Happy Birthday, Jane

Today was the anniversary of Jane Austen's birthday, maybe you've heard?

At Jane Austen's House, we honoured the day with an open house:

mince pies, cups of tea and free admission.

For the past 18 months, I've spent most of my Thursdays in Chawton, Hampshire -- talking about Jane, thinking about Jane, and of course, reading about all things Austen.  Having said that, I'm not one of the dedicated miniaturists in life.  I don't read the six books over and over, as some of her fans do.  I'm much more likely to read a novel that's been obviously influenced by the Austen style or plot-lines.  (The Three Weissmans of Westport  comes immediately to mind.) There is one novel that I do read almost every year, though, and that's Persuasion.

It is not unusual for Austen lovers to nominate a favourite novel, and by a long chalk the front-runners are Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion.  I like and admire P & P, but without hesitation I would choose Persuasion as one of my desert island books.  I recently read an interview with Nigella Lawson and she named the following as her all-time favourite books:  Persuasion (listed first), any Nancy Mitford, Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, and I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith.  I didn't really need any other reason to adore Nigella Lawson, but discovering that we have the same short-list of favourite books did make me feel that extra bit of kinship to her.  (I would argue that being influenced and formed by the same body of books does create a sororal bond.)

Not everyone is similarly persuaded, though.  A friend recently asked for a recommendation for her Book Club and I encouraged her to choose Persuasion. 

Her feedback was not, to put it delicately, enthusiastic.

I can't remember the particulars of what she said . . . probably because I was too busy refuting them, both in mind and mouth . . . but I do recall that she didn't care for Anne Elliot, the heroine.  Something about "wimpy;" something about wanting to shake her and why didn't she take more control of her life.

I immediately went into my professor mode, trying to explain the aristocratic confines of life for an on-the-shelf and not-quite-rich-enough woman like Anne.   There is no denying, though, that Anne has a certain passive quality.  I'm quite susceptible to characters who are good and kind, but a little prone to being pushed around -- but not everyone shares that taste, I realise.

Some biographers believe that Anne Elliot was partly based on Jane's sister Cassandra, who had her own experience of "loving longest, when existence or hope is gone."  (Cassandra's fiance died, and apparently she long carried a torch for him.  At any rate, she never married -- nor even seemed to contemplate marriage.)  If so, the dénouement of Persuasian -- in which two lovers, long separated, are reunited -- was the ultimate in wish-fulfillment.  Although it is not the most obviously romantic of Austen's novels, with its slightly melancholy and autumnal tone, I think it is the most profoundly romantic.  It is the novel for every shy girl (or wallflower woman) who thinks someone will come along and see her for what she really is.  Don't we all want to be loved for our intrinsic qualities?  In a world that admires surface gloss more than ever, the idea of being seen and recognized and chosen is still heart-thrilling.

Why not seize the pleasure at once?

How often is happiness destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation.

(from Emma)

I long to be the sort of person who seizes the pleasure at once, but I have the feeling that I am too often caught planning and worrying and second-guessing myself . . . definitely more of an Anne Elliot.  Happily, Jane Austen -- who only wrote six completed novels -- provides more than one kind of heroine.

Black Cake Redux

If you are just now tuning in to the Black Cake saga,

you might want to visit my first Black Cake post.

(I'm sure that just exiting never crossed your mind!)

Just getting started: Burning my sugar

"Betty suggests putting a pound of brown sugar

in a heavy skillet with a little water

and boiling it gently until it begins to turn black.

You do not want to overboil.

It should be only slightly bitter, black and definitely burnt.

(Home Cooking, p. 179)

The fire alarm is now going off,
and the kitchen is filled with smoke

It might be burnt sugar, but it sure isn't the "essence"
It hardens into something akin to pahoehoe lava

I end up playing something like

the paper-scissors-rock game:

heat hardens sugar, water melts it.

It took a LOT of hot water to melt this lava.

I'm not sure if I've actually made Black Cake yet, because I never did manage to burn any sugar properly.

For my first round of cakes - half a recipe, as per Colwin's instructions in Home Cooking, makes a big cake and a smallish cake -- I finally got fed up and used molasses. I wouldn't have done this under my own steam, but Nigella Lawson recommended precisely this course of action in HER homage to Black Cake. Unfortunately, at this juncture in the Black Cake making, it was approximately midnight and I had ten people coming for dinner the next day. Black Cake was meant to be the Christmas Cake -- in other words, not only the dessert, but also the symbolic crowning of the occasion. I couldn't afford to be picky or authentic.

The next morning I put a nice thick layer of marzipan on the big cake, then laid down a smooth sheet of roll-out Royal icing over that. Some Christmas trees, cut and dyed from the Royal icing, completed the whole and gave it that Christmas Cake signature look. (I would have taken a picture, but what with decorating and mince pie making and producing a large roast dinner, my back was against the wall, rather.) I did save you a slice, though.

A piece of the "first" Black Cake

The crowd's reaction: Despite my many disclaimers, which made the guests a bit nervous, the cake was fairly well-received. My daughter and sister-in-law, who don't like chunks of dried fruit, preferred it to the normal sort of Christmas Cake. Everyone else liked it well enough to have a slice -- and we all agreed that it tasted delicious with a large dab of brandy butter.

But here is the strange, deja vu moment: upon tasting the Black Cake, Sigmund and I realized that we had eaten some of the stuff when we lived in Trinidad. After all of these years of mythologizing Laurie Colwin's Black Cake, I realized that I had eaten it at least a decade ago! And it made no impression on me! Well, I was left with some impression -- and this Sigmund verified. I remember Trinidad Black Cake as being sort of damp, gummy and gelatinous -- and extremely rummy. I remember not liking it much.

After the month of marinating my fruit and dreaming about my Black Cake to come, it was a sobering moment. Rather than discovering the lost chord of Colwin's cake, I felt like I had lost it even more completely. It turned out to be nothing but an over-stimulated dream -- some Xanadu or Camelot or equally lost magical kingdom! On the positive side, Sigmund - who does not lavish praise - said he actually preferred my cake to the one he tasted so long ago.

Not to be deterred, and since I still had half of "my fruits," I wrote my friend Debski -- who is an expert on things culinary and Trini. She sent back the following advice:

Never, never use molasses. The flavour is too strong.

The cake needs to "rest" three days minimum.

Traditionally, Trinis do not ice their cakes.

Feed the cake with a couple of tablespoons of rum/cherry brandy while it is warm, and then another tablespoon after it cools.

The cake MUST stay in the tin while it is being fed and rested.

Oops. I didn't do ANY of these things. Perhaps this is why my cake was merely nice as opposed to epic?

Not long ago, I finally put a stat counter on my blog and I was AMAZED to see how many people had found me through a Googled Black Cake search. I'm assuming that most of these people have been beguiled by Colwin's recipe, but confused by her lack of specificity on certain points, because they asked exactly the sort of questions which Debski answered for me. Without a true Trini to refer to, we having been baking in the dark.

Debski also shared another interesting tidbit with me. Apparently, instead of messing about with burnt sugar, many modern Trinis use browning (yes, for gravy) to achieve the proper shade of blackness in their cake. WHAT?! I could only think, "ew, gross."

Second round of burning sugar: I was determined to cook it slowly. I had my pound of sugar and I added a bit of water. I stirred and stirred. It became grainy; it turned into sugar again. I added some more water. It became grainy again; it blackened only slightly. And on and on like this for 45 minutes -- at which point I gave up again. I salvaged a bit of this sort of burnt grit for my cake and I moved on. Next year, I'm going to ask for a burnt sugar tutorial. (There must be a secret to it!)

This time, I followed Laurie's recipe and Debski's instructions. My second cake is now resting, having being fed with the prescribed rum. I will leave it to sit until New Year's, and then I will present it to my old Trinidad crowd for a test taste.

The Black Cake saga continues . . .

but still a question remains in my mind. Could it be that Trini Black Cake is different from the recipe that Laurie Colwin got from St. Vincentian babysitter? Can this lost cake EVER be recovered?

Mince Pies . . . and other English things which have grown on me

Chutney

I would have never dreamed of making chutney

when I lived in Texas.

There is just something so British Empire

and WI about it.

I made these for teacher and friend gifts

this year - along with tins of M & S biscuits.

It seemed like an appropriate gift

for an economic crisis.

It feels thrifty.

It lasts a long time,

as does the vinegary smell

which hangs about the kitchen

after you simmer all of the ingredients

together for hours.

Snowballs

Mix one part Advocaat with one part lemonade/Sprite

and lots of ice. Stir.

A cross between eggnog

and an ice cream soda.

Perfect for teenagers, mother-in-laws,

and people who order Pina Coladas.

I first learned of this quintessential

70s drink while watching

The Royle Family

many years ago.

That reference alone revealed what

a cheesy, retro drink it is.

I love it, though.

Bovril beef broth

In a recent interview,
Julie Walters said
that a cup of hot Bovril after swimming
was a favourite childhood memory.
It is very cosy and warming,
and my children are hooked on it, too.

Brussels Sprouts

The essential vegetable
for a Christmas roast dinner.
I didn’t always like
its slightly sour taste,
but with lashings of pancetta,
parsley and Marsala wine
(thanks to Nigella Lawson’s advice)
I can happily eat it.

Mulled wine

Sweet and warming,
so delicious!
This year’s recipe
included the savoury touches
of a clove of garlic
and a bay leaf.
You steep the spices in apple juice
and then add an equal part
of red wine.
To be taken, as holiday tonic,
with mince pies of course!

Mince pies

I can remember very clearly
the first time I loved a mince pie.
It was the week before Christmas
In 1999.
We had walked down a dark, snowy lane
to a friend’s cottage,
where we ate mince pies and drank mulled wine
in front of a roaring fire.

They really are better home-made.
Last year I canned many jars
of mincemeat, and then gave them away
so cavalierly.
I used my last jar this weekend,
only to discover that the
recipe (from a newspaper, I think)
has been lost!

Nigella’s recipe for pastry
is perfect.

Black Cake: First you take a bottle of rum . . .

I've just emptied a bottle of rum and one of sweet wine . . . and no, I haven't taken to drink. Actually, I'm soaking my fruit.

After this fruit macerates in its 40% proof bath for a month or so, I'm going to make my first fruitcake.

Fruitcake: a word that conjures up myriad responses.

In America, fruitcakes are mostly mocked.

• "Nutty as a fruitcake . . ."
• The Christmas gift that keeps getting re-gifted.
• A relic that only the older generation -- those same quaint folk who used to get an orange and a couple of nuts in their stockings -- actually like to eat.

Indeed, my paternal grandparents were very fond of fruitcakes; memorably, they even sent me one when I was in college. They liked the pecan-laden version from the famous Collin Street Bakery in Corsicana, Texas. (I believe that they started out with the Deluxe, but switched to the Apricot Pecan version in later years.) According to their website, Collin Street Bakery ships to "196 foreign lands." I'm not sure exactly how many foreign lands there are these days, but that would seem to cover most of them. Clearly, somebody out there is eating a lot of fruitcake.

In England, fruitcake has always been popular -- so much so that it makes the festive rounds at birthdays, weddings, and especially, during the Christmas season. Unlike the American fruitcake, which features red and green glace cherries rather heavily, the English fruitcake is dark and boozy. Rum, sherry, ale, brandy, whisky: they all get their chance. Perhaps the English fruitcake has never fallen out of favor for precisely this reason. American fruitcakes are still suffering from Prohibition.

I've had a yearning to make my own Christmas cake (ie, fruitcake) for a few years now. Although this seasonal ritual never would have occurred to me in America, it is all part of my English acculturation process. It is not unusual, in my little corner of the countryside, for women to say something like: "I iced my Christmas cake today." This year, I am going to be one of those women! Marks and Spencer will still be selling Christmas cakes, but this year, I won't be buying.

I'm not just making any old fruitcake, though . . . I'm making Black Cake.

I first read about Black Cake in 1991. My friend Martha Smith gave me a copy of Laurie Colwin's Home Cooking and said, "I think you will like this." Never mind "like"-- that insipid, lukewarm word -- I loved it. Indeed, I am evangelical on the subject of Laurie Colwin. I spread the Word whenever and wherever I can. If I meet a fellow Laurie fan, I am instantly convinced of this person's inherent likeability and good taste. It is like skipping the first six months of getting-to-know-you and cutting straight to the chase of true friendship. More food reminiscence than cookery guide, Home Cooking is for people who like to read about food. Laurie Colwin writes cookbooks for people who are interested in the role that food that plays in our lives. "Dinner Parties" or "Repulsive Dinners: A Memoir" are typical chapter titles.

The final chapter in Home Cooking describes an exotic mixture called Black Cake -- which is, apparently, the Caribbean version of fruitcake. Colwin describes it thusly, in the following oft-quoted lines: "There is fruitcake, and there is Black Cake, which is to fruitcake what the Brahms piano quartets are to Muzak. Its closest relatives are plum pudding and black bun, but it leaves both in the dust. Black cake, like truffles and vintage Burgundy, is deep, complicated and intense. It has taste and aftertaste.

Who wouldn't want to try this gorgeous-sounding stuff? It seems entirely appropriate for me to make -- as my first fruitcake -- this Caribbean/American/English hybrid.


Black Cake
(from Home Cooking, by Laurie Colwin)

Part I: The Fruit

1 pound raisins
1 pound prunes
1 pound currants
1 pound red glace cherries
3/4 pound mixed peel
1 bottle Passover wine*
1 bottle dark rum (750 ml)

Chop all of the fruit extra, extra fine and put in a large bowl.

My reflections: Unless you have a posse of friends with you, and you are drinking margaritas and chatting as you do this extra fine chopping, I would advise a food processor for this task. Be sure to pulse each fruit carefully, and one at a time, or you will get mush -- particularly with the raisins and the prunes.

Add the wine and rum and stir the mixture together. Marinate at least two weeks, and up to six months. Colwin advises a "crock" for the marinating process; Nigella Lawson suggests a large tupperware; I'm using a large plastic bottle which I use (only theoretically) for lemonade in the summer.

My observations and shopping feedback: First of all, English people who work in grocery stores have no idea what "passover wine" is. One kindly man tried to fob me off with ale, as he claimed that this is what the locals are using for their fruit cake. I was pretty sure that passover wine* is a sweet, cheap red (and subsequent Internet research has revealed this to be the case), but I wasn't convinced that the truly fortified stuff (sherry, Madeira, port and the like) would be quite the thing. In the end, I decided to use a bottle of Vin Santo that I happened to have lying around . . . waiting for that moment when I might make cantucci. It is a sweet wine, much lighter than Madeira, and I liked the fact that it has a "pronounced scent of toasted almonds and dried apricots." Nigella claims that Madeira is best, so you will have to use your own judgment on this one. As for the rum, try to get one from the Caribbean. I used one called Lamb's Genuine Navy Rum, but as long as it is a dark rum, I would go with whatever is on special offer. Having already invested in the fruit and spirits, I have to say that "Homemade" is not the cheapest way to go. I find it somewhat worrying that Tesco's can sell small fruitcakes for just a few pounds.

And another pertinent thing: You will be amazed by how much rum can be drunk by this fruit. I expected a watery mess, but actually the fruit will be thick, albeit liquid, by the time you give it a good stir. I had a taste: Delicious! Just as well, because by my kitchen scale's reckoning -- and depending on how heavy your container is -- you should have about 7 pounds of highly alcoholic fruit.

Part II: Baking the Cake

Before you read the following list of ingredients, you might enjoy Laurie Colwin's words on the subject: "It is a beautiful, old-fashioned recipe . . . (which) comes from a time when cakes were cakes and no one bothered much about using a dozen eggs at a shot."

Laurie herself points out that you could halve the recipe, but why then go to all the bother? "The spirit of this recipe is celebratory, lavish and openhaded. It seems the right thing to make two and give one to someone you feel very strongly about." My plan is to make one big one, and then as many small ones (using a small loaf pan) as I can get out of the left-overs.

1 pound butter
1 pound dark brown sugar
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 dozen eggs
1 pound plus 1/2 cup flour
3 teaspoons baking powder
1 pound burnt sugar, or 4 ounces burnt sugar essence*

1. Butter and flour two deep 9-inch cake tins and set aside. Preheat oven to 350F/175C.
2. Cream butter and brown sugar.
3. Add the fruit and wine mixture.
4. Add vanilla, nutmeg and cinnamon.
5. Beat in eggs.
6. Add flour and baking powder, and then burnt sugar. Mix well.
7. Bake in cake tins for 60 - 75 minutes.
8. When cake is absolutely cool, wrap it in waxed paper and let it sit until you are ready to ice it.

My reflections: The mixing order of this cake is rather unorthodox. The recipe for Trinidad Black Cake suggests a more typical order of events: first creaming, then adding eggs one by one; then dry ingredients; and finally adding the fruit mixture, to which you have added the vanilla and burnt sugar. Even though I want to stick with Laurie as much as possible, I think that I will probably follow this latter instruction when it comes to mixing up the batter.

Notes on burnt sugar: In Nigella's version of the recipe, on pp. 250-252 of How to be a Domestic Goddess, she substitutes molasses for the burnt sugar. I am very opposed to this substitution: it seems to be against both the spirit and the letter of the recipe.

I'm planning on making my own burnt sugar, which is probably a necessity since I don't know of any West Indian grocery store nearby. (If you live in, New York City for instance, you might be able to buy the essence.) Colwin's instructions for making your own burnt sugar are a kind of vague hearsay: "Betty suggests putting a pound of brown sugar in a heavy skillet with a little water and boiling it gently until it begins to turn black. You do want to overboil. It should be only slightly bitter, black and definitely not burnt."

Still on the subject of burnt sugar, I found other words of guidance from this recipe: Put brown sugar in heavy pot. Stir, letting sugar liquefy. Cook over low heat until dark, stirring constantly, so sugar does not burn. When almost burnt, remove from heat and stir in hot water gradually. Mix well, let cool, and pour into container for use in final cooking.

Laurie Colwin freely admits that she has never made a black cake herself. Well, I haven't either -- yet -- but I feel confident enough about cake baking in general, and the capacity of my Kitchen Aid mixer in specific, to suggest making up this cake batter in two batches. Those of you with large commercial mixers may do as you like!

Part III: Icing the Cake

Laurie Colwin is a bit vague on "icing" instruction. She suggests that you use "the simplest white icing made of powdered sugar and egg white with the addition of half a teaspoon of almond extract."

Nigella Lawson takes the Black Cake down a traditionally English path at this juncture: a thin coating of marmalade goes on top of the cake, to be covered with marzipan, and finally a thick crust of Royal icing -- that ready-to-roll white fondant which can be purchased in blocks in any English grocery store.

In this New York Times article, they leave the cake un-iced.

I will probably opt for an English version of the icing, as that is what my audience will expect. Pictures to follow in December!

But why stop at Black Cake? While I'm charting unexplored food territory, I may just venture further into the English culinary landscape. Today I lay down my fruit; tomorrow, there are new food worlds to conquer. Chutney! Pickled onions! Canning jars at the ready!

Independence Day in England: Oxymoronical?

The dictionary tells me that an oxymoron is "a rhetorical figure in which incongruous or contradictory terms are combined" (American Heritage Dictionary, 2nd Ed.). Even better is the original Greek "oxumoron" -- which translates as "pointedly foolish."

Am I just being pointedly foolish to even attempt to celebrate July 4th in England? For what am I celebrating exactly? As a current dependent of the UK, is it not just a little bizarre to keep this wholly American tradition going? Never mind the "oxy" bit, am I just a moron?

Without the parades, the fireworks, and the patriotism, what does July 4th really offer for an expatriate American? I've pondered this question long and hard, (well, at least short and superficially), and I have a very satisfactory answer: July 4th is a good excuse to get together with American friends and eat fried chicken.

I've never had a stock way of celebrating the 4th, but there are definitely key ingredients. Here is my ideal (and like most ideals, never actually experienced): the fried chicken (of course), potato salad, corn on the cob, fresh tomatoes, cold watermelon, biscuits and peach cobbler. A warm summer night. A dip in the lake. Sparklers. Homemade ice cream -- made the old-fashioned way, with rock ice and a churn and a grandfather. Good people.

If you have good food, and equally good people to share it with, isn't that all the sense of "occasion" that you will ever need?

I don't know when or why fried chicken came to epitomize July 4th for me -- to be its very essence -- but there it is. No matter where I am in the world, I want to eat fried chicken on Independence Day -- even if I have to fry it myself. The funny thing is that I don't recall my family ever frying chicken. Indeed, we were probably more likely to have hamburgers or grilled pork tenderloin. In the mythical days of my childhood, when we used to have July 4th at my grandmother's lake house, I remember having barbequed chicken -- but definitely not the fried stuff I insist on now. If my obsession with fried chicken as the symbol of July 4th is rooted in any reality at all, I think that it has to be traced back to the annual church picnic. Whenever church people gather for potluck, you can always count on someone bringing a bucket of fried chicken. Because I grew up during a culinary era dominated by mystery casseroles and jello salads, I think that I learned early on to make a beeline for the fried chicken -- the always reliably delicious choice.

The truth is that I would never bother to make fried chicken in Texas. I'm not that crazy; I'm not that in need of a 4-6 hour project in which I am likely to burn myself. When you've got Church's, Popeye's and KFC on your corner, there really is no point in trifling with home cooking. However, in the English countryside, if you want to eat fried chicken you are going to have to do for yourself. This year, although I lingered over Homesick Texan's recipe, I decided to go with something tried and true: Nigella Lawson's recipe from Nigella Bites. Her recipe is a bit unusual, but it really takes the anxiety out of frying chicken. Her secret? You cook the chicken before you fry it. To be more specific, you brine the chicken in salty milk overnight -- and then you gently poach the chicken in its milk bath. You actually just fry it for a couple of minutes -- so when the crust looks golden enough, the chicken is done. (No burnt chicken! Even better, no fear of raw chicken!) I had a piece for lunch today -- and even though the crust was not at its best, the meat was still tender and juicy.

I realize that it is a bit ironical to consult an English cook for a quintessentially American recipe, but hey, that's the nature of my life. That's why we drank Pimm's and ate peach cobbler: I like to cherrypick the best from both cultures.

Last week Barrie Summy issued a call-out for favorite summer recipes. I knew that I had to post my beloved recipe for Hill Country Peach Cobbler -- because it is easy, delicious, summery and it tastes like home to me. Unfortunately, I've been running late all week . . . and I've missed the publishing deadline. But just because Just a Plane Ride Away said that she liked it, I present my notion of a perfect summer dessert.

Hill Country Peach Cobbler
(courtesy of Martha Smith, of San Antonio)

Ingredients:
3/4 cup flour
dash of salt
2 tsp baking powder
1 1/2 cup sugar (plus an extra 1/4 cup to sprinkle on top)
3/4 cup milk
4 0z butter
3 cup sliced peaches

Method:
Sift flour, salt, and baking powder together. Mix in 1 1/2 cup sugar. Stir in milk. Melt butter in 8x8x2 inch (or similar) pan. Pour batter over the melted butter; do not stir. Lay peaches on batter. Sprinkle with remaining 1/4 cup sugar. Bake for 1 hour at 350F/180C oven.

I don't make peach cobbler very often -- mostly because I am the only person in my family who truly likes it. Sigmund never misses a chance to tell me that it is like a crumble -- but not as nice. While I would never disparage a good crumble, I think that there is something magical about this cobbler. I love its silky, buttery texture. I love the way it makes its own doughy crust. I love the voluptousness of the peaches. I also especially love this recipe because of its storied history. Years ago, or back when I was 23 years old and newly launched into the adult world, I had a "grown-up" dinner at the home of a newly married friend. We went to the Farmer's Market on the old Austin Highway in San Antonio, and we bought plump ears of corn, juicy tomatoes, and beautifully ripe Fredricksburg peaches. As we chatted away, my friend Martha put together a simple, but unbelievably delicious, summer dinner: Barbeque chicken, corn, fresh green salad, glistening cut tomatoes . . . and peach cobbler, with Homemade Vanilla Blue Bell ice cream, for dessert. I begged Martha to copy the recipe down for me, and I still have that recipe card -- almost 20 years later. No cobbler that I make will ever be able to duplicate the perfection of Martha's cobbler, but I keep trying!

As for my ideal July 4th, well, it was a bit less than perfect. It was too cold and windy to sit outside, so we had to huddle around my kitchen table. I forgot to serve the potato salad. I put too much butter in the peach cobbler. We didn't have homemade ice cream. Almost everyone had to leave before it was dark, and we didn't really get around to doing the fireworks.

However . . . there was fried chicken. There was peach cobbler. There was champagne, brought by Audrey, and the most delectable brownies, made by Just a Plane Ride Away. And most of all, best of all, there were good people. Old friends and new -- with a foot on each side of the pond.

A Quick Dinner for the Frazzled and Time-poor

As I compose this title I chuckle at the SHEER NERVE of it.

I am a stay-at-home Mom who has left the house precisely twice today. Once, to take the child to school (other child is on a field trip; and I have a "lift-share" -- cute English term -- in the evening); and once to get milk. I'm glad that England is (usually) not a violent culture, and grateful for the fact that West Berkshire is largely handgun-free, because otherwise someone would probably come shoot me for having so much free time.

People, please have mercy on me in your judgment. And know that tomorrow I will NOT be able to spend hours playing on my computer because I will actually have big, important things to do like get my Volvo serviced.

Yes, the hours flew by today. I was a blogging fool with my shiny, fun toy.

Sum total of today's accomplishments: sent 18 emails (4 of them could be classified as "business" as they were loosely associated with my half-hearted job hunt -- so that's okay). Two of them were to Sigmund. His response to the first was, and I quote: Have you been drinking ? I then had to form a rebuttal as I was drinking nothing but lightly caffeinated tea. (hence the need for milk) One of them was to someone who may or may not be in Managua. Several had something to do with blogging, although they weren't actually blogs.

I also engaged in a debate about the impending food crisis and rising grain price --with all of its attendant causes.

I also commented on an article in More Intelligent Life . . . and envied, not for the first time, the perfection of someone else's writing and observations.


I also checked in with my favorite food blogs and my favorite person in south Texas in a town that begins with "port."

I also updated my profile, which meant some time scanning my bookshelves and Ipod and thinking about all of my favorite things.

I then randomly clicked on "A Thousand Acres," "Jonatha Brooke," and "Moving On" -- and found a fellow enthusiast for each of these special interests. My new friends, in case you are interested, are a creative writer who lives in the north of England, a really funny Mom who lives somewhere in the U.S, and a blues musician from Chicago. He had a very detailed post about the music scene in Chicago -- past and present. I couldn't say much to that, so I offered him a story about me and "Moving On" that no one else in this world knows.

Well, it was all fun and games and I was complacent about dinner because I had fed the youngest child two pieces of cinnamon toast (from the last of the homemade oatmeal bread) and Sigmund said he was going for a run after work. (Sigmund has been engaging in both the Dutch and the British drinking cultures this week.) Then, so suddenly, it was 8 pm and Sigmund was home and I couldn't find the recipe for the chicken thing that I was going to make for dinner! What to do?

Well, I looked to Nigella in my hour of need. I have already referenced Nigella, in these few short weeks of posting, and I can't promise that it won't happen again. Nigella and I have been friends for a long, long time. I was reading her food columns in British Vogue back when the 90s were middle-aged and I was first in line to buy the wonderful "How to Eat" in 1999. This was back in those halcyon days when Nigella could do no wrong. These days, the UK public (or at least press) makes mock of Nigella on a regular basis. But I put that down to envy, as Nigella is rich, beautiful, a good writer, and someone who still has a thin face even when she puts on weight.

It has come to my attention that some people have trouble getting dinner on the table not because they have been frittering away time in the blogosphere but for more worthy reasons. A 12 hour working day combined with single parenthood would be one good example.

For these good people, I offer up the following recipe: brought to you by Nigella, and made by me tonight. It was quick, nutritious, and crowd-pleasing. (If you can call three people a crowd.) It also had the virtue -- which I must say is a first for me in last-minute cooking -- of only containing ingredients which I just happened to have on hand.

Voila! "Pollo alla Cacciatora"

INGREDIENTS:
1 T olive oil
75 g pancetta cubes
2 shallots (or similar)
clove or two of garlic
1 t rosemary, finely chopped (I used fresh, because I have it in the garden, but I'm sure dried is perfectly fine)

500 g chicken breast (I used two breasts -- frankly, I've got no clue about what 500g might be. The beauty of this recipe is that it doesn't really matter. If you think I stuck to the recipe you don't know me and you are having a laugh.)

1/2 t celery salt (I actually had this, but I doubt you need to bother)

125 ml white wine (this is the good part; you can either use the manky wine left in the fridge that someone brought you, or you can open a decent bottle and drink the rest of it with dinner. I went for a combination of the two approaches.)

1 400g can chopped tomatoes (please don't ask me to convert into ounces; it's just that standard medium sized one)

2 bay leaves

1/2 t sugar

1 400g can cannellini beans (if you don't have these, just serve it over pasta or rice)

SEQUENCE OF EVENTS:
Saute the onion, garlic and rosemary in the olive oil a couple of minutes.
Add the chicken (cut up smallish; but hey, cut it however you like) and sprinkle with celery salt.
Pour in the wine, and let bubble before adding everything else but the cannellini beans.
Simmer for 20 minutes -- during which time you can either see to some chores, or sit down with the paper and a glass of wine (my choice).
Drain the beans and add to the pan. Give them a minute to heat up and you are good to go.

I just served this with bread. I would usually bother with a salad, but tonight I didn't. Anyway, I counted at least three vegetables in this dish plus one legume.

Enjoy, my frazzled friends, your "express" but still reasonably home-cooked meal.

Toad in the Hole and Rhubarb Crumble for tea

English spring is a cruel flirt.

Yesterday's blue sky and scudding clouds somehow gave way to a thick damp fog which clung cold and clammily to my gray fleece this morning. (No, I am not a sheep -- that would be my "walking gear.") Despite my piteous moans, (Bee, you always say it's too cold!), my walking partner declared that we would indeed walk the eight miles that we had resolved to walk.

WP and I signed up to walk the Edinburgh Moonwalk sometime back in early fall, when I was feeling fit and June seemed far, far away. Unfortunately, the Christmas food and drink debaucheries, plus the endless Birthday Extravaganza that is January, have rendered me chubby and decidedly dubious about my ability to walk 26 miles in under 6 hours. Even if it is in aid of a very good cause. Also, I am not a morning person and 8 am is never a good time for me. However, this is exactly why we have friends and walking partners. Without WP -- a stalwart British sort who went to boarding school -- I would have probably gone home and gone back to bed; with WP's gentle bullying, I did indeed manage to walk eight miles through the foggy forest.

Unfortunately, my delight in this accomplishment was rather dimmed by my dismay that my broadband service was on the blink! Only three days into blogging and already I've hit a technical snag! My afternoon was spent in that particular Purgatory where technical support persons from India dwell. First, you go through the first circle of hell: the automated telephone system. After much choosing of various options and listening to bizarre elevator-ish music (but not that soothing), you are finally transferred to a living person who, unfortunately, you can't understand very well. In my case, this is due to the inevitable clash between the Texan and Indian dialects -- but also to my lamentable knowledge of the workings of my own computer system. There was a lot of "What? Can you say that again?" from me, and a lot of "Madam, will you please listen to me" from my Indian interlocutor. Sometimes we would get cut off . . . was that really an accident? . . . and I would have to start over. At one point, we discovered that my particular kind of no-name modem (which caused much dismay, as I kept swearing there was no "make" to be seen) had to be handled by a different department. Anyway . . . despite the good time being had by all, I did have to eventually abandon the fight in order to pick up my kids from school. (Later, Sigmund turned on the computer and said, with his customary post-workday impatience, "There's nothing wrong with it! SEE!" Well, yeah . . . now.

This brings me to the subject of English comfort food. Somewhere between the weather and my computer frustrations, grew a need for comfort that can only be assuaged by a certain kind of food. Tex-Mex and a frozen margarita would have done the trick, but since that is not available I had to resort to my second favorite: English "stodge." Stodgy is one of those English words that I love. Although "stodgy" is not an admirable quality in a person, it can be a delightful quality in food. Bread pudding is perhaps the most stodgy food; but for a close savory second you can try "Toad in a Hole." Some people might be turned off by this description; I suppose it is understandable that a person might not care for a slimy amphibian in batter. I am the sort of person, though, who admires the style of English quirkiness that gave the world stodgy recipes with names like "Spotted Dick," "Gooseberry Fool" and "Eton Mess."

"Toad in the Hole" is a very simple recipe. Basically, you make up a Yorkshire Pudding batter and throw it in a hot roasting tin. Then, you arrange some browned sausages (or "bangers" in the local parlance) on top and cook in a very hot oven. This gives you a sort of sausage sandwich, I guess, but the the Yorkshire pudding is light and crusty on top and almost custardy in the middle -- and the whole is "infused" (my daughter's actual description) with a lovely sausagy flavor. I have skinny kids who come home from school ravenous and can be fed this kind of thing. For Sigmund, I provided a healthy lentil soup with just a small portion of Toad in the Hole on the side.

I got the recipe from Tamasin Day-Lewis's Kitchen Bible. This is a charming, useful book -- particularly helpful for the beginning cook as it starts with "Easy Things" and "Simple Skills" and moves on to chapters like "Classic Recipes" and "Serious Skills." I particularly like it because it contains so many of the English classics -- for things like Victoria sponge or Yorkshire pudding -- that you just can't find in most contemporary cookery books. Tamasin is a serious foodie; another good read, if you enjoy reading about the quest for the best and like a few starry anecdotes casually strewn between recipes, is her latest -- Where Shall We Go for Dinner?

Has anyone but me noticed the many similarities between Tamasin Day-Lewis and Nigella Lawson? Daughters of famous fathers; Oxbridge educated, posh, well-connected; 40ish but still overtly sexy; flowing dark hair; sensual writers who favor lots of adjective and adverbial embellishment. One major difference, though, is that Nigella has gone very commercial (and some would say almost cartoonishly over-the-top). Still, I love Nigella . . . and ignore Sigmund's mockery of her latest venture, Nigella Express. (For months, every time her name came up he would simper, "It's expresssssssssss," with a lascivious leer.)

I honor Nigella because she does write beautifully about food and she has shared many delicious recipes with me. For instance: for many years I've hated and dreaded the brussels sprout. You can ignore the sprout all year 'round if you want, but you leave it off your Christmas menu at your peril! In her wonderful book Feast, Nigella gives a recipe for brussels sprouts which are tarted up with chestnuts, pancetta and Marsala. You can actually still taste the sprout -- but it has been magically transformed into something delicious! Also, it mushes up so nicely flavor-wise with the turkey and roast potatoes. Probably the Nigella recipe that I love best, though, is for Rhubarb Crumble.

Rhubarb Crumble is ideal comfort food: it is just stodgy enough, but you can be "comforted" by the fact that you have actually eaten a portion of fruit with your pudding. It is the perfect late winter dessert because the beautiful pink rhubarb is actually in season and just the antidote to one too many apple pies. It is sweet and tart all at the same time. It is also stupendously easy and quick to make -- and therefore, just the thing when you have had a stressful day. (If, that is, you agree that rubbing butter into flour is a comforting thing to do.) What follows is Nigella's recipe . . . I have made it many, many times and it has never failed me.

(I have slightly amended the instructions for brevity's sake.)

1 1/2 lbs. rhubarb (chopped into 1/2 inch pieces)
1/4 cup sugar
1/2 oz butter
1 T vanilla
1 T cornstarch

Toss the following together, and then cook for about 5 minutes in a pan over medium-low heat. You can do this bit ahead of time; stash it in a pie dish and stick it in the frig until you are ready.

Proceed with the crumble:

1 cup all-purpose flour
1 t baking powder
4 oz butter
3 T vanilla sugar
3 T brown sugar

Mix flour and baking powder together; (or use self-rising flour and save 10 seconds!) then rub in your butter until it resembles oatmeally crumbs. Stir in the sugars, and then settle the crumble over your rhubarb filling.

Bake for 35-45 minutes in a 375 degree oven. My oven only needs about 35 minutes. It should be golden on top -- not too brown, and definitely not charred.

Most English people like custard on crumbles; Americans would prefer a scoop of vanilla ice cream on it. I think it is perfect on its own, hot, cold or lukewarm.

It is ideal for breakfast . . . and if you've fed your family something like Toad in the Hole, you can be assured of having generous left-overs for morning noshing. I myself enjoyed a bit of rhubarb crumble with a cup of tea for elevenses. Despite the fact that the British Gas boiler-man is here -- due to our lack of heat in part of the house -- and despite the weather being just as February-ish as yesterday's, I am having a much better day today.