Sugar...the bitter truth

Now, here's a fascinating thing to watch.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=dBnniua6-oM

 It goes on for longer than it need (I stopped watching after about fifteen minutes or so, by which time I'd got the idea) and the lecturer has the deeply annoying tick of saying 'OK?' at the end of every sentence (somebody really should tell him...as they should also tell the newly-minted Duchess of Cambridge to stop smoothing her hair back approximately every five seconds - but I digress). The argument seems clear and unassailable: people eat too much because the food manufacturers are feeding them with drugs which stop their system telling them when to stop. QED. 

But I was additionally intrigued by said lecturer's reference mid-flow to a book produced many decades ago by a previously (to me) unheard of food scientist called Yudkin. The Slimmer's Cookbook. A copy of which I tracked down and purchased recently for the grand sum of one penny, on Amazon New & Used. It's amazing. This is the book I was looking for ten years and more ago when I was first experimenting with low-carb eating as a means of eating well without having to compromise on quality. Proper recipes - rather than the sort of sad apologies for recipes which are regularly churned out by 'home-economists'  in an attempt to make accessible the latest food fad on the market - all of which pass the low-carb filter. This was Atkins before Atkins had ever been thought of. A book I would have written myself....and perhaps in a way I have, in collecting together over the years my own reference library of 'proper' recipes which fit a low carb profile, many of which I've posted on here over time.

Time for a re-print, I'd have said!

Tonight's Dinner:

Will be courtesy of a small restaurant in Jersey. I leave for the airport in about an hour from now.

Cinnamon Meringue Nests

I was recently given a copy of the Ottolenghi recipe book, and although I confess I wasn't immediately grabbed by the contents in general (although I might come back to it at a later date, and discover riches beyond the dreams of actresses...you never know), I was struck by what, to me, was a novel way of making meringue. So, with only minor adaptation, I tried it. To great success.

Not for the faint-of-heart, or for anybody concerned about calorie intake - the amount of sugar in this recipe is rather alarming! -  this is definitely something for those occasions when you want a theatrical flourish, and can banish thoughts of the waistline to the following morning. The density of the meringue mixture is such that you can build a towering structure which will retain its shape perfectly as it cooks, with no worry that it might spread or topple or do any of those irritating things which are so depressingly familiar to cooks.

Another surprise about this particular recipe is the prevalence of the flavour of cinnamon, despite only using such a small amount of it. On this occasion, I filled the meringe nests with creme fraiche and raspberries (to balance the inevitable sweetness of the meringue itself), both of which have quite strong flavours ...yet the lasting sensation at the end of it all  - subtle, but certainly there - was of the cinnamon.

Apologies in advance to those of you who don't have a stand-up mixer. Ottolenghi says it isn't possible to beat the mixture hard enough or long enough without one, and that it just isn't possible to do it properly with a hand mixer. I can't comment - I wasn't interested to disbelieve him, so I didn't try.

For two large 'Nests'.

Ingredients: 100g egg whites; 70g Muscovado Sugar; 130g granulated Sugar; quarter teaspoon of Cinnamon.

Method:

1. Heat the oven to 110 degrees C.

2. Put the egg whites and the sugars into a simmertopf or bain-marie, and heat gently for ten  minutes or so, stirring occasionally, until the sugars have dissolcved into the egg wite, and the mixture has reached about 45 degrees C.

3. Remove the egg-white/sugar mixtur to the bowl of a stand-up mixer (Kenwood, KitchenAid....whatever you have), and beat at high speed for eight minutes. It will firm up and increase in volume dramatically.

4. Fold into the mixture the Cinnamon, then put everything into a piping bag (I always piped meringue using a 'ribbed' nozzle, but that's just personal preference), and pipe two nests onto a baking tray lined with either greaseproof paper or a silicon mat.

5. Bake for between one and a half and two hours. Allow to cool, and preferably use on the same day as baking.

Keeping up with the Joneses...

not to mention the Schmidts, the Duponts, the Garcias, the Van den Burghs, the Holmquists, the McDougalls, the Llewellyns, and the Winckelmanns...

We, too, have snow!!!

Not exactly thigh-high, I admit...and in fact, by the time of writing, most of it has now disappeared (which I don't mind, one bit)...but still...

Snow!

Tonight's dinner:

Flamiches

Scaloppine, stuffed with Prosciutto and Fontina, breaded and fried;  Roast Celeriac.

Unmoulded Apple in aspic, with Rum & Orange; Vanilla Ice Cream.

How to make the perfect soufflé

Soufflés were one of the (relatively) first things I learned to make - after pastry, and crème patissière, I think. And certainly, I can remember about thirty years ago happily churning them out without a moment's thought, and often, when we were entertaining in the kitchen at Bankside, getting up from table mid-supper and getting on with soufflé production, without missing a beat in the general conversation. As with much else in those days, I learned from the late great Julia, in Mastering the Art...and, as with everything else that came from her instruction, the technique worked perfectly. (I've never been entirely clear how much that was Julia, and how much was Simone Beck, but at the end of the day, who cares?).

And then, over time, somehow I lost the knack. I'm not quite sure when...but I suppose I got hi-jacked by other people's methods and recipes (different temperatures, different base recipes, whether or not to use a bain marie, different ways of recognising the correct consistency of the mixture, different - but confident - opinions about everything...), and at a certain point I recognised that soufflés had become, for me, rather hit-and-miss. Which meant that I produced them less often, which meant that when I did they became even more hit and miss. Which was deeply frustrating, and basically kind of stupid....since I knew I used to be able to do it with my eyes shut. The final straw was the Larousse Book of Soufflés, which was one of the things under the tree for me this Christmas. Packed with wonderful-sounding things....except that when I tried the first of them, somehow instinctively I knew it didn't feel right, and when the end-result rose too high and then toppled over messily inside the oven, it was clearly time to take action. Following the time-honoured dictum that 'When all else fails, read the instructions', I decided to do just that, and crack open Julia once more.Which I did. January was significantly - and remarkably successfully - devoted to re-learning soufflés, and by the end of the period I felt as though I'd emerged from a bout of rehab, and all was once more well with the world.

The following method is for sweet soufflé (the method for savoury is different, and I'll post on that some other time), and is a basic recipe for Vanilla Soufflé, with variations thereafter for a number of different alternatives.

For two individual soufflés, in circular moulds 9cm diameter x 4 cm depth.

Ingredients: 11g plain Flour; 70 ml Milk (2.5 fl oz, if you're working in imperial - I switch between the two, all the time); 28g Sugar, plus 1 spoonful; 2 medium Eggs + one extra egg-white (if adding the extra white from whites you'e saved otherwise, and therefore need to measure a quantity, then one egg-white is approximately 30 ml); 1 tablespoon Vanilla Essence; a pinch of Salt; Icing Sugar.

Method:

1. Heat the oven to 200 degrees C.

2. Grease the inside of your two soufflé moulds.

3. Into a bain marie over medium heat, place the Flour, and add a couple of tablespoons  of the milk, to allow you to make a lump-free paste. Once the Flour has been properly incorporated, add the rest of the Milk, and mix together thoroughly with a hand whisk. Add the 28g of  Sugar, and cook for a few minutes, stirring from time to time, until the mixture has cooked and thickened. 

4. Remove the mixture from the heat, and beat in the egg yolks, one at a time. Allow the mixtrure to cool slightly, then mix in the Vanilla Essence.

5. In separate bowl, whisk the egg whites with a pinch of Salt, and when the whites start to stiffen, sprinkle a spoonful of sugar over hte surface; continue beating until the whites are stiff.

6. Mix a quarter of the stiff whites into the base mixture, then carefully fold in the remainder.

7. Fill the prepared moulds above the rim, and then run the side of a palette knife across the top of the mould, to scrape away excess mixture and to fill the moulds perfectly.

8. Run your thumb right round the edge of each mould, to create a small channel round the surface of each soufflé - this will stop the mixture from sticking to the mould, and allows the sides to rise vertically. Using a template (a piece of card or papaer, from which you've cut a circle about a cm in diamater less than the top of the soufflé) sprinkle icing sugar over the top of the mixture, to make a crisp skin on the surface of the finished product.

9. Place the soufflés in the oven, and as soon as you've closed the door, reduce the tempertaure setting to 180 degrees C.

10. Bake for eleven minutes. (This may take slight experimentation in practice, as no two ovens are identical, and ten seconds more or less can make all the difference with the finished consistency - you might find with your own oven that the best result is given by 10 and a half minutes, or by eleven and a quarter; for me, it's eleven.)

Serve. Immediately. And with pride. Best to put each soufflé dish on top of a folded napkin on each plate, as this stops the dishes from skidding around as the plates are taken to table.

The variations: For Coffee Soufflé, replace half of the Vanilla Essence with two teaspoons of Coffee Essence,  or better still, mocha paste;  for Praline soufflé, replace half of the Vanilla with two tsp of Praline Paste; for Orange soufflé, replace half of the Vanilla with the finely grated rind of one orange, plus 2 tbs of cointreau; for Almond soufflé, add to the Vanilla mixture a quarter tsp of almond extract, plus 90g of toasted ground almonds (you might need an extra egg white in this version, as the base mixture is thicker than with the other recipes, and so needs more beaten egg-white to lighten it.)

The Big Chill...

The lily-pond has been a sheet of ice for the past three days, although we haven't been having noticeable frosts - so I suppose the temperature must be all to do with the famous 'windchill factor'. It's enough for even the junior four-footed (who's choice normally would be to live outdoors, if he could) to come back inside, after only about three minutes' commmuning with nature - while his senior compadre merely peers doubtfully at 'outside', before politely looking up to indicate that No, he doesn't really think so, thank you.

I agree, and gardening has been put on hold for the time being. The locals, whipped by the media into a frenzy of concern, have been wrapping plants and shrubs in fleecy shrouds...and although I pondered doing it for some of the more tender plants, in the end I decided not to, since there were far more than I could wrap up that would be vulnerable if it got really cold (so, how to choose?)...and I wasn't entirely convinced about the threat, anyway. And in the end, I don't think it's been any colder than it normally is at this time of year, and already all those alarmingly low 'minus' figures have largely evaporated from the forecast - as I suspected they would - so it looks as though the panic should be over. The fleece-sellers will have done well from it, though!

The one thing we did decide to protect was the Madagascan Traveller's Palm in the courtyard - which isn't supposed to be this far north, at all - and the Technical Dept constructed an enormous bobble hat for it out of bubble wrap, inside which he rigged up a garden light , to keep the air slightly warm. And because the light is on 24/7, it washes upwards and casts a ghostly glow at night over the facade of the church behind, and catches the sculptural lines of the gothic windows. Rather splendid and mysterious...

Tonight's Dinner:

Courgette Soufflés.

Lasagne of Green Pasta & Guinea Fowl Ragu.

Apple and Orange crumble.

It was Brazilian Night...

...at the V&A, on Friday. One of their 'last Friday of the month' events, when - in theory - the entire place is given over to party crowds, and carnival dress and exuberance amongst the artefacts is the order of the day. Or so it had been the last time we'd encountered one of these evenings (pretty much  by accident) a year or so ago, and had found the Cast Halls full of people conga-ing along in day-glo costumes, and en route to the third floor of the Medieval Gallery, had stumbled across some strange kind of musical event in play.  Buzzy and all rather wonderful.
So, you'd have thought that an evening arranged in collaboration with the Brazilian Embassy would have been Mardi Gras in small, since spontaneous partying is surely what Brazilians are supposed to do best. Maybe that was what was wrong, though - not enough Brazilians, and, in their absence,  too much reliance on spontaneity (which wasn't really happening). There were loads of people - loads - and the place was generally heaving; all waiting for something to happen, that they could stand and happily watch. But, in  practice, the much vaunted Samba Flash Mob turned out to be three blokes with drums, wearing brightly coloured t-shirts and banging away with great enthusiasm, but actually looking as though they'd just wandered in from Esher Rugby Club! And all the while the DJ in the opposite corner of the Hall was churning out, at high volume, what sounded like Stevie Wonder interspersed with early Michael Jackson. Which, I suppose, given that the V&A is a museum, wasn't entirely inappropriate...

I endured the war zone that surrounded the bar in the Central Hall not once but twice - having lost heart after ten minutes, the first time around, and given up; only to realise that my taste buds had been warned to expect something heartening, and I was just going to get bad-tempered if expectations weren't met. So, I tried again, and succeeded in returning with a couple of caparinhas.  Which turned out to be a glass of very expensive crushed ice, at the bottom of which was sloshing around a generous squirt of lemon juice, and some colourless and flavourless alcohol. A bit like a Pisco Sour, but without the kick.

However, it wasn't all disappointing. With an unerring nose for these things, the Technical Dept had noticed in passing that, tucked away in the direction of the Sackler Centre,  there was a new display of things recently woven from Madagascan golden spider silk  - a cope and a shawl - which is not only extremely strong, but is naturally golden in colour. Having disposed of our glasses of slush, we made our way there, and weren't disappointed. Beautiful things. And fascinating. Definitely worth the journey.

And then, on the way out, just as I mentioned that I'd be interested to see Rodin's bust of Eve Fairfax (having just read Michael Holroyd's latest book, in which it features prominently), but that it would probably be in some obscure corner of an upper gallery....suddenly, quite serendipitously, there it was, right in front of us. Which was splendid!

But not enough to keep us for long from heading out and home, and in search of a decent drink!

Tonight's Dinner:

Rotolo of Green Pasta, filled with Spinach and Pancetta.

Rabbit braised in White Wine; Fennel, breaded and fried.

Orange bavarois.

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.