A delicious day

Cranberry & cream cheese muffins

As expected, there has been no time since my last post to dip my toe into the world of French patisserie. The annual Sunday get-together to commemorate my brother's anniversary took precedence last weekend. Every year we all make our way to the old family homestead to remember him - we talk, we laugh and we eat. Boy do we eat. As you will know by now, I'm a girl who likes to whip up a cake or two - all I need is the merest hint of a gathering of two or more people and out comes the apron and spatula. Unfortunately, I have a tendency to get slightly carried away, baking and icing with scant regard for the actual number of people attending. The problem (if too much cake could ever be classed as a problem) is that two of my sisters usually don their own aprons and bake something lovely too. And then there's Mam, who likes to have an apple tart for the table. Well, before you know it, the (rather large) wooden table at home is groaning with the weight of baked goods laid out upon it. 

Given the excess of previous years, myself and No.1 Sister agreed to one cake each, but neglected to send a memo to No.2 Sister. I decided on the ever-popular chocolate fudge cake (always a winner at the anniversary), while No.1 Sister was bringing her star bake - a coconut layer cake of gigantic proportion, being an American recipe (you could literally feed an army with this one cake). 'Never knowingly under-cater' is a mantra that my mother lives by and one that I clearly absorbed from a young age. So naturally, I began to doubt the one-cake policy almost as soon as I got off the phone. 

Since I was in need of a bit of comfort baking on the day of the actual anniversary (last Friday), and knowing that No.3 Sister is not a fan of either chocolate or coconut cake, I thought I'd rustle up a batch of fairy cakes. Not satisfied with that (I know, I know), I reckoned I should also bring something with me the following day that we could enjoy with a coffee, as the rest of the cakes were for Sunday. I had some frozen cranberries in the freezer to use up and I remembered a rather fabulous recipe for Cranberry and Cream Cheese Muffins that I had made once before. (If you'd like to try them, here's the link to the recipe - wonderful as is, but more so if you add the zest of half a lemon to the mix - it really makes the flavours sing. I stirred it in with the cranberries, but I'm going to add it to the cream-cheese mixture next time too, which I think will be even better.)

A chocolate and coconut cake medley -
for when you simply can't choose which cake you'd like.

Now to be fair, we did indeed enjoy the muffins, which were just as delicious as I'd remembered. The problem was that we didn't manage to polish them all off - so that meant the remaining seven joined the fairy cakes, chocolate cake, coconut cake and apple tart on the table the next day. Then No.2 Sister arrived, arms quivering under the weight of a batch of mince-meat and apple strudels and two tea-bracks. Ladies and Gentlemen, we had done it again - the annual sugar-coma Sunday was under way. Not that I can lay any of the blame at my sisters' respective doors. No.1 Sister stuck to the plan and brought only one (albeit enormous) cake. No.2 Sister didn't get the memo. No, the problem here is mine - I co-authored the memo but still couldn't quite resist the pull of the apron and spatula. Mea culpa. I bake therefore I am. Resistance is futile it seems.

So the anniversary came and went and it was, as it always is, an occasion of mixed emotions - tinged with sadness that my brother wasn't with us, yet also happy, because we were there together, talking, laughing and (as ever) eating. As my brother-in-law said as he was leaving: 'It was a delicious day'. I think my brother would have agreed.

  

The old ways

Consider the Fork

I've finally made my way through the pile of Christmas books to this much-awaited one: Consider the Fork: A History of How We Cook and Eat by Bee Wilson. I've only just begun to read it, but already it's doing what I expected it to - it's made me see cooking (and baking) in a whole new light. Plenty of 'Oh I see!' and 'Gosh, really?' moments. Partly a walk through the history of gadgets in the kitchen (i.e. everything from the humble wooden spoon to sophisticated electronic mixers and the like) and partly an explanation of why we do what we do. Why is stir-frying food in a wok the culinary norm in China for example? Apparently it was originally devised as a very fast way of cooking food in areas where there was a scarcity of fire-wood (You're having a 'Gosh, really?' moment aren't you?). As so often happens, a particular manner of cooking became tradition and remained in place long after the original impetus had disappeared. 

Nanny C's mixing bowl with last year's Christmas Pud

Being both curious baker and nerdy archaeologist, this book draws me in on both counts (there's a good deal of delving into the past here). One comment that Wilson makes about cooks being inherently conservative struck a nerve (it is, of course, true and helps explain why so many traditions live on in the kitchen). I don't tend to think of myself as conservative though and had never thought too hard about my own habits in the kitchen - many of which are so deeply ingrained that I barely even consider why I do things a certain way. Why, for instance, do I always use my Grandmother's old baking bowl, which I inherited, to mix both Christmas puddings and cakes? I have other bowls big enough, yet I always find myself reaching for the lovely cream-coloured ceramic bowl. Admittedly, it is very pleasing to the eye (I'm a sucker for all things pretty), but it's also more fragile than a modern plastic bowl (I'm a terrible klutz). Being forced to consider the bowl (to borrow a phrase), I've just now realised that it's the twin of the one Mam always used and in which I would help to stir the mixtures every year as a small child. Perhaps this is less a case of conservatism, however, and more an example of kitchen nostalgia.

There have been times when I've had to pry myself away from doing things a certain way and grudgingly admit that, yes, there might well be a newer, easier or better approach (not just conservative but stubborn too - to add to the littany of my faults being catalogued in this blog-post). Take pastry-making: I always knew to add lemon juice to the water I was using to combine my pastry dough, because that's how I learned to do it from my mother. It wasn't until I began to read books about baking as an adult that I understood the science behind it (the acidity in the lemon juice helps to relax the gluten formed by mixing the flour and water, keeping the pastry nice and flaky). Naturally, I kept using lemon juice, much like I kept rubbing in the butter by hand, for many a year to come until finally, one Christmas about six years ago I tried a different method. I was making an awful lot of pastry that year, in preparation for my annual mince-pie and mulled wine party, at which I served not just mince-pies but also sausage rolls. Hungry mouths made hungrier by glasses of mulled wine required numerous trays of both pies and rolls. 

Pastry inspiration in Patisserie 

Hands cramping as I rubbed butter into the first three pounds of pastry dough (I kid you not), I went to my bookcase and searched through my cookbooks. Nigella (who had never let me down in the past) had a recipe for shortcrust pastry that involved an electric processor (controversial) and orange juice (not lemon?). With a mental shrug and without much wringing of my already sore hands, I decided to do a trial batch. To make a long story short, once you keep strictly to the 'everything must be as cold as possible' mantra, it works. And although I agree with my mother that you really can't beat the tender crumb and flaky nature of a shortcrust made by hand, it does produce a very good substitute. Sometimes the old ways really are the best, but when time or sore hands get the better of you, I've learned not to sniff at a new approach. I'm sure there were bakers who were once equally sniffy about the advent of the electric mixer (my most prized possession), and clung furiously to their wooden spoons and hand-whisks (more fool them I say). 

In the spirit of trying something new but also honouring the methods of the past (i.e. indulging in a spot of comfy conservatism), I'm determined to try a recipe from one of my new baking books (Patisserie by Murielle Valette). In a rather ambitious move, I'm going to try my hand at making one of my favourite things to eat with a cup of coffee - the fabulous almond croissant. It's something that I've never done before, which is understandable given the time it takes to prepare the croissant dough and make the pastries (hence the 'ambitious' - set aside at least two days, with lots of folding, resting and proving involved). This is one instance in which the old ways are not only the best way, but also pretty much the only way - short of buying them from a very good artisan bakery, there's no quick-dash ninja route to a delicious croissant (I'm going to be stern here people - supermarket / petrol station / corner shop ones do not count). I've had a longing for one since before Christmas and not having a wonderful French boulangerie on my doorstep (sigh), I think it's time to give it a go. No promises on when this will happen (my packed schedule this week and other baking commitments at the weekend suggest that I will have to employ the delayed gratification technique and make myself wait), but rest assured that as soon as I get the first batch out of the oven, you'll be the first to know.

The Scone

After the previous week's scone debacle, with no-shows and bad bakes at every turn, the appearance of The Scone last Tuesday was a very pleasant surprise. The day had dawned dull, cold and wet, with no real improvement as it wore on, and scones were far from our minds. Not only were we still smarting from earlier disappointments, but the odds on finding a cafe that was both nice and open were slim (as we discovered on our travels, most cafes in heritage sites don't open until at least the start of February, so top tip from me to you - should you be mad enough to want to go touring about Ireland in January, don't). And when you factor in the chance of there being a good scone on offer, even if you do find a cafe, then the odds go from slim to none. 

Kells Priory

Everywhere we went that day, we saw fields under water, swollen streams and rivers, and flooded roads. Getting outside the jeep and walking around sites should have been a chore, as our toes quickly froze and the wind whipped our faces (I'm thinking of upgrading my outdoor clothing to include a balaclava, by the way). Instead we were jumping out, itching to explore, as the sites on our list that day included two of the best yet: Kells Priory and Jerpoint Abbey. The priory at Kells (near Kilkenny) is one of the most spectacular sites I've visited in Ireland (only a short hop from Dublin and well worth a Spring or Summer excursion when the heritage cafe is open). The priory ruins are surrounded by massive defensive walls complete with seven towers, with the enclosed area measuring a whopping three acres or so. The land sweeps down to the King's River, which is a breathtaking location. Mind you, given that part of the site was flooded where the river had broken its banks, one must presume that the Augustinians were a bit better at water management that we are. 

Peace sign at Jerpoint

Jazz hands at Jerpoint 

Bob at Jerpoint Abbey

Kells Priory takes some beating, with the sheer scale of the site and its impressive location, but for me Jerpoint Abbey swept away all other contenders for my favourite Irish archaeological monument. The abbey has a very unassuming appearance on first sight - as you approach it looks much like any other old church and graveyard - but once you enter into the abbey proper, there is a feeling of stillness and that sense of peace you often feel in an ancient place of worship. So far so much like any other old church or abbey I hear you say (and you would be right). What sets this abbey apart are the unique sculptures carved into the pillars that form the cloister arcades, representing medieval figures from all walks of life - monks, peasants, lords, bishops, weird creatures. It was captivating. Each of the figures is different, with its own personality and charming details. I particularly loved the guy with the bobbed hair-do (not unlike my own hair) and two smiley chaps, one giving what appears to be a medieval version of a peace-sign and the other doing jazz-hands. Despite the inclement weather, we spent ages going from figure to figure, as excited as two nerdy archaeologists can be. Brilliant.

The Nicholas Mosse Scone

Anyhow, fabulous archaeology aside, we were freezing cold and tired by the time lunch was approaching. There had been some lacklustre discussion earlier over where we might get to stop for a break, when G had a brainwave. We were near Bennettsbridge and G thought that perhaps (let's not get too excited) the cafe at the Nicholas Mosse studio there might be open. Fearing a repeat of St Mullins and the-promised-scone-that-never-was, I thought to ring ahead to check opening hours. Well. Not only was the cafe open, but the nice lady who answered the phone told me (unprompted) that the first batch of scones had come out of the oven at 11am. Spurred on by the image of a scone (possibly still warm from the oven) we eagerly made our way to Nicholas Mosse. Made by Cousin Robert Mosse (or so the sign said), these were old-fashioned, home-made scones that were, yes, still slightly warm from the oven. Fluffy and light, slathered in butter and home-made strawberry jam, served on a pretty plate, with a hot cup of coffee alongside. We ate them in the warm cafe at the top of the old mill building, watching as the River Nore rushed past below us, as our toes, fingers and noses slowly defrosted. Dear Readers, it was worth the wait.