Spanish Apple Pudding

I'm having a summer of Spanish cooking. Which, I find, is very often a more sophisticated version of Italian fare; where the latter is so often and very clearly the product of peasant kitchens and resources, its Spanish cousin is the result of centuries of a rich Royal Court, and a more varied and evolved culinary experience. For summer menus, now that the days are long and hot, and the evenings perfect for al fresco dining, Spanish dishes could not be bettered: light, and fresh, and deceptively uncomplicated in style.
From the pages of Penelope Casas (of long acquaintance), and of Elizabeth Luard (who I have never previously read from a purely  'Spanish' angle), and of Janet Mendel (a completely new find), I've been extracting splendid new nuggets. Of which this is one.
When I first started to make it, as I assembled the ingredients in the pan, a suspicion began to form in my mind that this was all very familiar, and that all it would be would be the puree that forms the base of a regular tarte aux pommes. And, when you see what the ingredients are, you'll understand why. But, not so. I'm unclear by what precise alchemy - perhaps merely the surprising length of the cooking time - but the finished product here is unlike anything else I've ever come across. And, it is good!
Serve it with cold, vanilla-flavoured Creme Anglaise. Cream, on its own, would be too one-note-ish, and the delicate flavour of the vanilla offsets the dense sweetness of the apple pudding to perfection.

For three:

Ingredients: 4 medium-large apples; 5 tbs + 8 tbs sugar; 4 tbs butter; 1 tsp lemon juice; zest from half a lemon; 1/4 tsp cinnamon; a pinch of salt; 2 medium eggs.

Method:

1. Make a caramel, using the 8 tbs sugar along with 4 teaspoons of water. Once ready, pour this into three small (internal dimension approx 8 x 5 cm) ramekins, already greased.

2. Peel and dice the apples, and place them in a small pan along with all of the rest of the ingredients, apart from the eggs; cook, covered, very slowly, for three hours. By which time they will almost entirely have collapsed,and the mixture will be quite dense.

3. Allow the mixture to cool, and then mix into it the two eggs, lightly beaten. Divide this mixture between the three ramekins, and then place them in a bain amrie and cook them in an oven pre-heated to 175 degrees C for one and a half hours.

4. Allow to cool to room temperature, and un-mould the puddings onto soup plates. Serve, surrounded with light, vanilla-flavoured creme anglaise. Exquisite!

Stuffed Vine Leaves

This was one of my offerings in our recent Masterchef Weekend (2017). Not the greek version, of very long memory, but one from Spain, with a much more interesting flavour than the lemon and rice one, which IMHO has always seemed rather one-note-ish (and that a rather brackish flavour, which could be lemon or could be vinegar, but either way is an acquired taste rather than an obvious argument). The spanish version uses a mixture of  varieties of meat in the stuffing, and is cooked in a light tomato sauce.
Most recipes specify vine leaves which have been preserved in brine, which are generally available, but with a garden full of fresh vine leaves for around ten months of the year, it seemed daft not to use them, and so, I did. It was a toss-up between leaves from the muscat vine, or from the fragola vine - the latter were larger, and seemed more robust, and so the first time I did this recipe, I used these - in practice, the smaller leaves are just as strong, and arguably more tender. I suspect the larger and tougher the leaves are, then the longer you have to blanch them in order to get rid of any residual leatheriness.
This is a peasant dish, and so although I've given precise quantities of ingredients here, I imagine it's really one of those dishes where you use whatever you have, in what seem like sensible amounts. One of those dishes where an Eliza Acton or a Hannah Glasse would have said merely 'mix together a quantity of the following things...' and then proceed to list anything and everything which might be included.
Good served either hot or cold. We have now - rather early for the year - entered deep summer, and so cold food is the obvious choice: chilled food and chilled wine, served late in the evening, as the temperature comes down to a beautiful softness.  Served hot, as a winter appetiser, though, this would be equally good, near a blazing fire.

Ingredients: 16 vine leaves (either fresh, or in brine); 250g veal; 1 cup chopped cooked ham; 1 chicken breast, skinless & boneless; 2 tbs minced parsley; 2 large garlic cloves, minced; 2 slices bread, crusts removed, and soaked in a little milk; half a cup tomato sauce (simmer a can of tinned tomatoes in a little oil for fifteen minutes or so, until all has thickened and resolved itself into sauce texture, then seasoned as appropriate); half a cup chicken stock.

Method:

1. If the vine leaves are fresh, blanch them in lots  of boiling water for about five minutes, then refresh in cold water, then lay them between tea towels to dry. (I suspect you do much the same if they're in brine, but I imagine it would tell you in the jar).

2. Process all the rest of the ingredients (apart from the tomato sauce and all but 4 tbs of the stock), taste, and season as appropriate.

3. Fill each leaf with a couple of tbs of filling, then roll it up as if for a spring roll (i.e. tuck the bottom of the leaf nearest you over the filling, then fold in the sides, and roll it up, away from you).

4. Put the remaining stock and the tomato sauce in the bottom of a pan (one with a lid) and place the stuffed leaves in one layer on top, seams facing down, and quite tightly packed. Cover the pan and simmer for about half an hour, over low heat. Serve, with the sauce from the pan spooned over.

If to be served cold, cover and leave in the fridge for at least a few hours beforehand.

Making Boudin Blanc

From the time when the Belfortes still lived on the windswept plateau of the Larzac, many years ago now, a Christmas memory remains of the Friday market in Millau, about sixty miles away to the north, and one of our few regular provisioning opportunities. It was from there that we used to buy foie gras, from the woman who had the stall in the corner of the marketplace, and we stocked up each week with cheese and hams and fruit and vegetables of every kind. Thirty years on, I still have my excellently supple green wellies (Chameau brand) which came from the hunting shop just off the square there, and invariably one of the final stops before we repaired to the cafe for fortification before embarking on the journey home once more was to the butchers in the small back street that, ran parallel to the marketplace, to buy there the best boudins blancs that you could possibly imagine. Light, creamy and entirely delicious, they were a benchmark against which all others have subsequently been measured...and none has ever quite come up to the mark.

Until now.

The Technical Dept was determined that as part of the festive board at New Year, boudins blancs would be served. And with that in mind, he researched and experimented endlessly - and the end result was, I have to say, quite excellent. We had boudins poached, sliced and fried as part of the main course on December 31st, and then again, several days later, pan-fried in butter, along with some sliced apple, and then flambéed in calvados. And if the butcher in Millau is still around (which I doubt), then he would have good cause to look to his laurels!

Recipe for 1kg approx of Boudin blanc.

Ingredients: 

600gm meat including some fat. Chicken/Veal/Pork/Duck or a mixture
200gm crustless bread.
200ml milk
50gm cornflour
20g dried mushrooms - porcini/shiitaki etc
20ml Port
3 shallots, finely chopped
20gm butter
Spices of choice
Salt and pepper

200ml cream
200ml egg whites

At least 2 yards of sausage casing, soaked overnight in cold water.

You'll also need a sausage auger,  preferably one on a stand mixer such as Kenwood Chef, or one fitted to a piping bag.

Method:

1. Powder the dried mushrooms in a food processor and let them infuse in hot milk.
2. Soften the shallots in the butter until translucent.
3. Pour the infused milk onto the bread.
4. Blend the meat, soaked bread, cornflour, shallots, port, spice and seasoning in a food processor until it forms a fine paste.
5. With machine running add the egg whites slowly.
6. Add the cream slowly and mix for a minute only.
7. Fry a small sample of sausage meat and taste. Correct seasoning if necessary.

Oil the outside of the sausage auger. Slide the soaked casing onto auger, draw 5" of casing off the auger. Fill the hopper with the sausage meat and start the machine. As the meat fills the casing slowly slide more casing off the auger. Do not overfill the casing and try to avoid leaving any air bubbles (If you're doing this with a piping bag rather than a machine, then you might need an assistent at tis point - three hands, at least, are a good idea at this point in the process, when you need both to operate the piping bag, and ensuring that it doesn't come apart as you fill the casing, and also to ensure that the filling is evenly distributed within the casing) . When all the sausage meat has extruded, press out any air and knot each end of the casing. If desired, divide the sausage into links by twisting the casing at regular intervals. Prick each sausage 4 or 5 times to prevent them bursting. Poach the sausage at 75-80°C for 40 minutes.
Store or freeze when cold.

Fry sausages in butter until golden brown all over and serve.

Capo d'Anno 2016

Ten for dinner - all the usual suspects - and the Technical Dept's expert stage management meant that we finished the sixth (and final) course with just two minutes to spare before fireworks took place on the agrumi lawn.Three different sorts of canapé, washed down with a variety of bottles of fizz, then smoked salmon (russian, a side of) with Reisling; scallops and romesco sauce, with Gewurtz; a sorbet of tomato and basil; three kinds of duck (grilled magret; confited legs; and a boudin blanc of minced duck & pork), along with a purée of salsify, and a magnum of Barbaresco 2009; a vacherin, brought back from Strasbourg a month ago, and nursed since then in the pantry fridge, served with an eye-wateringly good Avvolture 2003, and fata-in-casa walnut bread; and, to finish, spit-roast pineapple, served with coconut ice cream and a sauce of banana, ginger and chilli. We were supposed then to have figs dipped in chocolate...but owing to a general collapse-of-stout-party at that point, the figs were spared to fight another day.

The mise en scene...

The kitchen...while all was still looking organised

In preparation for the grand decanting

The calm before the storm - a sea of light and glasses...

And the menu. Soup to nuts, and everything in between.

Tonight's Dinner:

Leftovers!

Masterchef 2016

Ten years - amazing to think! - since we first started this annual cook-fest.

Jennie turned up, this year, with a broken wrist, which ought to have caused problems, but in fact seemed to have very little impact at all. And we were down to only one oven, as the other one was waiting to have the element replaced, at the time.

We concluded that the ten years has seen us (a) become better cooks, (b) become less competitive (at least, with each other - we no longer particularly score points competitively and instead merely enjoy the communal largesse), and (c) experience a decline in the capacity of our appetites (these days, we no longer have breakfast, and largely skip lunch...and by the end of this particular Masterchef weekend, we were all distinctly struggling. How are  the mighty fallen!). The weather was lousy, so we stayed indoors the entire time and concentrated 100% on the kitchen.

Jennie's contribution was: risotto of mozzarella, with a mint-pesto dressing; braised beef cheek (the aroma of which filled the house and was completely  glorious, as the rain drummed down outside); and lemon posset with roast grapes and shortbread.
Technical Dept produced: Foie  gras, wrapped in blanched lettuce and poached; Marmite dieppoise; and a Chocolate Marquise with puff pastry, served with a coffee sauce.
And I turned out: asparagus souffle, baked inside a herb crepe, with tarragon sauce; Coulibiac Collette  (a recipe from Verfours); and an apple charlotte.

Some of them, I forgot to photograph - but those which I did, you can see below:

The pleasurable sight of serried ranks of genoise fingers...

And, the finished charlotte...it lasted us for days (and days)

Beef cheek, braising

Lemon possets, keeping their cool

Four-footed, sensibly keeping out of the way

Ecrevisses heads, being prepped for Coulibiac

Coulibiacs, waiting to be baked (layers of rice, salmon, and ecrevisses, in a
mornay sauce,
with a layer of brioche on top of each one)

Technical dept, generally faffing

Queuing for the oven - coulibiacs now glazed

Poached foie gras, inside its lettuce wrapping

Has nobody got time to throw a tennis ball around?

Posset, dressed with  Roast Grapes

Coulibiacs, coming out of the oven

Meat and two veg...

Chocolate Marquise, in a Puff Pastry Sandwich, with Coffee Sauce & Raspberries

Is it over? Is it safe to come out, now?

Don Guido...

Don Guido, on the left, with Don Francesco

has died. Which is very sad. Not only has he been here for as long as we have, but, at the age of 97, and incumbent Priest at Santa Caterina for the past 72 years, since 1944, I should think he's been around for longer than anybody in Pisa has. Practically, literally.

He stepped down from full-time duties several years ago, and his parish responsibilities were  shared out at that time between several other 'Dons' - although not necessarily to good effect; on one occasion, I heard one parishioner agree with another that Don Roberto was such a tedious windbag that he was going to attend mass at San Francesco that evening, instead of at Santa Caterina. Don Roberto has subsequently gone off to be the Bishop of Pescia, where I imagine he is spreading his own particular version of the good word - or, as the people here would have it 'going on, a bit' - and Don Francesco has been confirmed as full time successor in Don Guido's place. Don Guido stayed on in the priest's house, however, and his stooped figure was occasionally to be seen heading off at great speed down the piazza in the direction of the post office, almost as though he had an outboard motor fitted under his cassock, like some close relative of the duracell bunny.

I remember one occasion, several years ago, when the Technical Department was doing something to the watering system and was working, effectively hidden, in amongst a thicket of bamboo near the garden gate. Scuffle was keeping him company, and, as the elderly dog that he was at that time, he was lying just inside the gate, idly contemplating the World beyond - just in case. Don Guido materialised, on his way to the campo, and, not seeing the  Technical Department  in the undergrowth he stopped to have a chat with the dog, and to compliment him on what an excellent job he was doing keeping watch on everything. Before Don Guido moved on, they appeared to converse quite happily, and at some length - a couple of silvery old codgers, senior citizens moving slowly through the evening of life.

Although it isn't usual for a parish priest to have the title 'Monsignor', Don Guido was accorded it by the church as a special honour, and he was quite rightly held in high general esteem.  He will be much missed.

Leek & Mushroom timbales.

In Italy, this would be called a sformato; in France, a timbale; and in Britain, whence the recipe hails, there's every reason to think of it as a savoury baked custard. Apart, that is, from the fact that the dreary and workaday words 'baked custard' do not, never have and never could conjure up an image of something so unctuous and delicious as this dish actually is. The version given here is closely based on one in Stephen Bull's admirable 'Classic Bull' , where he does refer to it as a 'custard' - but then, in that book he was more or less on a british-ish food trip, where the frames of reference were things like jugged hare, and omelette Arnold Bennett, and drop scones...and so 'custard', with all its home counties overtones, fitted right in.
The book, by the way, has much to recommend it, and over the years I've come across a number of treasures within its pages which have subsequently been assimilated into my own repertoire - his breaded pork paupiettes, for instance, stuffed with basil and anchovy, are excellent and point-scoring, as are his recipe for lemon cheesecake, and his method of blanching cucumber before finishing it in butter to serve as a vegetable to accompany fish. The abysmally bad editing before the book went to press means that careful reading is necessary, however, before actually embarking on any of the recipes - in the aforementioned cheesecake recipe, for instance, it begins with an instruction to heat the oven to 350 degrees F, and thereafter the oven makes no further appearance in the recipe (rightly so, since this cheesecake is set, and not baked - but isn't entirely clear from the way the recipe is written and the unwary might conceivably guess otherwise and try and bake it...with what ghastly results I can only imagine); equally, in the recipe for 'Beef Stew, with Orange and Cinnamon', you would search in vain for any mention of cinnamon either in the list of ingredients or in the recipe itself; guesswork is required to know how much of it seems a good idea, and what in fact you do with it, once you've estimated the quantity.

Anyway: leek and mushroom 'timbale'. This is one of those starters to be made in individual ramekins, and, once turned-out, to be coated with a spoonful of whichever delicious sauce suits your palate. In this instance, standard hollandaise would be my choice, although equally a version using dijon mustard rather than lemon juice would also work pretty well.

For two 'generous'servings:

Ingredients: 110g finely diced leek; 2-3 dried mushrooms (I tend to use shiitake rather than porcini, but either will work); 25g butter; 120g field mushrooms; 150ml chicken stock; 150 ml white wine; 150 ml cream; 2 medium eggs; 2 tsp chopped tarragon (or 1 tsp, if using dried); Salt and Pepper.

Method:

1. Reconstitute the dried mushroom in hot water for twenty minutes or so, then drain, rinse thoroughly and chop finely.

2. Melt the butter in a small saucepan, then add to this the field mushrooms, roughly chopped, along with the chopped dried mushroom. Cook the mushrooms, covered, over a low heat for about five minutes.

3. Add to the pan the chopped leek, and cook, still covered, for a further ten minutes. Season lightly.
At this point, heat the oven to 180 degrees C.

4. Add the wine and stock, raise the heat, and simmer enthusiastically until the liquid has mostly gone, then add the cream, and continue to simmer until the cream has reduced by about half, so that the leek and mushroom mixture is enrobed in cream rather than sitting in liquid.

5. Allow to cool for a minute or two, then blend it in a liquidizer along with the eggs and tarragon. Check the seasoning at this stage and adjust as needed.

6. Grease two 10 cm ramekins, and run a narrow strip of foil inside each one (along the base and up the side, with the ends folded down and over the outside) as a means of subsequently assisting in unmoulding should they want to be recalcitrant. Divide the leek and mushroom cream between the ramekins, and then place them, in a bain marie, in the pre-heated oven. Cook for slightly more than 30 minutes (by which I mean 31 or 32 minutes - it depends on your oven precisely how much time they will need, and I find in my oven in Italy that at 30 minutes they are just, but only just, done to perfection; a minute or so more takes the finished product to the right side of wobbliness.)

Unmould onto heated plates, and serve with the sauce of your choice.