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.