Pancake Sunday

Before I launch properly into this week's post, I am aware that I promised my yeasty malt and raisin bread recipe this week, but (irritating perfectionist that I am), I've decided that the already quite delicious recipe still needs a bit of tweaking. That tweaking is planned for later this week, so hopefully the recipe will be ready for its encore next week.

Now, on to Lent. My most vivid memories of Lent as a child are, not surprisingly, of giving up something - sugar on my breakfast cereal (an effective one as to this day I don't have sugar on cereal), my once-weekly treat of a ten-penny bag (a small stash of teeth-rotting sweets) or maybe biscuits (nothing fancy mind you - it was generally plain Rich Tea biscuits in our house or maybe a pink wafer). It was usually a variation on one of these things throughout my childhood, as I dutifully observed Lent - there was little else you could give up as a child (no mobile phones or other addictive gadgets, very little to watch on the TV and no money for any other luxuries). 

But two other memories stand out. The first was the mounting excitement as St Patrick's Day approached. Not because of the parade (which you would understand if you grew up in the 70s and 80s - let's just say, the Dublin parade has come a long way since then). No, the excitement was because we all got a free pass on the Lenten restrictions. Come Paddy's Day, we would head straight from mass to the local newsagent for some penny sweets, the adults would get to enjoy an alcoholic beverage, and everyone had dessert after dinner. 

The second is of Pancake Tuesday - the feast of pancakes that we ate before the drabness of Lent kicked in and the sight of my mother with sleeves rolled up, two pans on the go, pouring batter and flipping enough pancakes to feed an army (five hungry children and two adults may not be quite enough to qualify as an army, but I'm not sure Mam would see much of a difference). The tradition of using up luxury ingredients like eggs, dairy and flour, before the fasting and strictures of Lent began, is a long held one. It has lost much of its meaning now, given that most of us would see such ingredients as essentials or commonplace rather than as luxuries. But Pancake Tuesday has become enshrined in our calendar of foodie events, along with mince pies at Christmas and chocolate eggs at Easter, even if most of us don't remember why we do it.

This year, sadly, I missed it. The day came and went while I was busy, tired and generally not feeling very well. I had no desire to stand over a hot stove making pancakes at the time, but ever since then the urge to have some pancakes has been growing. So I decided that this year I would have a Pancake Sunday instead of a Pancake Tuesday. Since Pancake Tuesday is a moveable feast every year in terms of its date (falling in with Easter obviously), I thought it could also be shifted to a day that suits me. No doubt this is breaking all sorts of traditions and is quite possibly illegal in canon law - pancakes during Lent? - but I shall persevere nonetheless (I'm such a rebel). Last weekend was all about recharging the batteries and relaxing, so what better time to rustle up a few pancakes I thought?

Pancake batter is, quite possibly, the easiest thing in the world to make. If I could, I would shout that from the rooftops, so people would stop buying those instant mix pancake batters that cost more than they should. It requires no weird or specialised ingredients and no particular skill (it's just as easy as the instant mix in fact, which is basically adding wet ingredients to dry). You need 110g of plain flour, a pinch of salt, a tablespoon of oil (any flavourless oil - sunflower / rapeseed / vegetable), one egg and one egg yolk (if you prefer to use two whole eggs, just reduce the amount of liquid to 200ml - it makes a slightly less rich batter) and 260ml of milk and water combined (of which about 2/3 should be milk - exact amounts aren't required here, so a rough guess is fine). 

The method is as straightforward as the ingredient list. Simply place the flour and salt in a bowl, make a well in the centre and add the egg, egg yolk and half of the milk/water, stirring with a whisk or spoon as you pour in the liquid. Add the oil and mix to a smooth paste, then add in the rest of the milk/water and you're done. Generally, it's thought best to leave the batter to rest in the fridge for an hour or more (this is traditionally how it's done) - the technical reason, apparently, is that it thickens slightly as the flour continues to absorb the liquid, thus improving in flavour and giving a more evenly cooked pancake. Having said that, I have, on more than one occasion, made the batter and used it pretty much straight away and the pancakes were fine (usually when time was short or I wanted pancakes NOW), so don't worry too much if you're in a similar predicament. The batter will happily keep in the fridge, covered, for a few days and if it gets too thick, simply loosen it up with a drop of water or milk - this is handy if you want to have it made ahead of time or even to dip in to the next morning for breakfast if there's any left over. 

So batter is easy. The real test is one of stamina - standing over the searingly hot pan, ladling in the batter, time after time, until you have as many pancakes as you need. I can never quite remember how many pancakes the recipe above will give you (I make them, I eat them, but never remember to count) - I just know that Mam used to multiply it by five to feed the family and we just ate until the batter well ran dry so to speak (little pancake savages that we were). There's such a quick turn-around between the making and the eating, since they don't keep well, that there just never seems to be time to take stock. I usually get two pancake feasts out of the batter if I'm feeding just myself, so I would be inclined to say 10-12 pancakes (just confirmed a similar number on a Delia recipe online, so not too far off despite the persistent lack of counting). As for toppings - butter, lemon and sugar. When I enter Pancake Land, I stick firmly to tradition, mostly because if it ain't broke, don't fix it. It's hard to beat the combination of salty, creamy butter, zesty lemon juice and sweet sugar. (Besides which, I had a most unpleasant experience with a Nutella crepe in Paris when I was 18 - consumed after way too much red wine on an empty stomach. Not the fault of the Nutella crepe obviously, but I've never been able to so much as look at one again.)

When Rabbits Go Wild

Normally, as you know, I like to post a photo of something I've baked, but given the time-sensitive nature of pancakes, I didn't want to stop to grab the camera and frame a shot (the picture above came from the Good Food website). Since I cheated on the pancake photo, I thought I'd post this image I came across on an Irish archaeology blog I sometimes look at - for no other reason than it's so odd, I just had to share it. It's not entirely appropos of nothing. We are currently in Lent and the rabbits made me think of Easter (as in the Easter Bunny - not long now folks!). It comes from a manuscript dated to about 1300. The manuscript itself was written about 1260 and is a doctrine on canon law, so not terribly exciting. The interesting bit is that forty years after it was written, someone painted lots of (mostly) weird drawings in the margins of the illuminated manuscript - think Book of Kells but illustrated by a medieval Gary Larson  (if it was intended to be funny) or the Dexter of medieval scribes (if you're leaning more towards sociopath). Who knew rabbits could be quite this scary? If I'd seen this picture as a child, I don't think I'd have been quite so happy to have the Easter Bunny roaming about the house, chocolate egg or no chocolate egg. Somehow I don't think Hallmark will be using this on their Easter cards any time soon...

A Woman's Right

Freshly baked malt and fruit loaf 

Apologies in advance - I had intended talking about my lovely malt and raisin yeast bread (recipe next week I promise), but instead this post is going to be a bit of a tirade. There I was last night, having a leisurely browse through the Culture section of the Sunday Times, when I scanned AA Gill's TV review page. In case you’re not a TV food programme addict like yours truly, you might not be aware that the inimitable Mary Berry has a new cookery show on BBC1. I’ve only watched one episode to date, but so far so enjoyable - the subject was afternoon tea, with scones, sandwiches and cakes (you had me at scones, Mary), though the rest of the series covers everything from dinner parties to picnics. But Gill didn't really review the programme. Instead, he decided to launch an attack on baking, which to me seems a bit like kicking a kitten. Why would you? How on earth can baking be so offensive as to deserve this? 

Gill wasn't terribly nice about Mary Berry, which is simply ill-mannered and unnecessary, but he has form.  He was equally, if not more vile about another Mary when he reviewed her show in 2012 – the incredible Professor Mary Beard, one of the most vibrant and interesting presenters I have seen fronting a documentary series about Ancient Rome - and as you can well imagine, I’ve seen plenty, nerdy archaeologist that I am. (Should you want to, you can read Prof Beard's very eloquent rebuttal to Gill here).  Is it the name do you think? Is there something about Mary? (Sorry, couldn't help myself!) Or is it that he’s threatened by two independent, successful women over the age of forty who dare to show their face on prime-time television? But Gill’s insecurities aside, it was his comment about women and baking that really stuck in my craw:

'Of all the kitchen skills, baking is the broadest metaphor for a thwarted and repressed existence - and it's almost inevitably a woman who will make things rise with a lightness that belies the tension, precision and frustration of their construction. They add heat and ice and all their unused creativity, then present it to some man, who will shovel it into his face. And, with luck, it will kill him.' 

I can’t imagine baking for the sole purpose of giving it to a man to ‘shovel it into his face’, as Gill so nicely puts it (though in fairness - and apologies to my male readers here - given a cake and half a chance, a man will often do just that). Baking is usually just for me, either as a therapeutic activity or because I want something nice to have with a cup of coffee. Occasionally it forms part of a social event – making something to bring to a family get-together or to have when friends call. And somehow, I don't think I'm alone in this. Doubtless, there are women who bake to please the man in their life, in much the same way that some dress to impress men. But in the same way that most women in fact dress to impress other women, I’m sure that this applies equally in the arena of baking cakes.

The sturdy but strange Dammit Doll

When I first read his column, I confess to being so infuriated that I had to whack my Dammit Doll against the wall for a solid five minutes. (In case you've never heard of them, they are stuffed dolls made for the express purpose of slamming about to release frustration. Strange looking but very effective - I can't recommend them enough. Mine was a gift so I've no idea where you might get one, though the oracle of the internet could probably tell you.) I am now calm (a combination of Dammit Doll and yoga) and feeling rather sad for Mr Gill. Whatever happened to him that he resents baking  - and women who bake - this much? His comments were filled with such vitriol. At the end of his column he says that 'I have taught all my children to cook, but never, ever to bake', and while I very much applaud teaching children to cook (it should be mandatory), why not teach them to bake too?

I know first-hand the joy and the sense of wonder and achievement that learning to bake can bring. It is a creative activity, whilst also requiring the learning of practical skills, and has a tangible result that is very satisfying for children (which diminishes not one iota for grown-ups like me who continue to bake). Why would you deprive anyone of this? It also means you save a fortune over the years by not having to buy cakes in bakeries and saves you from having to resort to nasty processed supermarket offerings.

Toasted fruit and malt loaf

Women, in most Western or developed countries at least, are no longer tied to the kitchen and forced to slave over a hot stove for lack of any other option. The fact that I can live as I choose, have a career, travel freely and not be trapped by marriage and children, forced to live under the rule of a man, is something that I value immensely. So many women in the world still don’t have such freedoms - an article about women in Saudi Arabia, which also appeared in the Sunday Times last weekend, was a salutary reminder of that. It seems appropriate, given that last week was International Women’s Week, to take the time to appreciate the gift we were given by the women who fought in the 19^th and 20^th centuries for independence and equality. As an independent woman who bakes to please herself, I’m now off to have a mid-afternoon coffee with a piece of delicious, home-made Maltana, toasted and buttered. Mr Gill, you don’t know what you‘re missing.

Revolutionary raisins

Raisin POW Camp

People are strange. Well OK then, I am strange. This was the thought that occurred to me as I stood over the bag of Muesli last weekend, plucking out the raisins one by one. Not with a view to eating them you understand. No, much as I like fruit cake, Maltana, mince pies, pain au raisin – need I go on? – I really dislike dried fruit in my breakfast cereal. I'm not generally suspicious of raisins, so I haven’t quite managed to put my finger on the reason why. I think it’s the chewiness of them, the way they stick to my teeth and disturb the crunchy flow of the rest of the bowl. Whatever it is, it clearly doesn’t affect the majority of muesli eaters, since it seems to be impossible to buy a bag of non-fruity muesli (full disclosure here - I haven't actually tried too hard, so if you know of any, do let me know), and I recently read a column in a glossy mag, whose author claimed to have a special bag shake, designed with the sole purpose of getting more than her fair share of raisins from bag to bowl (No.3 Sister would applaud this). 

All of this means I may be alone in my War on Muesli Raisins, bringing us full circle to me having to pick them out as I go and no matter how diligent I am, there’s always one I miss –  a rebel raisin hunkered down behind a wheat flake or sheltered by a hazelnut, ready to sneak his way onto my spoon and upset my morning repast. Usually, I carry out Operation Raisin on the fly, nabbing them from the bowl on an ad hoc basis, but today I tried a more direct approach – shovelling the muesli about in the bag with a spoon and gathering up as many of the little blighters as I could see. As a result I now have a small bowl full of desiccated, dusty raisins and seeing them all together like that made me sad. (In a strange twist, having just watched a documentary on Bronze Age mummies in Britain, looking at them now also makes me think of mummification. Strike two against the Muesli Raisins.) 

Mummified raisins reincarnated as yummy banana bread

Mummified or not, it would be such a shame to simply dump them, when they could be rinsed, re-plumped and given a much happier ending in something baked and delicious. I am quite the Thrifty Queen and it galls me to throw out perfectly good ingredients that could be recycled - or up-cycled, as the current vogue would have it - to create, in this case, a loaf of banana bread. I had initially thought of making a yeasted malt loaf (yum) but I hadn't manage to extract quite enough raisins (I was 50g short). The re-plumping issue also made me think of banana bread - my recipe involves soaking raisins in Pedro Ximinez sherry before making the loaf (see below). To top it all off, I had some over-ripe bananas sitting patiently in the freezer just waiting for their time to shine. Banana bread it was.

Readers, it was a good one - moist and more-ish, using half muscovado sugar and half caster sugar upped the fudgy flavour, with the bananas lending a toffee-ish note, a hint of dark chocolate in the background from a spoonful of cocoa and just a touch of deep fruitiness from the raisins soaked in sherry. From dusty, outcast raisins to mummies and delicious banana bread - my mind is indeed a wondrously strange place, but if this is where it leads me, I'm good with that.