravy'. I didn't actually make gravy, just serving the beef with the roasting juices. All the fat rendered down from the meat into the onions in the roasting tin, turning them caramelised, sweet and tender. Spooned over the sliced beef they were absolutely incredible. 


The only slight issue I had was with the cooking of the meat. I don't know what happened - I timed it perfectly to result in rare meat, and it came out closer to medium. I guess my oven just runs hotter than it should, because I left the beef in for really the shortest time possible. I love rare meat and wanted it still bloody in the middle, but instead it was just pink. I was assured it was delicious, but to this day I am still very grumpy about this mishap and intend to order a meat thermometer as soon as possible to avoid future incidents. I suppose generally people don't share my love of meat that is practically still breathing, so cooking it to this stage is probably more socially acceptable.



This is a fairly simple roast dinner, and a perfect way of bringing traditional roast beef into summer. If you're not taking on the mad task of making a roast for nine people, you could use a smaller piece of topside or another roasting joint - fillet would work well too, if you can afford it. Thin slices of pink beef topside, summer vegetables (carrots, asparagus, peas and green beans) dressed with a little garlic oil, a creamy mound of rich polenta drizzled with truffle oil, and a watercress and rocket salad. The finishing touch - a spoonful of meltingly sweet onions and roasting juices. It has all the satisfaction of a Sunday lunch, but feels slightly healthier and much more appropriate for summer weather. The earthy truffle polenta works perfectly with the meat and onions, and the sweet, crunchy vegetables and salad provide a nice freshness. Delicious.


Roast beef, truffled polenta and summer vegetables (serves 10):

3 kg beef topside joint, ready for roasting
5 onions, peeled and sliced
4 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed with a knife blade
A few sprigs of thyme
Olive oil
Coarse sea salt and black pepper
3 tbsp flour

500g quick-cook polenta
Water
Salt and black pepper
Truffle oil
50g grated parmesan
Vegetables, to serve (I used asparagus, green beans, peas and carrots)
Rocket and watercress, to serve

Pre-heat the oven as hot as it will go.

First, prepare the beef. Sprinkle the onions into a large roasting tin, add the garlic and thyme, and season. Rub the olive oil, sea salt and pepper into the beef and place it on top of the onions. Pat the skin with the flour. Put the beef in the oven and roast for 15 minutes. Then turn the oven down to 170C and roast for half an hour per kilo - this should give you rare/medium-rare meat, but if you like it very rare try 20 minutes per kilo - you can always put it back in, and remember it continues to cook while resting.

When the time is up, remove the beef to a board and cover with foil and a tea towel. Leave to rest for 20-30 minutes before carving.

To make the polenta (do this just before serving), bring 2 litres of water to the boil. Add a little chicken stock cube for extra flavour, if you like. Gradually pour in the polenta, whisking constantly, until it thickens. Stir in a generous amount of seasoning, and the parmesan. Spoon big mounds of it onto the plates and drizzle generously with truffle oil. Top with several slices of beef, drizzle with more truffle oil, and spoon over some roasting juices and caramelised onions.

Serve with your choice of vegetables, dressed with a little garlic-infused olive oil, or butter and salt, and a pile of rocket and watercress salad.

Baked mushrooms stuffed with triple-garlic risotto


This week Graziana from Erbe in Cucina is hosting Weekend Herb Blogging, and I have been cooking with not one, not two, but three new and exciting types of garlic. It started with the Real Food Festival, where I picked up a beautiful bronze bulb of smoked garlic. The intense aroma of this is just incredible; it has an immensely appetising quality to it. You wouldn't pick up a bulb of normal garlic and consider eating it there and then, yet the smoked variety has a sort of sweetness and mellowness to it that invites immediate eating (I wouldn't recommend it though). I was trying to think of the perfect recipe to showcase its wonderful qualities, when two more exciting ingredients appeared on my radar.



The second and third varieties are both products of a weekend trip to Borough Market in London. I always think Oxford's market is pretty cosmopolitan; you can find most weird and wonderful ingredients there (kumquats, salsify, loquats, granadillas, Jerusalem artichokes...). Yet the fruit and veg section of Borough Market never fails to delight me with some unexpected surprise. Back in February it was the sight of gorgeous yellow quinces, months after they'd disappeared from the market in Oxford; then it was the two fat teal I found at a butchers' stall there, having never managed to track down the elusive bird elsewhere. Last weekend it was the sight of huge bunches of wild garlic leaves and flowers.


I've heard a lot about the wonders of foraging and the merits of wild garlic (primarily through Masterchef winner Mat Follas, whose restaurant is actually named 'The Wild Garlic', possibly after a dish that helped to win him Masterchef and also because he's a keen forager), but have never got round to attempting to find some for myself, and I have certainly never seen it for sale anywhere. Yet it was there: delicate bunches of the leaves and flowers, that I would have mistaken for some kind of house plant had I not seen the sign. They looked like the leaves I would normally peel off my bunches of lilies before putting them in water. Intrigued and delighted by a new ingredient, I bought a bunch immediately. It went in my fridge for a few days, and I now understand why they say it's easy to forage for wild garlic: you just follow your nose. I think my fridge will retain the pungent smell of these leaves for weeks to come.


I thought my garlic-related surprises were over for the day, until I stumbled across a bunch of 'elephant garlic'. The first thing that struck me was its gorgeous purple and white colouring; the second its enormity. It looked almost like a comically exaggerated bulb of garlic. Equally intrigued by this curious product, I bought some. A little research informed me that it is milder than normal garlic, and can be eaten raw in salads. I just love the sturdiness of it, with its fat stalk and huge purple-skinned cloves.



There's probably nothing I enjoy cooking more than a good risotto, and it felt like time for one. It also seemed the obvious solution to an abundance of garlic; I figured the rich, creamy rice would make a perfect base for such diversity of flavour. I also had a bag of carnaroli risotto rice that I brought back from Vercelli in April, and which was recommended to me by the man in the shop as the best rice for risotto, so naturally I was eager to put it to the test (ultimately, I can conclude that risotto rice is risotto rice, and I think maybe I'm not quite Italian enough to appreciate the nuanced difference between arborio and carnaroli - apart from that Tesco charges twice the price of the former for the latter - but it was very tasty).



As luscious as I envisaged my garlic risotto would be, I figured it needed another dimension. Normally when I cook risotto I add something for texture, like bacon, mushrooms, leeks, or peas. However, I didn't want to distract from the diverse garlicky flavours. The answer came miraculously to me in the form of mushrooms. Initially I considered just frying some in butter and spooning them on top of the risotto, but then I thought that stuffed mushrooms would look much prettier. It would also enable me to take advantage of the beautiful flat cup mushrooms that I've often spied in the market here; they are so clearly meant to be the vehicle for some kind of gorgeous stuffing, and it would be rude not to oblige.



I roasted the mushrooms in the oven for about 45 minutes, drizzled with a little olive oil, seasoning, and some sprigs of thyme. The key to roasting mushrooms is to cook far more than you think you'll need; they shrink a surprising amount in the heat. They also turn golden and wrinkled at the sides and beautifully dark and juicy in the middle, and exude lots of delicious mushroom liquor. I added this to my risotto as well as the stock.


For the risotto, I used my normal recipe, but added smoked garlic instead of normal garlic. The stock was, in an impressively home-economic fashion, homemade chicken stock from the last roast I had. One thing that surprised me about this was how much salt I needed to add to the risotto to achieve the taste I'd consider normal. It makes you realise just how much salt is added to commercial stock cubes - slightly terrifying. Anyway, I finished off the basic risotto recipe with sprigs of thyme, lots of seasoning, grated parmesan, and my two other types of garlic. The leaves I finely shredded and stirred in, and the elephant garlic I finely chopped and sprinkled over towards the end of the cooking. Elephant garlic is apparently milder than normal garlic, though I nibbled a bit and it was still quite strong, so I let it cook in the rice and stock for a few minutes to take the edge off.



I spooned the garlicky risotto onto the juicy mushrooms, grated over a little more parmesan, and finished with a drizzle of truffle oil to really bring out both the mushroom and the garlic flavour. There's something about truffles that is reminiscent of garlic - and it's not just me that thinks this: my Flavour Thesaurus (a great book for any keen cook, by the way) agrees. The two work perfectly together, as garlic and mushrooms do. Even better when the garlic is incorporated within mounds of soft, starchy rice. I was worried the effect would be overpowering, but I think it was just right. If anything, in future I'd add a bit more of both the elephant variety and the garlic leaves.


I'm now hooked on the idea of wild garlic, and hope I find it again sometime soon. I'd love to try it in a pesto, simply tossed through hot strands of tagliatelle, and I have a few leaves left which I'm thinking of using to stuff or wrap around whole fish for baking. The rest of the elephant garlic I'm going to roast so its flavour mellows and I can spread it on bread to eat with some cheese. I like the simplicity of this risotto, though: a good way to showcase three exciting new twists on the humble garlic bulb.

Oh, and needless to say - this is not something to eat if you've any sort of romantic encounter planned for afterwards.



Baked mushrooms stuffed with triple-garlic risotto (serves 4):

12 large flat mushrooms
Thyme
Olive oil
Salt and pepper
1 onion, finely chopped
1 stick celery, very finely chopped
2 cloves smoked garlic, finely chopped
1 small glass white wine
A knob of butter
300g risotto rice
1 litre hot chicken or vegetable stock - keep it warm in a pan
About 10 leaves wild garlic, finely shredded
1 clove elephant garlic, very finely chopped (or use garlic-infused olive oil)
Parmesan for grating
Truffle oil for drizzling (optional)

First, bake the mushrooms. Spread on a baking sheet, drizzle with olive oil, season, throw over some thyme sprigs and bake at 180C for about 45 minutes until very soft and juicy. Add any juices to the stock as you make the risotto.

For the risotto, saute the onion and celery until softened, then add the smoked garlic. Cook for a couple of minutes, then add the butter and let it melt before adding the rice. Stir to coat in the butter and cook for a minute or so before pouring in the wine. Wait until it is completely absorbed, then add a couple of ladlefuls of hot stock. Stir the rice until all the stock is absorbed, then add another ladleful. Keep doing this until the rice is almost tender - keep tasting it. If you run out of stock, supplement with boiling water.

When nearly done, stir in the garlic leaves and elephant garlic (or drizzle in the garlic oil). Grate in some parmesan, and season to taste.

Remove the mushrooms from the oven, arrange on four plates, then spoon over the risotto. Drizzle with truffle oil - or more garlic oil - and grate over some more parmesan.

Real Food Festival, 2011


A pervasive motif in Medieval and Renaissance art and literature is the memento mori, the 'reminder of death'. Whether a skeleton haunting the periphery of an oil painting or illuminated letter, or a dramatic literary death scene during which the hero nearly meets his end, readers and viewers were frequently presented with images and events designed to remind them of their mortality.

Times have moved on a little since then, and whilst we are still often reminded of the finite nature of our existence on this mortal plane, I would venture to suggest that where the medieval period had the memento mori, reminder of death, the 21st and 22nd century equivalent is the memento middle-class. This occurred to me as I stood in line at Earls Court a couple of weeks ago, surrounded by affluent Londoners avidly discussing the virtues of gluten-free granola and the undoubted superiority of loose-leaf white tea over teabags, waiting for the doors to open and allow me to rush forth into what is, unashamedly, a paradise for the middle-class food snob.



I don't mean this in a bad way. My memento of middle-classity frequently takes the form of my friends, family and boyfriend. "I cut my finger on a lobster claw :(" I once texted to the latter, who replied with the extremely apt observation, "that could only be a problem in your world". I pride myself on knowing the difference between vanilla extract and vanilla essence; I revel in the arrival of Alphonso mangoes from India, knowing no other variety can compare; I read the Guardian food section; I shun supermarkets where I can, favouring farmers' markets and local butchers/greengrocers; I prefer rapeseed oil to olive; the appearance of fresh samphire in the fishmongers last week set my heart racing...and I have never been to a kebab van or eaten fast food since I was fifteen.


I sound disgusting, the very epitome of food snobbishness that makes a lot of people rather irritated. Yet my only consolation comes from the aforementioned Guardian food section. My enjoyment of it is twofold: yes, I appreciate its often exciting and innovative recipes by chefs like Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, Yotam Ottolenghi and Dan Lepard (who I am plotting to marry - just give me time). However, the real pleasure comes from scrolling down the online version to read the comments underneath the articles. I take deep solace from the fact that I bear little resemblance to some of these real middle-class food snobs, getting on their high horse about all sorts of things, from the provenance of pomegranate molasses to why anyone who buys farmed salmon is a demon in human form and should be swiftly despatched with a fish knife after being forced to ingest their own weight in salmon heads.


Anyway, the point is, going to a food festival may be perceived as the epitome of middle-class food snobbery. But once you set foot inside, you realise that pretension has nothing to do with it. Perhaps it doesn't need stating, but the Real Food Festival is about just that: food. Real food. None of that artificial processed rubbish that is so prevalent these days. Wandering around, I am always struck by the sheer amount of love and energy that goes into the hundreds of stalls lining the aisles. It's food at its best; not the kind of fancy, over-prodded stuff you find churned out of Michelin-starred kitchens, that often relies on fancy technique and too much faff to make it edible, but basic products made the best they can possibly be. Yes, you might have to pay a bit more, but for an annual treat it's definitely worth it, and a lot of the things I've bought from the last two festivals I am still using today.


This might sound obvious, but every year I am struck by how good everything tastes. I think I've become accustomed to the monotonous, bland produce churned out by supermarkets, or giant food corporations, because I always find at the festival that it's as if it's taken what I normally expect from an ingredient or a recipe, and improved upon it immeasurably. Maybe it's the small-scale production methods, maybe it's the fact that a lot of the businesses are family run, maybe it's just because more care goes into the food, but there's no denying that everything just seems to taste so much better. Of course, this could also be down to the fact that this is the one day of the year when I will eat everything in sight, including things I would normally abstain from (flapjacks, brownies, cupcakes, cheesecake, cookies, chocolate, cheese...) due to the fact that I am not blessed with the fastest of metabolisms. Of course a gooey chocolate brownie is going to taste damn good, when it's something I only allow myself to eat about three times a year (or three times a day, when I was doing my Finals, but that's a definite exception to ALL rules).


So, for some of the highlights. There was the beautiful stall of southern Italian produce, with its dried chillies and tomatoes hanging in huge abundant bunches, its great wheels of pecorino and fat logs of salami. It was here that I purchased a small piece of bottarga, at great expense. This is dried fish roe that is compressed into a block, and it's most commonly used grated over pasta. It's the marine version of truffles, and its taste is incredibly hard to describe; fishy, but not in an unpleasant way, it somehow manages to capture the essence of the sea in taste form. It tastes like the smell of standing where the waves meet the shore and breathing in the spray. I can't wait to try it on pasta.



I also paid a visit to Revolution Tea, a company I love and whose tea I only ever seem to buy at the festival on an annual basis, largely because it lasts so long. Each of their teabags makes four cups of tea - you can just keep reusing them. I asked why this is, and was told because the loose tea is of such good quality, rather than the powdery stuff you find in normal teabags. The teabags are also plastic rather than paper so can be reused. Apparently the Chinese have a saying: you give the first cup of tea to your enemy, the second to your friend, and the third you keep for yourself. I tend to keep them all for myself, but I do like the way the flavour mellows by the third cup. I was hooked when I tried the White Pear tea back in 2009, and have since fallen rather in love with Peach and Ginger, and also Citrus Spice. They sell a beautiful box of individual tea bag testers, which unfortunately was rather out of my price range. They have a website, though, and I'd encourage you to try their tea if you're a lover of the stuff. The White Pear is probably my favourite, in that it's so unusual. Who'd have thought you could get pear flavour into tea?


Another brilliant find was Zayti, selling arabesque street food. I was drawn in by the sight of baklava, and found myself purchasing lunch, which comprised Iranian walnut chicken (a dish which inspired my roast teal a while ago), aubergine-wrapped lamb rolls, bulghur wheat with pine nuts and caramelised onions, hummous, yoghurt, pomegranate seeds, and a colourful multi-vegetable salad. Although this came piled into one little box, all the flavours were beautifully defined and brought together by the hummous and yoghurt. It was one of the most delicious things I have eaten in a long time, and probably the most delicious (savoury) thing I tried at the festival. I believe it's a family-run company who are bringing modern and innovative takes of Middle Eastern street food to London. This is especially evident in their desserts: custard and apricot baklava, Turkish delight brownies, and pistachio and rosewater cheesecake. All utterly delicious. This is my favourite kind of food, and I could happily have gone back for seconds and thirds. I only wish they'd bring it all to Oxford; we need more Middle Eastern cuisine.



Also of note was Vanilla Bazaar, selling Madagascan vanilla products. I bought ten lovely vanilla pods, at a fraction of the usual supermarket price (for once, the food festival was actually cheaper), and also tried their amazing vanilla extract. Unlike the alcohol-based stuff I'm used to, this featured real vanilla seeds in a sugar syrup. It looked rather like tiny frogspawn, but don't let that put you off. It was delicious, ideal for making ice-cream or any dessert involving vanilla cream. Also good were Adlington, giving out tasters of smoked chicken and duck breast. I absolutely love smoked anything (incidentally, I also found smoked garlic at another stall, which I used in this aubergine dish last week), and the chicken was incredibly tender and moist.


I quickly found Bocaddon Farm Veal, who I've been a fan of since my first food festival for their delicious ethical veal. Last year I bought some veal and wild garlic burgers which I can confidently say are the best burgers I've ever tasted, and also some delicious Sicilian-style veal sausages. This year I went a bit mad and ended up with burgers, two different types of sausage, veal rump steak, and a little veal roasting joint. The burgers I ate last weekend, on the barbecue (wonderful), and I'm very excited by the rest. I also had to stop at Laverstoke Park Farm's stall for some of their buffalo products (like the ricotta I waxed lyrical about here). Once again they'd brought real live buffalo to the festival, but this time they were babies. Gorgeous.


I also marvelled at some truly beautiful feats of baking, including some rather gorgeous sparkly cupcakes that people were swarming around like flies with their camera phones. There were macarons everywhere, and elaborately-decorated chocolate truffles, and huge towers of snowy meringues, and beautiful centrepiece cakes, and brownies, and flapjacks...I bought a delicious blueberry crumble tart, and sampled most of the other baked goods on offer. I do always think, though, when I see this vast array of baking talent on display, that it must be so incredibly difficult to make a career as a small artisan baker. Everyone loves to bake, many people want to do it for a living; I can't imagine how hard it must be to set up a baking business and succeed, particularly as the standard of everything on offer at the festival was so high. How to set your own baked goods apart from the competition? I suppose glitter is one way.


Another product in abundance is the humble preserve. Jams, jellies and chutneys are absolutely everywhere. If it weren't for the fact that I possess enough chutney after the last two Christmas periods to be able to drown myself in it, I would easily have been won over by the gorgeous backlit display below. It was such an unusual and effective way of presenting a product that usually looks identical once put in a jar. The star anise pieces in the jelly second from the right remind me of flies preserved in amber. There were all sorts of wonderful and unusual flavours, incorporating things like rosemary and lavender, and also my favourite - quince jelly.


I also enjoyed Sloe Motion, producers of all things sloe. Gin, whisky, vodka, plus chutney, jam and truffles made from sloe berries. Their spirits come in beautiful purple bottles and taste absolutely incredible; a perfect fruity summer alternative to regular gin. Nearby I found Gower Cottage Brownies, which I've written about before. They genuinely are the best brownies I've ever tasted, managing that perfect balance between a crispy exterior and a gooey centre. The best part is they do mail order, so you can send someone a beautiful box of homemade brownies as a present. It's what my mum always does when she forgets birthdays and the like, apparently. She sent some to me when I was doing my Finals, and I'm sure they boosted my morale sufficiently to result in a First.



To top it all off, I bought my ticket early enough to get a free copy of the Real Food Festival Cookbook, which is fantastic. It features recipes from all sorts of chefs, from the big and famous to the lesser known, all of which emphasise high quality produce. I can't wait to try some of its recipes, particularly as I'm now equipped with some wonderful ingredients. I look forward to 2012's festival, and another opportunity to revel gluttonously in my gastronomic middle-classity.






Cheese for breakfast?


I was about to write "this barely even warrants a post, but...". Then I paused. That is entirely untrue. This definitely warrants a post, because a) it obviously inspired me to start writing one, and b) just because what I am about to write about is incredibly simple, it doesn't mean it isn't incredibly delicious. Sometimes the best food experiences are the simplest: eggs on toast; a really good grilled fish; a Victoria sponge cake; a loaf of crusty bread and some cheese. Today I made a sublime mackerel pâté by putting some garlic and herb cream cheese, some smoked mackerel, lemon zest and dill in a blender. Shockingly simple - too simple to merit a blog post - but a wonderful lunch. However, that is not what I am about to discuss.



At the Real Food Festival last weekend, I discovered ricotta. Sure, I've been eating and cooking with ricotta for years. It comes in a shallow round tub in the supermarket, with a peel-off plastic film lid, and always accumulates a layer of watery whey over its surface. Right? Except it doesn't. I've read many cookbooks that extol the virtues of proper, fresh ricotta, the kind you find in Italy. Unfortunately, I've never been lucky enough to locate it over here; it has remained an elusive treasure, and all of its good qualities - crumbly, fresh, much more flavoursome than the supermarket stuff - have remained unsampled, tantalisingly trumpeted by luckier chefs and food writers all over the country while I make do with my boring UHT variety.


Until a lady at the food festival (from Laverstoke Park Farm) offered me a little plastic spoon - I think it was neon yellow, the kind you get at ice cream shops in Italy - atop which perched a little clump of snow-white buffalo milk ricotta. One taste and I was hooked. How to describe it? Like cream cheese but with the texture of a good baked cheesecake. A very mild, milky flavour; a pleasant crumbling sensation on the tongue. It was utterly delicious. I've had a similar experience with the Laverstoke buffalo mozzarella before. I watched them making it at last year's food festival, twisting it into balls in a big vat of whey, while a huge buffalo looked on with pride (I like to think) from a nearby pen. The flavour was unlike any mozzarella I have tasted before, in that it actually tasted of something. This ricotta was the same: a dairy revelation. I took it home and pondered what to do with it.


The problem is, all of the ways I would normally use ricotta exploit its texture, but not its flavour, because the supermarket stuff has none. I didn't want to mask it with spinach in a cannelloni; I didn't want to serve it in a fruit tart to get lost amongst berries and their juice; I didn't want to bake it in a cheesecake, into unidentifiable sweetness. I kind of just wanted to eat it from the tub, unadulterated, maybe with a neon yellow plastic spoon.


I went for the next best (or more realistic) thing. I made bread. Soda bread, to be precise, because it's quick and easy and because its lovely nutty flavour I imagined would be perfect with the refreshing milky cheese. I slathered the bread with big dollops of fresh ricotta. I roasted some apricots with orange flower water, honey and sugar, because I thought their sweet, tart flavour would be the perfect partner to the cheese. I also had some strawberries in the fridge.

My breakfast last week comprised warm slices of this oaty, moist, buttermilk-enriched bread topped with creamy white curds and a dollop of tart apricot, or a slice of juicy strawberry. It was genuinely one of the best breakfasts I have ever had (and I experiment a lot with breakfast recipes). I just had to share its goodness. I would normally be averse to the notion of cheese for breakfast - I don't go in for that continental thing of eating cold meats and dairy first thing in the morning - but this is different. It is so contrary to any expectations of cheese that it barely fits in that category. In fact, it's more akin to spreading butter on your bread, with its incredible lightness. Delicious.


Incidentally, I have discovered that fresh ricotta is probably easier to make at home than boiled eggs. I can't wait to try it out and have this luxury more often. I also thought I'd share the soda bread recipe, which you can find here. I've made it twice in a week now, and it's definitely the best soda bread recipe I've found yet; it has a wonderful moisture that can often be lacking in bought versions or some other recipes.

A post about the Real Food Festival will be appearing soon, by the way. Just so I can have another opportunity to tell you all how amazing this cheese is.


Sumac and za'atar roasted chicken


This week Simona from briciole is hosting Weekend Herb Blogging, and I've been using two of my favourite Middle Eastern spices: sumac and za'atar. Sumac is made from the crushed berries of a small Mediterranean tree, and used liberally all over the Middle East, where it can be sprinkled over food or infused in water and used to flavour dishes, rather like tamarind. It has a sharp flavour, like lemon juice, and is used in the same sort of way. Za'atar is not a spice but a spice and herb mixture, comprising dried thyme or marjoram, sesame seeds and salt. It can sometimes contain sumac as well. One of my favourite ways to eat za'atar I discovered in Jordan, where they mix it with olive oil to form a vivid green paste which is then spread on rounds of flatbread, to form a sort of za'atar pizza. It's incredibly delicious; you wouldn't have thought dried herbs on bread could taste so good, but the olive oil gives it an almost buttery flavour. I could happily have subsisted off those little pizzas for the entire time I was there. Supplemented by some falafel, naturally. And baklava.



I'm quite fond of my jar of za'atar, having travelled with it through Syria and Jordan and then back to the UK. I stumbled across it in Aleppo, after spying a little nondescript shop on the corner of a street whose windows were full of these gorgeous jars, where the various ingredients in the za'atar mix had been layered atop one another. It was an effect reminiscent of those jars of coloured sand you can sometimes buy in touristy areas, where the colours are layered in stripes. I was captivated and intrigued, so ventured in to ask the stallholder what the substance was. When he told me, I immediately purchased a large bag. I already had some that I'd bought from the Moroccan deli in Oxford, but this was the real deal and I wasn't going to miss out. Particularly as I bought twice as much for half the price. As well as some huge blocks of olive oil soap, which I still have because I can't bear to use them. I was also informed that rubbing them on clothing keeps biting insects away, so I think I probably purchased them in a desperate bid to ward off the mosquitoes; they are drawn to my flesh as I am drawn to baklava.


It's hard to describe the flavour of za'atar; almost musky in a way, and much less pungent than simple dried thyme. I think it's the mellowing effect of the sesame seeds. The salt and sumac also give it a slight tartness, which means it's good for coating food to be roasted. I've had it on potato wedges, and also sprinkled over a bowl of homemade labneh (Middle Eastern cheese), but my favourite use is to scatter it liberally over roast chicken. 


This is a Yotam Ottolenghi recipe, and it's superb. It's also incredibly simple, but the end result is much more than the sum of its parts. I cook a lot, and some of the things I attempt can be quite complex and fiddly (the quail egg ravioli springs to mind...), so it's sometimes quite nice to cook something as easy yet as impressive as this. Jointed chicken pieces are marinated in a lemony, garlicky mixture for a few hours then covered in za'atar before being roasted in the oven. It's the kind of food I like serving to people; it's full of flavour, hearty, rustic, and pretty much guaranteed to please everyone. After all, it's essentially roast chicken, just updated with a moreish Middle Eastern twist. The sumac and lemon combination make it incredibly addictive; they have a sourness that works so well with the crispy chicken skin, and are simultaneously quite refreshing. You can get sumac and za'atar in supermarkets now, but your best bet is a Middle Eastern grocers, if you don't have the time, money (or suicidal streak, given the current political climate) to go to Syria.


The main reason I made this was because I'd been craving the crisp, herby skin of a roast chicken against the cool tartness of Greek yoghurt, ever since eating some incredible Persian food at the Real Food Festival last weekend. I hate yoghurt on its own, as anyone who knows me will be sick of hearing, but I don't mind it with savoury dishes, and it can be the perfect accompaniment to spicy roast meats. 


To serve with this, I mixed Greek yoghurt with grated cucumber and chopped mint, tzatziki-style. For the carbohydrate element, I went with bulgur wheat, mainly because I fancied a change from couscous and because I love its nutty, larger grains. I caramelised some onion slices and pine nuts to go on top, partly for decoration and partly because caramelised onions paired with roast meat can only be a good thing.


The crispy, tart skin of the roast chicken with the nutty, almost creamy wheat, the crunchy pine nuts and the cooling yoghurt is a beautiful combination. The best bits, however, are the onions and lemon slices from the marinade, which go in the oven on top of the chicken and turn sweet and crispy. The lemon mellows enough to eat, skin and all, and when you get a mouthful of chicken with a little bit of lemon slice the flavour is incredible, particularly because the tartness is heightened by the sumac. It's a real feast for the tastebuds, with all the tart, herbal, caramelised flavours in there, and an immensely satisfying combination. It's also guaranteed to please a crowd of hungry diners; there's a sort of barbecue element to the pieces of crisped chicken, charred in places, served with a simple sauce and big spoonfuls of wheat.

Incidentally, I served this lemon and mint cheesecake after the chicken; its creamy, tangy citrus flavour is the perfect complement to a rich meal.



Sumac and za'atar roasted chicken (serves 4):

1 large chicken, jointed into four or eight pieces
2 red onions, thinly sliced
2 garlic cloves, crushed
4 tbsp olive oil
1 1/2 tsp ground allspice
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tbsp sumac
1 lemon, thinly sliced
200ml chicken stock or water
1 1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp ground black pepper
2 tbsp za'atar

400g Greek yoghurt
Half a cucumber, grated
20g fresh mint, finely chopped

200g bulgur wheat
500ml water
2 onions, thinly sliced
A handful of pine nuts
2 tbsp olive oil

First, marinate the chicken. Mix the onions, garlic, olive oil, spices (not the za'atar), lemon, stock/water, salt and pepper. Add the chicken pieces, coat in the mixture and leave to marinate overnight or for a few hours in the fridge.

Preheat the oven to 200C. Place the chicken and its marinade on a large baking tray, skin-side up. Sprinkle over the za'atar. Roast for 30-40 minutes until the chicken is cooked through.

Meanwhile, mix the yoghurt, cucumber and mint and set aside. Boil the bulgur wheat in the water until tender, then season generously. Caramelise the onions in the olive oil (this will take about 20 minutes), then add the pine nuts and let them colour. Spoon the bulgur into a serving bowl and spread the onions and pine nuts on top.

Serve the chicken pieces with the bulgur and mint yoghurt, and some chopped parsley scattered over, if you like. You can also sprinkle over more sumac and za'atar.

(Chicken recipe from Yotam Ottolenghi's Ottolenghi cookbook)


Aubergine heaven


No, not the place where well-behaved aubergines spend their afterlife, but probably my favourite aubergine dish to date (although moutabal comes a very close second). It's recipe from Yotam Ottolenghi, so I should have known it would be brilliant, though I'm sometimes sceptical of his recipes because the ingredients seem so disparate, it often appears that they could never work together. I should never doubt him, after this triumph. It features aubergine baked into a luscious softness, rubbed with a spice mixture for deep flavour, served with a fruity, herby bulgur wheat mixture and a dollop of yoghurt. Initially it might not sound all that great, but I can assure you that this is delicious.



I made this because a "North African" dish had been requested, but I didn't want to cook meat. It's quite hard to translate the pungent, fragrant aromas of North African cuisine into vegetarian dishes, because often those spices need something very strongly-flavoured like lamb to stand up to them. I needn't have worried, because the smoky aubergine is the perfect match for this spice mix, known as chermoula. It features ground cumin, coriander, paprika, chilli (I used cayenne pepper), salt, preserved lemon, olive oil, and crushed garlic. I bought two magnificent bulbs of smoked garlic from the Real Food Festival at the weekend (more on that in another post), and this seemed the perfect opportunity to use them. Smoke and aubergine go so well together, and I wanted to heighten that sensation. I crushed everything together in a pestle and mortar to make a rich, terracotta-coloured paste reminiscent of harissa, that other North African spice mix.



The preserved lemon is a nice addition to the mixture; I have a jar on my windowsill that I made myself. They're incredibly easy to make: you just quarter whole lemons, leaving them attached at one end, then stuff them with sea salt, pack them into a jar, cover with boiling water and seal. After about three months they're ready to use, and are a typical ingredient in all sorts of Moroccan dishes. I remember seeing huge jars of them for sale in the souks in Morocco, and was immensely saddened that I was unable to bring back liquids in my hand luggage. It's hard to describe their flavour; much more sour and salty than a normal lemon, they lack the zesty freshness of an unpreserved specimen, but have a deeper flavour that adds a sour kick to all sorts of dishes. The classic is Moroccan chicken, green olive and preserved lemon tagine.


I slashed the flesh of the aubergine in a criss-cross pattern and rubbed the spice mixture into the flesh, rather like you would do with meat. After drizzling over some olive oil, they went in the oven for about 50 minutes, until the insides had softened into silky deliciousness and the skin had wrinkled. When they emerged, I drizzled them with some of my oak-smoked rapeseed oil, to add yet another layer of barbecue flavour. If I had an actual barbecue, this might have been the ultimate smoky meal. I'm not sure why the chargrilled flavour works so well with aubergines, but whoever discovered this might be my number one food hero. OK, number three, after Yotam and Raymond Blanc. Oh and Tristan Welch. And Michel Roux. And Claudia Roden too.


To adorn the aubergine, bulgur wheat. This is best known as the key ingredient for tabbouleh, which I lived off in Syria; it's a bit like couscous, but with larger, more irregular grains and a bit more texture. You can simmer it in water for about 20 minutes to cook it, but you can also soak it in boiling water for about 30 minutes, which is easier. I also soaked some sultanas with it, to plump them up a bit. To the wheat I added chopped coriander, mint, halved green olives, salt and pepper, spring onions, toasted flaked almonds, and lemon juice. This is delicious on its own, and I could quite happily eat it as a salad with no accompaniment. The sweet sultanas counteract the sharp olives, the almonds give a rich crunch, and the herbs provide a beautiful citrussy freshness.


I spooned this mixture over the warm aubergines, and finished it with a dollop of yoghurt. This brings everything together, providing moisture and also taking the edge off the spicy aubergine (though mine wasn't that spicy, because I was over-cautious with the cayenne...). This dish is an absolute delight. I think it's a textural thing: the slippery, silky aubergine flesh against the nutty bulgur with its bursts of sweet sultana and tangy olive, finished off with the creamy yoghurt and crunchy almonds. The best bit is the top of the aubergine flesh, where the spices have burnt on and formed a crust. If you're sceptical, I'd urge you to try this. If you don't like aubergines, you'll be converted. Seriously, it was so good. Also, immensely filling, considering aubergine is mostly water. If you have vegetarian friends, cook this for them and make them love you. If you've carnivorously overindulged recently, cook this for yourself and detox. If you're hungry, make this and satisfy your stomach. I cannot think of a single reason why you should not cook this dish as soon as possible.


The recipe, by Yotam Ottolenghi, is here.

Inspiration from Damascus: lemon and mint cheesecake


Last summer I travelled around the Middle East with some friends. The highlight of the trip was definitely Syria, a country I'd been longing to visit for ages, though without knowing precisely why. I was captivated by its heat, its chaos, the charm of its people, and - above all - its food. One of the many gastronomic items that stand out in my recollection is actually a beverage, which is unusual for me - I tend to only ever consume four drinks: water, tea, wine and gin. Smoothies sometimes, if I've made them myself to use up overripe fruit, and occasionally the odd sip of juice from my boyfriend's glass if he offers it to me, but that's about it. I don't go in for fruit juice, generally seeing it as unnecessary calories that could be better expended on a large piece of cake.




However, this drink was something else. The menu said, inconspicuously, "lemon and mint". I thought it sounded odd. I have yet to get past this weird habit whereby I read 'mint' in a menu and imagine the horrible, artificial flavouring of After Eights or mint choc chip ice cream. I always forget that fresh mint is one of my favourite herbs, possessing a gorgeous, sweet freshness quite unlike its synthetic equivalent. Needless to say, I abstained from ordering this drink. My friends, obviously not sharing my weird mint issues, ordered it. I then spent the next half hour or so staring greedily at their glasses.


How to describe it? It's essentially lemonade blended with huge amounts of fresh mint, so that the juice is flecked with pieces of the herb. It looks a bit like you're about to drink the contents of a lawnmower. Unappealing? Not when it's forty degrees outside and you've been walking around all day in trousers and long sleeves. This drink is incredible. I will boldly declare that it is the most refreshing thing in the entire world. You know how amazing lemon sorbet tastes on a hot day when you're feeling thirsty? The way the sweet-sour-cold balance revives you from the inside like an ice cube to the face? This drink is even better. The lemon-mint combination, coupled with a little sugar, revives and refreshes like a plunge pool after a sauna.


Now that the days are getting hotter here in Oxford, my dessert daydreams shift from crumble, cobbler and pie to ice cream, mousse and cheesecake. Feeling the need for something very refreshing, especially because I planned quite a rich main course, my mind suddenly wandered to that lemon and mint drink. I'm not sure why; possibly because I was considering lemon cheesecake but, being me, I wanted to jazz it up a bit, and my inner wannabe-Syrian (well, not at the moment, given the political upheaval and all) immediately screamed 'mint' at me. Well, it didn't scream, because I was in the library and that would have been inappropriate. By the way, reading a book called "Medieval Blood" and trying to plan a dessert are not activities that can be productively carried out at the same time. Unless you are a vampire with a sweet tooth.


Hotter weather also demands a shift from the classic baked cheesecake I'm so fond of to a lighter, more mousse-like version set with gelatine. This can also be served colder than the baked cheesecake, which I always think should be removed from the fridge about 20 minutes before serving to allow its lovely crumbliness to shine through. Because it's cold and mousse-like, there's somehow a much sharper, purer lemon flavour. It's essentially the closest you can get to the lemon and mint drink in dessert form, I think. Apart from perhaps a sorbet. But this is more enjoyable to eat because of its creaminess.


Another great thing about this cake is that it's surprisingly healthy. I made it using light cream cheese and Quark, which is a curd cheese that's virtually fat-free, but has the texture of smooth cottage cheese (I sometimes use cottage cheese, whizzed in a blender) so is ideal for giving substance to a cheesecake. I've never used it before but will be using it again, because it has a great texture. I mixed the cheeses together with icing sugar, and then put some lemon zest and mint leaves in a blender. Because my blender is inept, it didn't result in the very fine minty powder, almost pesto-like, that I was hoping for, but it was good enough to swirl through the cheesecake mixture.


To set the cake I used gelatine dissolved in lots of lemon juice. The mixture went into a tin that I'd greased and lined, and I'd scattered some crushed ginger biscuits over the bottom. I couldn't be bothered to mix them with melted butter to stick it all together, but this worked quite well, because the biscuits stuck to the bottom of the mixture anyway.


After the cake had set, garnished it with crystallised mint leaves. This was a brainwave I had while tearing up the mint and putting it in the blender. I'm not sure why, because I've never heard of crystallised mint leaves before, but a quick google assured me that they did in fact exist. I kind of want to keep an air of mystery about them, and pretend there's some immensely complex kitchen work required in their preparation, so my dessert seems all cheffy and impressive, but I can in fact reveal that it is nothing more complicated than dipping mint leaves in egg white and then in sugar. In theory, this sounds weird - how could dipping a mint leaf in sugar make it edible? Let me assure you: they are incredible. When I got a bite of creamy lemon cheesecake mixed with the crunch of the sugary mint, it was like being back in Damascus. Not only is the flavour incredible, it's a nice little surprise and the textural contrast is brilliant. A bit like the crust on a fairground doughnut; you can feel those sugar granules crunch. I also think they look absolutely beautiful, like the garden on a frosty winter morning.


This cake is the ideal thing to serve after a rich meal: it wakes up the tastebuds, it's light, and it's pretty easy on the waistline. I'm very proud of it; it had just the intense lemon kick that I wanted, without being too sharp - the heavily sugared leaves help with that. Think lemon sorbet, and that's the same sweet-tart balance you get with this cake. The only slight issue was that it didn't set as much as I like. Next time I'd probably use more gelatine - it just about held its shape, but when I removed the sides of the tin it flopped a bit and wasn't quite the impressive, mousse-like structure I'd envisaged. Which also meant it didn't slice brilliantly. But food should be flavour first, then presentation, and this definitely delivers on all the levels I wanted it to.


It makes me very sad to read about Syria in the news at the moment. Particularly because I worry that people who have never been there, or to the Middle East, will have their notions of this country and region tarnished by the unfortunate events of the present. I have never been to a place more friendly and welcoming than Syria, particularly Aleppo. It's a cliche to say that the Middle East is a feast for all the senses, but it is definitely true of this country. It has so much to offer, and for that reason I hope it sorts its problems out - admittedly for largely selfish reasons, because I really want to go back. But if you're reading this, and then you see the news tomorrow and hear about more bloodshed and chaos, I would ask that when you think of Syria, you think not of carnage and war, but of lemon and mint.


Lemon and mint cheesecake (makes one 20cm cake):

250g light cream cheese
500g Quark
200g icing sugar
5 lemons
30g bunch of fresh mint
1 sachet gelatine
90g ginger biscuits, whizzed to crumbs in a blender
50g melted butter
1 egg white
6 tbsp granulated or caster sugar

Grease and line a 20cm cake tin. Mix the biscuits with the melted butter and spread over the bottom of the tin.

Whisk together the two cheeses and the icing sugar. Place half the mint leaves in the blender with the zest of two of the lemons, then blitz to a fine powder (if your blender is better than mine). Stir through the cheese mixture.

Juice 3 lemons into a small pan, then heat gently. Sprinkle the gelatine over the top of the juice and leave for a couple of minutes, then whisk into the hot liquid, ensuring it is completely dissolved. Whisk this mixture into the cheese mixture, quickly, then pour into the tin and place in the fridge to set for about 4 hours.

For the crystallised mint leaves, simply dip the remaining mint leaves into the egg white and then into the sugar, on both sides. Leave to dry on silicon baking parchment - it's best to let the upper side dry and then to flip them over, so they're completely solid and sugary.

When ready to serve, decorate the cake with the mint leaves and some extra lemon zest.


Adventures with a KitchenAid mixer #4: piña colada cake


When a friend of mine has a birthday, my first thought is generally not "What can I buy them?" but "What can I bake them?" I'm a firm believer in edible, preferably baked, presents, mainly because I have a lot of friends who I don't know well enough to get them that perfect, "oh my goodness this is so me" present, and therefore it would just be a waste of money getting them something that they'll end up putting in a drawer and never looking at again. 

Actually, that's a load of rubbish. My main reason is entirely selfish: it gives me an excuse to hone my baking skills.




So, when a friend of mine announced that he was turning 23, I started thinking of witty and amusing themed cakes I could make. Unfortunately, all the ones I came up with were a bit too complicated, and I knew if I attempted them they'd turn out mediocre and no one would be able to tell what they were meant to be, which would have just been embarrassing for everyone. I was about to settle for my failsafe option, a chocolate fudge cake, when said friend's girlfriend, having seen my recent pineapple and coconut cheesecake, was reminded that "he loves pineapple". Done.



I spent a day idly pondering how to create a cake involving pineapple (obviously I did other things during this day, otherwise that would be approaching scary food-meditation) and decided to go for the coconut partnership again. Particularly because this bottle of coconut essence arrived in the post a couple of days ago, and spells the end to my dilemma of how to extract that real 'coconutty' flavour from desiccated coconut or coconut milk. It's incredibly strong; just taking it out of the bubble wrap it arrived in left my hands beautifully perfumed with coconut for several hours.



I decided to make a layer cake, mainly because I've never made one before and because they look impressive, and also because a single cake would have been too small. Initially I planned to sandwich the cakes together with coconut buttercream, but then I had a better idea. Pineapple curd. I have no idea where this came from; it literally popped into my head when I was doing something completely different, like making tea or writing an essay. I had no idea if it was even possible to create pineapple curd, but surely it couldn't be that different from lemon curd: juice, eggs, sugar.


A trip to the supermarket and a lazy ten minutes of stirring later, and I had a saucepan full of gorgeous, thick, sugary pineapple paste. I used bottled pineapple juice, so it didn't have a hugely strong pineapple flavour; if I were to make it again, I'd use the juice from a fresh pineapple. Like creme patisserie, the curd took me by surprise; I was stirring away at a big vat of juice, and then in literally seconds it thickened to dolloping consistency. Immensely satisfying. You can tell when it's about to turn, because scraping a spoon round the bottom edge of the pan results in a big lump of mixture on the end of it, and then suddenly the rest kind of congeals around it. Like I said, immensely satisfying.


For the cake, I made a coconut sponge based on a Nigella recipe. It uses desiccated coconut soaked in boiling water, which gives the cake a lovely moistness and crunchiness. However, I went one step better, and used my super-potent coconut essence. I was worried I'd overdone it, actually, as the kitchen was immediately filled with the smell, but it turned out just perfect. Naturally, the KitchenAid mixer was integral in creating a beautifully light cake batter.



I creamed together the butter (two whole packets...) and sugar, added the eggs (eight!), flour, coconut essence, baking powder, and finally the soaked coconut. It was a wonderful fluffy white mixture, whiter than any I've made before: I think it might be because instead of having to painstakingly mix the butter and sugar by hand, and get bored after a minute or so, I could just leave the mixer to do it, so it looked almost like meringue by the time I added the dry ingredients.


I baked the cake in two separate springform tins. One was 22cm and the other 20cm, which accounts for the dome-shaped end result. I don't have two matching tins. The smell wafting from the baking coconut was truly wonderful. After they'd cooled, I sliced them in half using a nifty device that my mum gave me for Christmas. It's like a cheese wire, but for cutting cakes in half - no faffing around with a big knife leaving an uneven result. It's even adjustable to suit cakes of different heights. Thank you, mum. I may have laughed at the apparent gimmickery of such a gadget, but I have eaten my words (and the uniformly sliced cake layers).


After spreading each layer with pineapple curd, I decided to add even more pineapple flavour by putting some thinly sliced pineapple slices on top of the curd. I didn't bother removing the tough core; if you slice pineapple thinly enough, it's just crunchy rather than tough and sinewy. I thought it would create a nice contrast in textures between the soft, buttery sponge and the tangy fruit.


Then for the part I had looked forward to most: smothering the entire creation in a thick coating of snow-white, coconut-laced buttercream. Again I used the KitchenAid to whip the butter (another packet...) and icing sugar together to form a fluffy, cloud-like mixture to which I added some more coconut essence and some desiccated coconut. I covered a spatula in it, and slathered it onto the cake. Slather is the appropriate word; a lot of buttercream went onto that sponge. I admit, I nibbled a bit to check the right ratio of butter to sugar, and coconut taste. And I may have licked the spatula clean. And the bowl. And the mixer attachment. KitchenAid are so considerate in providing you with a large surface area to lick clean.


It didn't quite look right when I'd finished. I'm not sure why, but it wasn't as I'd envisaged. I think it just looked too perfectly white and uniform. For this reason, I toasted some shredded coconut strips in a dry pan and pressed them into the buttercream around the sides. They looked great, especially the lightly browned bits, which stood out against the snow white cream. I also figured they'd give a nice crunch to the cake, along with the fruit inside.


Finally, the topping. I kept it simple, just covering the top of the cake with slices of fresh pineapple, and a few glace cherries. I'm not sure why; I think it's because traditionally pineapple upside down cake has glace cherries inside the pineapple rings. I used to make it a lot as a child, and maybe the association stuck in my mind. I think they look great; they add a startling burst of glistening colour to what is otherwise a rather pale cake. They also make it look like something from a 70s dessert trolley, which I think is fantastic. It's reminiscent of some sort of blancmange, or over-the-top gateau. There's definitely a retro feel to this cake. I didn't imagine there would be; it looked very different in my head, but I am so pleased with how it turned out. It has quite a wow factor, largely because of its enormity, but also because it looks different. Unusual. Tropical.


Obviously, taste is the important part. I initially declared to everyone at dinner that I wasn't going to have any of the cake, because I'd seen how much butter and sugar went into it. But curiosity got the better of me, and I wanted to check that it was at least edible, and that I hadn't presented my friend with something likely to put him off his favourite fruit for the rest of his life. Unfortunately, this was my downfall. It was so. good. Even if I say so myself. The cake was as light as a feather, and the sweet, tangy pineapple filling a perfect accompaniment. The teeth-hurting sweetness of the coconut cream finished the whole thing off, particularly the crunchy coconut pieces.


I call this a piña colada cake, because it has all the flavours of that cocktail, minus the rum (although you can use Malibu instead of coconut essence if you like...but I'm not the kind of girl who keeps a bottle of Malibu in her kitchen...). The cream is there, in the buttercream; the freshness of the pineapple in the curd and topping, and the coconut permeates the entire creation. I'm really pleased with this. Its recipient was also pleased, I think. In fact, I think he thought it was from the restaurant initially, because I'd managed to arrive early and give it to the waiter to bring out with candles after we'd finished our main courses. If so, I'll take that as a big compliment. I managed to get a photo of the inside of the cake, with all its layers, but the lighting in the restaurant wasn't great, so it doesn't look brilliant. But you get the gist. It's also a hideously difficult cake to cut, likely to collapse at the pressure of a knife, but the flavour is all there.



Plus, it's deceptively simple to make, as long as you start early on the in day, or the day before. If you have a KitchenAid mixer (you lucky thing, you), you can let it do most of the work for you; leave it whirring away mixing the butter and sugar while you sort out weighing the other ingredients, or chopping the pineapple. The assembly part is probably the trickiest, but smothering on the buttercream is your reward. As is, of course, eating some of the cake.



Piña colada cake (makes enough for about 25-30 servings):

For the pineapple curd:

2 whole eggs and 2 egg yolks
500ml pineapple juice
170g caster sugar
10 tbsp flour

For the cakes (recipe adapted from Nigella Lawson's How to be a Domestic Goddess):

450g butter, at room temperature
450g caster sugar
8 eggs
1 tsp coconut essence (or vanilla extract)
400g self-raising flour
1 1/2 tsp arrowroot (or 50g cornflour)
1 tsp baking powder
100g desiccated coconut, soaked for an hour in 300ml boiling water

For the buttercream:

50g desiccated coconut
150g soft butter
300g icing sugar
1 tsp coconut essence (or 2 tbsp Malibu)

For decorating:

1 fresh pineapple, skin and 'eyes' sliced off and cut into thin slices
A large handful of flaked coconut, toasted in a dry pan
Glace cherries

First, make the pineapple curd. Whisk the yolks and sugar until thick and creamy, then whisk in the juice and flour. Transfer to a saucepan and heat over a medium heat, stirring constantly, until thick - this will take about 10 minutes, and it will turn suddenly. Don't get impatient and turn the heat up too high. Transfer to a bowl and chill in the fridge.

Pre-heat the oven to 180C.

For the cakes, cream together the butter and sugar until pale and fluffy. Add the eggs, one at a time, then add the essence. Fold in the flour, arrowroot/cornflour and baking powder, then stir in the coconut and its soaking water. Pour into two 20cm springform cake tins, greased and lined. Bake for 40 minutes, until golden brown. Leave to cool completely.

Slice each cake in half horizontally and sandwich together with the pineapple curd. Add some pineapple slices between each layer if you like. You'll probably have some pineapple curd left over; it's good on toast.

For the buttercream, whisk together the butter and icing sugar until white and fluffy, then stir in the coconut essence/Malibu and desiccated coconut. Using a spatula, spread the buttercream all over the cake in a thick layer. Don't worry too much about the top, as you'll cover it with fresh pineapple anyway. While the cream is still soft, press the flaked coconut into the sides of the cake.

Finally, decorate the top of the cake with slices of fresh pineapple and glace cherries. Do this at the last minute, as the pineapple might make the buttercream soggy.



Smoked fish and quail egg ravioli


I've had quite a few moments of late where I've one way or another stumbled upon a recipe idea or concept that is either so simple or so brilliant that I find myself amazed it had never occurred to me before. Tonight I went to La Cucina, one of my favourite Italian restaurants in Oxford, and on the specials board they had stuffed sardines wrapped in pancetta. So simple, yet so delicious-sounding, and something I can't wait to try. Another such moment occurred on an episode of Raymond Blanc's latest TV series. He made a stunning pasta dish featuring ravioli filled with spinach and quail eggs; the eggs were briefly poached before being encased in the pasta, meaning that they were still liquid when cooked. I remember the camera lingering lovingly on a shot where the knife cut through the beautiful pillowy pasta to reveal flowing golden egg yolk, encased in a nest of greenery, and I wondered why on earth that had never occurred to me before. Who doesn't love slicing into the tender yolk of an egg to reveal its molten core? Surround it with a thin film of carbohydrate, and you have food heaven.



This dish had been on my mental 'to make' list for a while, and the other day I had an enormous craving for ravioli. Sometimes nothing will do, except those beautiful plump parcels piled in a steaming mountain on a plate and drizzled with a buttery, creamy sauce. I thought about making Raymond's recipe, but couldn't really be bothered to create all the different garnishes he serves with it; sauteed mushrooms, beurre noisette... Whilst the taste of ravioli served with nothing but melted butter and herbs is sublime, my waistline will unfortunately not survive such things on a regular basis. I wanted to make ravioli that could survive being served with some sort of sauce, without losing its delicate flavour; spinach and eggs are too subtle to risk overpowering with a tomato or other non-buttery sauce.


I've no idea where the idea for this recipe came from. I was on the train, and it literally popped into my head. I feel this is a good sign: J.K. Rowling said the inspiration for the Harry Potter series popped into her head in the same way, also while she was on a train, so I must be on the right track for future fame and culinary stardom. Right?


I won't claim that pairing smoked fish with eggs is a culinary revelation, because it isn't, but I am quite proud of the flavours in this ravioli. For the fish filling, I mixed flaked smoked fish (Vietnamese river cobbler, because it was on offer in the supermarket, but you could also use haddock) poached in milk with ricotta cheese, grated parmesan, salt, pepper, chives, a few fresh thyme leaves, and some grated nutmeg. The parmesan is great for accentuating the smoky, savoury richness of the fish, while the ricotta lightens it as well as binding it all together. Some lemon thyme would be excellent, but I only had normal thyme, which works too; its fragrance cuts through the richness of the filling.


The tricky part involved the quail eggs. I'm not brilliant at poaching eggs - they turn into watery ghosts more often than not - and seeing as quail eggs are so tiny I was sure I'd fail miserably. Actually, they came out perfectly, which pleased me immensely. I just added a little vinegar to simmering water, dropped them in (cracking them is not as easy as a hen's egg - you end up having to pierce the membrane under the shell with your nail), and removed them about 30 seconds later with a slotted spoon. I left them to drain on kitchen paper before placing them atop a spoonful of fish mixture on a square of pasta. It was a bit fiddly, but went much better than expected. I was worried they'd break when I tried to seal the pasta around them, but had no problems.


Unfortunately, seeing as quail eggs are so small, in order to poach them enough to be able to handle them, you have to almost cook them completely. This means that by the time the ravioli has cooked in its boiling water, the egg will be hard rather than soft boiled. I'm not sure how Raymond managed to get his to ooze luscious yolk all over the plate, and I'm a bit jealous, but to me it didn't matter that much. You still have the wow factor of cutting into each raviolo to reveal a beautiful little egg yolk, and the combination of crumbly, creamy yolk with the smoky fish filling is wonderful.


I deliberated for a while about what to serve these with, and in the end chose spinach - another classic partner for smoked fish and eggs. I found some leeks in the fridge, so decided to use those too. I just sauteed them in a little olive oil until soft and wilting, and then stirred in some seasoning, a squeeze of lemon juice, and some creme fraiche. The latter helped bring the whole mixture together to form a gorgeous, creamy green sauce. I piled it onto plates and arranged the ravioli over the top.



I am pretty proud of this recipe. The creamy greens provide just enough moisture to go with the ravioli, but aren't strong enough to overpower the subtle egg and fish mixture. It's a perfect harmony of flavours, and a very luxurious-tasting dish that still remains quite light. A bit fiddly, perhaps, but actually easier than you'd expect, given the delicious results. Thank you, Raymond, for the excellent inspiration.


Smoked fish and quail egg ravioli (serves 2):

140g plain flour
1 whole egg and 1 yolk
1 tsp olive oil
1/2 tsp salt

150g ricotta cheese
1 fillet (about 200-300g) smoked fish
300ml milk
Salt and pepper
1/4 tsp grated nutmeg
3 tbsp grated parmesan
A few lemon thyme or normal thyme leaves
2 tbsp finely chopped chives
12 quail eggs
1 tsp white wine vinegar
Squeeze of lemon juice

2 leeks, finely chopped
1 tbsp olive oil
300g spinach leaves
3 tbsp creme fraiche

First, make the pasta dough. Combine the flour, egg and egg yolk, olive oil and salt in a food processor and then knead to a firm and not sticky dough. Wrap in cling film and refrigerate for up to an hour.

To make the fish filling, poach the fish in the milk until cooked. Flake into a bowl, then add the ricotta, seasoning, nutmeg, lemon, parmesan, thyme, and chives. Mix together until you have a paste.

Poach the quail eggs in simmering water to which you have added the vinegar. Cook them for just long enough that you can remove them from the water with a slotted spoon. Leave to dry on kitchen paper.

Roll out the pasta using a pasta machine, and cut into evenly sized squares. Place a teaspoon of fish mixture in the centre of each square, then place a quail egg on top. Brush around the filling with water, then place another square over it. Be careful to push out any air when sealing the ravioli together.

Bring a large pan of salted water to the boil.

Now make the greens. Saute the leeks and spinach in the olive oil until the leeks are soft and the spinach has wilted. Stir in the creme fraiche, seasoning, and a touch of lemon juice. Keep warm while you cook the ravioli by putting them in the boiling water for 2-3 minutes.

To serve, pile the creamy greens into bowls and top with the cooked ravioli. Garnish with more grated nutmeg and parmesan, and a sprig of thyme.

Rhubarb preserves


Astrid from Paulchens Foodblog is hosting Weekend Herb Blogging this week, and once again I am going to go a little crazy over rhubarb. Still struggling to get through the enormous bag of the stuff given to my mum by a friend (the rhubarb and ginger cake made very slight inroads), I decided the most appealing option remaining was to preserve it in some shape or form. It wasn't quite gorgeously pink and slender enough for bottling, so I went down the jam and chutney route. It's been a while since I've made jam or chutney, but I do enjoy the wonderful alchemy of putting a load of apparently disparate ingredients (raisins, vinegar, onions, rhubarb, spices) in a huge pot and stirring away with a giant wooden spoon until they have merged together into a harmonious, spreadable delight. It makes me feel rather like a Victorian housewife.




I've never attempted either rhubarb jam or chutney before, but I decided to make both. Largely because I already have so much chutney (people just give it to me as a present - I'm not sure what exactly there is present in my constitution that screams "GIVE ME VINEGARY PRESERVES", but there must be something - not that I'm complaining) that I'm going to need to purchase either an entire pig or a kilo of cheese to go with it, and also because I've just run out of my beloved homemade fig jam and need a substitute. I am doubtful as to whether anything will match the sheer deliciousness of that jam, but surely if anything is going to, it will be rhubarb, one of my favourite ingredients.


I set about the chutney first, because it takes longer. I wanted ginger in there, for a fiery kick and also for its affinity with rhubarb. I wanted raisins, because I love the way they plump up in a preserve and add a lovely textural contrast. I wanted apple, to add another fruity flavour to the rhubarb, and I wanted brown sugar because I love its caramel notes. In they went, along with copious amounts of red wine vinegar, chopped red onions, rhubarb, salt, and curry powder. Adding curry powder is an idea I picked up from googling chutney recipes - it's easier than adding all your own spices in small amounts, and it adds a great spicy aroma. I would have put mustard seeds in there too, convinced we had a small bag of them in the larder - I had seen them before recently, and could visualise their location - except neither I nor my mum could find them anywhere. We practically dismantled the larder in search, but they were nowhere to be found, and now I am convinced I am losing my mind. You know you're too obsessed with food when you start hallucinating mustard seeds.


I let all of that bubble away happily, and set about making jam. Again, I used fresh ginger, and also the juice and zest of two oranges. I also put some ground ginger in there too, for extra heat, a lot of sugar, the rhubarb, and the juice of a lemon to help it set and to take the edge off all the sugar. Neither the jam nor the chutney looked the most appetising of things when they were finished, being rather brown and stringy, but it's all about the flavour, and the jam I tested was very nice. I haven't tried the chutney, as I need to let it mature for three months first, but it smelled rather delicious. I felt an immense sense of satisfaction as I spooned the finished preserves into their little jars, sealed them, and labelled them. My inner home economist is placated, and now all I need is to make a loaf of bread to eat the jam with. 


I bottled this jam and chutney in a mixture of Le Parfait and normal jam jars, so I've given roughly the number of normal jam jars it will fill. This depends on your jars, though, so have a selection sterilised and waiting for the finished preserve. If you can only half-fill one, just keep it in the fridge and eat it first!



Rhubarb and ginger chutney (makes about 6-7 jars):

1 kg rhubarb, cut into lengths
500g red onions, roughly chopped
4 cooking apples, peeled and roughly chopped
400g raisins
60g fresh ginger, grated or finely chopped
300ml red wine vinegar
1 tbsp curry powder
1 tbsp mustard seeds (if you actually have some, and are not just hallucinating)
2 tsp salt
400g muscovado sugar

Boil the onions, ginger and vinegar for 10 minutes. Add all the remaining ingredients, except the rhubarb, and cook for about 15 minutes until the apples have softened. Stir in the rhubarb, and simmer gently for about an hour, possibly two, until it has all softened and formed a thick brown mass. You should be able to run the spoon down the centre of the pan and leave a momentary gap between the two halves of the mixture.

Pour into hot sterilised jars while the mixture is still very hot, then cover with waxed discs and seal. Leave for at least three months to mature before eating.


Rhubarb, orange and ginger jam (makes 4-5 jars):

1 kg rhubarb, cut into short lengths
Juice and zest of 2 oranges
50g fresh ginger, grated or finely chopped
1 tsp ground ginger
700g granulated sugar or jam sugar
100g muscovado sugar
Juice of 1 lemon

Place all the ingredients in a large pan and bring to the boil, stirring to make sure the sugar doesn't burn. Lower the heat and simmer gently for an hour or two until the jam has thickened. To test it, put a plate in the fridge until cold, then spoon a little jam on top. Leave for a minute, then run your finger through it - it should wrinkle.

Spoon the hot jam into sterilised jars, cover with wax discs and seal.