Happy Halloween

Happy Halloween

from our (haunted) house to yours

lots of treats at domestic sensualist

and some tricks at The World Examining Works

Mince Pies for Haters

Mince pies ready for the oven

Mouth-ready in less than 30 minutes

I don't know if this recipe can actually cure other sorts of hate in the world, (Christmas wishes aside), but I believe in its power to reverse prejudice of the mince pie kind.

Tonight, after my oldest daughter's carol concert, we had some friends over for mulled wine and mince pies. One of the guests - a notoriously picky eater - identified herself as a confirmed mince pie hater. She politely declined my offer of a pie - oh, several times at least - but then I wore her down and she reluctantly agreed to try a bite. Well, of course there can only be one conclusion to the story! The mince pie hater became a mince pie lover . . . and long after the adults had moved on to Stilton and biscuits, she kept appearing in the kitchen to ask, "May I please have another one?"

Since I've had a little fluttering of interest in mince pies from the American contingent, and at least one solid request, I thought that I'd share my own eccentric version. The mincemeat is flexible; but don't mess with the pastry! It is perfect as it is.

Pear Mincemeat
(adapted from a Waitrose Food Illustrated recipe from December 2006)

This mincemeat has many advantages: it doesn’t have to be made ahead of time; it doesn’t contain suet, and is therefore healthier and suitable for vegetarians; and most importantly, it tastes light, fresh and delicious! I could happily eat it with a spoon – or mixed into vanilla ice cream. My family loves the flavors of pear, ginger and pecans – all fairly unusual ingredients for the traditional mincemeat.

Ingredients:
3 ripe pears, peeled, cored and chopped into small (1 cm) cubes
50g crystallized ginger, chopped fairly small
75g pecans, chopped fairly small
400g dried fruit (I’ve used raisins, sultanas, dates, apricots and cranberries in various combinations. Mix it up according to your preferences and – as always in my kitchen – with what you have available.)
50g dark brown sugar
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground mixed spice
Grated zest from an unwaxed lemon
3 tablespoons of brandy (although you can substitute apple juice if you are teetotal)

Method:
Mix up all of the above ingredients in a bowl. Give them a good stir. Let sit for at least an hour – and that’s it! (If you put the mixture in a sterilized jar it will keep for awhile . . . although I’ve never discovered just how long that “awhile” lasts. Weeks, definitely. Months, maybe. For months, you should probably up the brandy!)

Tip: You can sterilize a jar by running it through a dishwasher cycle OR by washing it in soapy water, pouring boiling water in it, letting it stand for a few minutes, and then drying it out in a moderately cool (140 C/280 F or so) oven.

Nigella Lawson’s Perfect Mince Pie Pastry
(with measurements taken from Nigella Christmas and method taken from How To Be A Domestic Goddess. The wording is sometimes/often my own.)

Ingredients:
240g plain flour
60g cold vegetable shortening (Crisco in U.S., Trex in UK)
60g cold butter
Juice of 1 orange (or 3 clementines, if you happen to have those on hand)
Pinch of salt

Necessary embellishment: Icing (confectioner’s) sugar for dusting.
Unnecessary embellishment: Egg wash (egg yolk watered down) for brushing over the top – if you think you need it, and I rarely do.

Method:
Pulse the flour and the COLD fats in a food processor until fine and crumbly. Mix the salt into the orange juice and add it gradually into the flour mixture – just until the dough starts to come together. Remove from the processor, and bring the dough together into a ball with your hands. Make sure all ingredients are well-incorporated. Then divide into three sections, pat down, wrap in clingfilm (Saran wrap) and put in the refrigerator to “rest” for 20 minutes or so.

(If you don’t have a food processor, you can do this the old-fashioned way. Just “cut in” the fats with a pastry cutter or fingertips and thumbs.)

Working with one section of dough at a time, roll out fairly thinly – but it should still be sturdy enough to make a pastry case. Lightly flour the surface you are working on – and also your rolling pin – but it is not a sticky or temperamental pastry.

I use a fluted round cookie/biscuit cutter to make the discs which will line miniature muffin/tart pans. Then I make some little stars to put on the top. You might need to go with a glass (or whatever you have), as long as it makes a circle which will fit into the tart pan you are using. The dough should come all the way up to the top, but not overhang.

This pastry is really easy to work with – and really flaky and delicious to eat. You can roll it out, and patch it, and mess with it, and it will still be tender. The orange juice is the master stroke – both for a hint of sweetness, and also for its tenderizing properties.

Place a teaspoon or so of mincemeat into the pastry case. It should come almost up to the top. Put your little pastry star on top, and brush with eggwash if you want that golden, shiny look.

Bake for 10-15 minutes in a very hot (220 C/ 440 F) oven.
Ease out of the pans onto a wire rack after a minute or so of cooling. When the pies are cool, or even almost cool, sprinkle some powdered sugar over them. I use my flour sifter for this delicate job!

For extra delicious decadence, spread brandy butter or rum butter on top of your mince pie.

According to Nigella, these freeze well. I can't speak to that - as I never have any left over.

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.

A Bit More Fruit Cake

The last few days have been a flurry of activity -- with an engagement party, a Christmas Fayre, a Ralph Vaughan Williams concert, and a visit to a potential boarding school all being mixed into my usual round of activities. The children are having exams and late play practices, and I seem to be forever driving down dark lanes at night. In addition to the usual round, there is now the "seasonal" round, and I'm already starting to feel swamped. There are "present piles" (ie, unwrapped presents stuffed in plastic bags) everywhere; the calendar is getting increasingly complicated and double-booked; and the thought of my Christmas card picture is starting to nag at me. In short, November feels like it is on the wane . . . and we all know what that means.

The season of excess is upon us.

Are you a last-minute Christmas person, or a plan-ahead Christmas person? Frankly, I'm a bit of both. As I told a friend at my daughter's Christmas Fayre on Saturday, I tend to take a Kamikaze approach to Christmas preparation. I fling myself headlong into certain aspects, but my overall battle-plan is lacking. I have no sense of the whole; I can't see the endgame; I lack strategy.

I have been buying presents for a while now, but I'm proceeding without a list . . . and I'm pretty sure that I'm losing my way. My best friend in Houston seems to have three gifts, while certain family members (not my children, obviously) seem to have none.

I had the vague idea of making lots of Christmas Cakes and chutneys this year -- to keep and to give away -- but instead of carefully figuring out the quantities of the necessary ingredients, I just bought what seemed like "plenty" and has turned out to be "a lot" and probably "too much." In other words, I have a glut of dried fruit. Motivated by the combination of this glut and the fascinating comments I've received on my Black Cake experiment, I decided to try a fruitcake recipe of an entirely different kind. As several blog-friends admitted to nonalcoholic fruitcake as preference, I wanted a fruitcake for "tea" as opposed to a rich and rummy seasonal confection.

My fondness for nostalgia is such that I can get quite sentimental about a past that I didn't even experience or share in any way. My imagination is wonderfully active in that way. Therefore, when I discovered a recipe for Castleton Vicarage Cake -- with the accompanying note that its author wrote the Little Grey Rabbit books -- I was immediately plunged into some pastel, vaguely Beatrix Potterish fantasy in which red squirrels and rabbits come to tea. I was also beguiled by the thought of lots of greedy vicars gobbling up the fruity goodness!

Castleton Vicarage Cake

Preheat oven to 170C/350F. Grease two loaf tins (or one enormous round cake tin) -- and line with parchment paper.

1 pound self-raising flour (or the same of plain flour plus 1 teaspoon of baking soda)
12 ounces of demerara sugar
1 pound mixed fruit (generally raisins and currants, but I put in about 3 oz of apricots)
4 ounces of candied peel
12 ounces of butter
1/2 pint milk (this is an English pint, so you will probably need at least 10 ounces)

Mix all the dried ingredients together in a large bowl. Add butter that has been cut into walnut size lumps and stir these through. Then, pour HOT milk over the whole. Stir thoroughly with a wooden spoon, and then scoop the thick batter into your tins.

Baking time is approximate. I baked two loaf tins of fruitcake, and they took roughly 80 minutes. Obviously, if you make one large cake tin it might take longer. Start checking on it after an hour. The finished fruitcake won't "spring back" or pull away from the sides like a sponge cake, but the top should be golden and firm to the touch when it is done.

Unlike the Black Cake, this fruitcake is remarkably uncomplicated to make. It is also astonishingly delicious! My teenage daughter, who generally turns up her nose at dried fruit, has eaten slice after crumbly slice this afternoon. Her mood, which was rather foul immediately post-school, has noticeably sweetened. Therefore, this fruitcake seems to be a prescription against low blood sugar, early dark evenings, and the general stress of the season.

And one more thing: My youngest daughter is getting Cherry Cake and Ginger Beer for one of her Christmas presents. It is a self-described "golden treasury of classic treats" -- a cookbook/trip-down-memory-lane for children (or adults) who gorged themselves on Enid Blyton stories and other English favorites. (Aren't the food descriptions in children's books always the best?) I've had a little peek, and there are TWO recipes for fruitcake in the book. I don't know if they can beat the Castleton Vicarage Cake, but no doubt I shall be trying them out in January!

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!