Making Marmalade

The citrus trees in the garden are dripping with fruit - perhaps 500 lemons, in all, spread between the two or three most prolific fruiters; and the sweet orange which climbs up to the office terrace is producing almost as generously. The newly-planted mandarin is showing willing with a token offering (which bodes well for future years) ...and the bitter oranges are going great guns, with many kilos of fruit hidden away amongst the rich dense foliage. From the sweet oranges, we have freshly squeezed juice each morning; the lemons will all find a good home over the next few months (Lemon Tart; Lemon & Sage Risotto; Pasta with Hazelnut & Lemon; Guinea Fowl with Lemon & Garlic...as well as salads, and fish, and apple pies, and cake...) and, this week,  the bitter oranges are being put to excellent use for marmalade.

I've circled warily round the marmalade process for some time, as I'd always understood it was quite complicated. Which it isn't, in the least.... and so now regret all that useless circling. It requires very little watching as it cooks, and so takes only the time needed for the hands-on preparation stages. Before trying it for the first time, I researched widely, and came up with a method that is essentially 'Colonel Gore's Recipe' - which came from the family archives of Rosemary Hume - combined with Prue Leith. As follows:

For three and a half kilos of Marmalade.

Ingredients: 2 kilos of fruit (I use entirely bitter oranges - the ones we grow are very bitter indeed, so need no help from any additional lemon juice and pith; if using seville oranges, though, it might be better to substitute a couple of large lemons for the equal weight of oranges, to give you still a total of 2 kilos); 10 pints of water; 3 kilos of sugar.

Method:

1. Cut the fruit in half, and squeeze into a ceramic or glass bowl large enough eventually to hold all of the fruit and the water. (I use an electric citrus press for this stage, and to do all of the fruit takes about ten minutes). 

2. Collect all of the pips, and tie them in a piece of muslin (or, failing that, a new j-cloth). Add the bag of pips to the juice.

3. Finely slice the fruit husks - using the slicer disc in the food processor means this job takes about two minutes in total. Add the sliced fruit husks to the bowl with juice and pips, and add to it all of the water. Cover, and let stand for 24 hours.

4. After 24 hours, transfer the contents of the bowl to a preserving pan. Bring to a simmer over low heat, and allow to simmer for two hours.

5. About an hour and forty minutes into the simmering time, warm the sugar in an oven set at around 60 degrees C (I pour it into a couple of glass roasting dishes for this purpose). At the end of the simmering time, carefully add the warmed sugar to the preserving pan, and raise the temperature to a slow boil. Keep boiling , stirring from time to time, and at the end of about forty minutes - at which point the mixture visibly thickens - begin to check the temperature using a jam thermometer. When it reaches 106 degrees C, it's done. 

6. Allow to cool for ten minutes, and then transfer to sterilised jam jars. Cover each jar with a circle of greaseproof paper - and if you have tops that can be screwed in place, do so, tightly,  before the marmalade has cooled.

An excellent sauce for fish...

This was the sauce we had with the first course at dinner on Christmas Day. A classic technique, but none the worse for that! As with all good sauces, the secret is to reduce, and reduce, and reduce - so all those wonderful flavours end up concentrated in a spoonful of something which is so luxuriously delicious that it practically defies description.

On this occasion, we were eight for dinner, and I had a couple of gloriously meaty Dover Sole, the fillets from which were 'poached' over chopped shallots and white wine in a gentle oven, and then served with a light coating of sauce. In practice, the sauce will work with  any white-fleshed fish....and if you don't want to faff around with the filleting and making the stock from scratch, then substitute a quarter cup of ready made (good) fish stock, add to it the same quantity of white wine, and then reduce by a half before  proceeding with step two of the recipe.

You can make the sauce in advance, but if you do, then be very careful when reheating, and only do it slowly, and over the gentlest of flames.

Makes sufficient sauce for 6-8 servings (2 tbs each)

Ingredients: 2 fish carcasses;1 bottle dry white wine;1 pint of creme fraiche* - preferably home made**;1 stick celery;parsley stalks and/or fennel stalk;1 onion, roughly chopped.

Method: 

1. Poach the vegetables and the fish carcases in the wine for an hour. Strain, discard the carcases and vegetables, and reduce the stock to next to nothing - ¼ cup say. 

2. Add the cream and reduce until you have 250ml or 2 tablespoons per serving. Season before serving.

* Creme fraiche is acid and produces a completely difference sauce to, say, double cream. You can use double cream and add lemon juice, but the flavour will not be the same. I also find double cream has a greater tendency to 'split' than creme fraiche. 

**To make creme fraiche at home, you will need to buy a small amount of creme fraiche the first time in order to start the process (and then use the tail-end of the first batch when it comes to making the next lot).  

Heat a litre of whipping cream to 40°C - I buy screw top paper cartons and put the carton in the warming drawer. As when making yoghurt, mix a couple of tablespoons of existing creme fraiche with some of the cream from the carton. Mix very well and return the liquid to the carton. Turn the carton upside down a couple of times to amalgamate and leave in a warm place(22-24°C say) for 24 hours. Turn the carton upside down occasionally to mix the contents.  I sit the container on top of the gas central heating boiler. Refrigerate for a day before using. It will keep 10 days or more.

First-rate Art...

and third-rate scholarship. We were in Florence on Wednesday, with the Belfortes, for an exhibition at the Strozzi which was supposed to explore the relationship - accommodation, maybe? - between commerce and religion in the fifteenth century, as manifested in florentine works of art from the period. It's a valid thesis, and the works of art advertised were reason enough on their own to make it worth seeing. (The title of the exhibition was 'Botticelli, Bankers, and the Bonfires of the Vanities' , and although I've no great liking for Botticelli, there was enough on offer otherwise to whet the appetite.)

Many of the pictures were excellent: at the very least, a couple of beautiful Fra Angelico's, a wonderful Jacopo del Sellaio, and three panels of a predella by Pesellino that I would quite happily have pocketed had nobody been looking.  All-in-all, it was a morning well spent. As long as it remained  possible to ignore the banalities on the accompanying narrative panels, that is. The 'art' occasionally had to struggle quite hard to rise above the inadequacies of the text, for which joint responsibility (or do I mean blame?) was presumably shared between the two curators,  Ludovica Sebregondi and Tim Parks. La Sebregondi is apparently an art historian - although anybody reading her contributions to the signage of the exhibition could be forgiven for not having realised it - and so perhaps has less excuse than Mr Parks, who is, when all's said and done, a popular novelist. Ok, he has one light-ish weight work of Medici-related social history to his name, as well - but I'm not sure that really qualified him for the position of joint curator of this event. Who knows what struggles between these two went into the labour pangs of the enterprise, but as a scholarly exploration of a complicated - but not too complicated - subject, the end result read as though it was aimed at an audience of eight-year-olds, and was quite frankly pitiful.  

Oh, and there was a further highly-ignorable dimension to the event which, fortunately, I managed to tune out fairly comprehensively. Throughout the exhibition,  an undertone of distaste was discernible with the whole subject of banking and commerce, and wealth and luxury that could quite easily have come from one of the great-unwashed who were so recently camping on the pavement outside St Paul's, and clogging up Wall Street. Tiresome, witless, and childish. The subject deserved better.

However...lunch afterwards at Cammillo (just for a change!) was even more delicious than usual, with the stracotto I had being about as close to a work of art on a plate as you could hope to get. And as we subsequently headed off to Santa Maria Novella for our train, we waved the Belfortes off and into the Armani shop, where they had every intention of wallowing in luxury, encouraging commerce, and flouting every sumptuary law they could think of! Plus ca change...

Tonight's Dinner

Phyllo Shells, filled with Fegatini and Mushrooms, in a Marsala Cream.

Prawn Curry. 

Pineapple Soufflés Glacés

Passing on Recipes...

In the early sixties, Kira Petrovskaya talked about the time she'd asked an aged bubushka how it was that she made such memorably excellent piroshki. "Well," the old lady replied, after a long pause for thought, "first of all I wash my hands...and then.....well, then, I tie a clean kerchief around my head." This was followed by another and longer pause..."And, then?" she was prompted. "Ah, yes. And then....then, I make sure to put on a very clean apron, and tie it tightly." At which point, the explanation required another prompt, and the babushka folded her hands together, and with a smile of apple-cheeked sweetness, concluded with an understated flourish 'And then...well, then, I cook the piroshki!".  Petrovskaya was entirely convinced by the innocence of the delivery that she was in the presence of a natural cook, who couldn't conceive that any recipe could require explanation...someone for whom cooking was, after all, something that just happened  when one was in the kitchen. Never being entirely persuaded by apple-cheeked innocence,  however, I have my own view of  what was what was going on here, and take a more cynical view of the babushka's inability to communicate...

We were in Belforte for the weekend, for a birthday. For a starter at dinner on Friday, we were served a dish of wonderfully succulent courgettes, gently sautéed to a melting softness, the flavour rich, but with an undertone of tanginess. "How have you done these?" I asked, and got a vague response, that it was an adaptation over many years of something that had originally come from Hazan. "Yes, but what's the recipe?" I persisted. To be met with an explanation that it was necessary first to cut up and salt the courgettes...which led to a discussion of whether or not this was actually necessary, since I never bother with this step, any more "Ah, but unless they're absolutely garden fresh, you have to..."  which I think is nonsense, since no water ever comes out of the things, I find, even if I do salt them and leave them to sit for an hour, and so it's a complete waste of time. And by this stage we were on the second glass of grappa -  the local production of which in Belforte is absolutely lethal, and is shortly followed by collapse of stout parties - and so that was the end of that particular conversation.

"You never actually explained how you cooked the courgettes," I reminded her, over coffee, the next morning. "Ah.....didn't I?" And the evasive tone might have existed only in my imagination. "Yes, we did that bit..." I said, as a repetition of cutting and salting your courgettes seemed about to start. And this time we got as far as heating olive oil in a sauté pan...."But, it must only be very good oil, and Olive  oil, not sunflower, or peanut, or any of those other things they suggest in recipes...". 

And then the phone rang. And although there might not actually have been an element of 'saved by the bell' about it all, it was with a raised eyebrow that the TD and I exchanged a glance across the kitchen table, as the explanation trailed off in the direction of the trilling machine.

"About those courgettes," I tried again, sometime later, over a rising pile of chopped carrots and leeks, as a couple of lamb shoulders were being prepped for lunch (Belforte lamb is melt-in-the-mouth wonderful!). "Hmmm?" Difficult to concentrate on lamb and a recipe explanation all at the same time, of course, but slowly, step by painful step (of which there are only about three, anyway) we finally managed to get there. Finally. Almost twelve hours after having first posed the question. Talk about pulling teeth!

And, I would pass it on here, so we can all enjoy the perfection of the end result....but I can hear the phone ringing....and then I have to wash my hands ....so...perhaps another time! (Perhaps)

Tonight's Dinner:

Tagliatelle 'fata in casa', with a mussel and cream sauce.

Scaloppine alla milanese, with a cheese and prosciutto stuffing; fagiolini, with tomato and onion.

Apricot Cream 'Crimean style'.

Recipe: The Best Chocolate Ice Cream...

...bar none. According to the Technical Department, at any rate - and he considers himself something of an aficionado.Neither too bitter nor too sweet, with a velvet texture, and an undertone of vanilla which kicks the whole thing up a very definite notch.

I found the recipe, several years ago,  buried deep within the pages of a volume called 'Chocolate Passion', where it formed merely a part of an elaborate and overly-constructed dessert.  The rest of the dish left me cold - as did much of the rest of the book, in fact, with a lot of illustrations of rather indigestible chocolate concoctions that sat heavy on the stomach just from their photographs! Following Nico Ladenis' philosophy that the purchase price of any recipe book is justified by the discovery in its pages of only one recipe that enters your repertoire, though, I don't begrudge a cent spent on this one. Try it and you'll see what I mean.

For five servings:

Ingredients: 5 medium egg yolks; half a cup of sugar; generous pinch of salt; one and a quarter cups of cream; 1 cup of milk; 6 ounces of dark chocolate (coarsely chopped if in one piece; I generally use small chocolate buttons); 4 teaspoons of vanilla extract.

Method:

1. Heat the milk and cream in a bain-marie or simmertopf, along with all but two tablespoons of the sugar, and the pinch of salt.

2. In a bowl, beat the egg yolks with the remaining sugar, until they are pale yellow in colour and leave a tail behind the whisk.

3. Add the liquid to the egg yolks, mix together thoroughly, and then return the combined mixture to the simmertopf. Cook over medium heat for about five minutes, until the mixture it has visibly thickened and will coat the back of a spoon.

4. Turn off the heat, add all of the chcolate and let it stand for 30 seconds before whisking the chocolate into the custard.

5. Remove the chocolate custard to a bowl, and whisk in the vanilla extract. Allow the mixture to cool completely, stirring from time to time, before churning it in your ice cream machine, and then freezing.

If the ice cream has been in the freezer for more than a couple of hours, remember to put it in the fridge to defrost slightly for about half an hour before you want to serve it.

Back from the Dead!

Phil lives, once more! 

Or, at least, 'Phil' is  how he's known in this house. More accurately, his name - or perhaps, his title - is a Jura Impressa F50. But he was christened 'Phil' within about five minutes of arrival, five years or more ago, when the first command he bleated at us was 'Fill Coffee', shortly followed by 'Fill Water' - only after which would he deign to produce two excellent cups of coffee (which is, after all,  his sole reason for existence). And downhill of those commands, we soon got an 'Empty Grounds'. He's a bossy little sod, when's all said and done. It's a little like living with Hal from 2001, except without the mellifluous good manners. Where Hal was all courteous helpfulness, Phil comes across as rather prissy and prim, and entirely lacking in a sense of humour. He is Swiss, so I suppose it's not surprising. Every so often, and generally without warning, he makes a series of odd noises, which I think are some sort of self-cleaning process - somehow, though,  it seems to be rather a personal moment (as though he's strenuously adjusting his knicker elastic, or worse) and not an activity to be shared. Time to hum loudly and look elsewhere, until he's finished.

Generally, I leave Phil to the Technical Department. It may be my imagination, but every time I attempt to persuade him to produce coffee, I get a refusal ...or, at least a refusal until I've done something for him, along the lines of filling something or emptying something, or closing some flap or other to his satisfaction. I lose patience with that sort of thing very rapidly. Oh, and he's multi-lingual - on one occasion TD went off to London for a few days and inexplicably left Phil set to operate in German. Which I don't speak. After the first attempt to have him produce an espresso for me had floundered against a stream of incomprehensible Deutsch, I had to resort to the time honoured cafetière instead, until the TD returned.

You'd think, from all of this, that Phil is more of a bane than a blessing. But nothing could be further from the truth. The coffee he produces is excellent. And endless. Practically.

The water here in Pisa, though, is very chalky. And at one point - on cup number 6,284 (he counts them all and keeps a record; I told you....he's Swiss!) just after we'd started to comment that the coffee Phil was making wasn't as hot as it used to be, he suddenly stopped altogether. He'd got furred arteries, and needed an urgent transplant. We were stricken; and so were many of our friends and relations...who looked in alarm at the semi-dismantled automaton in the corner of the kitchen and immediately asked what the matter was with him. And, as time went by, they'd arrive, and look, and ask if Phil still hadn't recovered? Which gives you some idea of how good his output normally is.

Technical Dept sent off for the relevant spare parts. Which were sent to London. And then got lost. So, a second lot were sent for. Which did arrive. However, it transpires that Phil needs a special tool to be properly taken to pieces, and this needs to be supplied especially. Otherwise, we risked terminal damage. So, special tool was ordered, and arrived. And it was only then that it became clear that the spare parts supplied were for a more modern model than our Phil, and so yet more spare parts had to be ordered. Which eventually also turned up....and then TD rolled up his sleeves and got on with it. And from the combination of the expression on his face, the growing pile of spanners and diagrams and proliferation of little glass bowls full of Phil's innards, the need for re-thinks and strategy breaks...and the fact that the task stretched over days (and days), without much sign of progress, it seems that the construction of a lunar module would have been childsplay by comparison.

And then, yesterday, in time for the start of the new year, Phil was finally reassembled, the last screw tightened on his casing, the appropriate buttons pressed and a cup held in place, and we had the first post-op tasting. Perfect!

So, to all Phil's fan club out there, we can announce that the surgical intervention has been a complete success. Anybody fancy a coffee?

Tonight's dinner:

Foie Gras (the last of the Boxing Day vertical tasting, where we decided that the poached version beat the salt-cured method by  a hair's breadth), along with Harry's Bar Bread Rolls.

Shepherd's Pie (the end of the Lamb loin)

Chocolate Soufflé Crêpes

Foolproof Roast Lamb...

 

Slow cooking in the oven is an absolute godsend for the harrassed host. In the place of precise timings and last-minute stress, this method means that the work is all done hours in advance (freeing up the time to be stressed about another course instead!). By the end of this past Christmas weekend - which, in practice turned into three consecutive dinner parties, interspersed with two consecutive lunch parties (a lot of fun, but....well, you know) - to be able to turn to this method for the main course for dinner on Boxing Day was an enormous help.  Painless, and entirely reliable. (One thing to remember, though, with this method is not to rely on your oven controls to tell you what temperature the oven has reached, but to put an oven thermometer in the oven alongside the meat and to take your readings from that - something I've learned from bitter experience!)

For one Lamb Loin (enough for eight servings):

 

1. Remove the joint from the refrigerator for long enough for it to reach room temperature, (about 3 hours before you want to start cooking). Then , using a blow torch, flame the joint all over to kill any surface bacteria. Season and tie the joint neatly. 

2. Pre-heat the oven to either 60°C (for medium, or pink lamb at the end of cooking) or to 65°C (if you prefer your lamb more cooked). Place the lamb in a dish with a piece of foil loosely laid over the meat, and cook for 3½ hours. (For those that like lamb really 'well done', set the temperature at  70°C.) If your oven has multiple settings, make sure to use the setting without the fan, as otherwise you risk the joint drying out. Once the joint has heated through, remove it from the oven and it can be 'held' until needed

3. 30 mins before serving, heat the oven to maximum. When the oven has reached maximum temperature, set the joint on a wire rack and roast until the outside is well browned, 10 - 15 mins. (If you have a gas grill or similar you can use this to brown the joint, instead).

4. Keep the joint warm while you have your first course then carve, season and serve on hot plates with a little hot sauce of your choice (I normally make a reduction of stock and red wine).