Perfect?

The Perfect Brownie?

This blog started just over a year ago with an account of my quest to find the perfect brownie, resulting in my discovery of the chocolate brownie with salted caramel and peanuts. Quest over, I thought. In fact, I was so sure of it that I stopped looking altogether (those brownies are to die for and as I've just realised that I never posted the recipe, I promise to get it uploaded soon). 

The problem with perfection, however, is that it's a rather slippery concept and just when you think you've got it in your grasp, off it goes again. One very good example of the elusive nature of perfection can be found in another of my long-time quests: The Hunt for the Perfect Shoes. I have spent what is now the best part of two decades looking for the perfect shoes (all of you ladies out there will be intimately acquainted with the thrills and spills of this particular quest). Although the search itself didn't properly begin until I became an adult (with money of my own to fund it), I can trace its origins back to my childhood and one instance of extreme shoe envy, when Susan Smith turned up to school proudly sporting a pair of brown leather ’high’-heeled court shoes from Dunnes (high was a relative concept when coming from a place of constant flatness, so they were most likely all of 2-inches high). 

They seemed so grown-up and so far removed from the sensible Clarks shoes the rest of us were wearing, that we all spent the entirety of our lunch break taking turns to try them on. We were terribly envious and fascinated - high-heels were most definitely adult territory, yet here was one of our peers not only wearing grown-up shoes that fit her (i.e. not playing dress-up in her too-large Mammy's shoes), but walking as if she was born to it. At that point in time, shoes were still more about function than fashion - could I run, skip and play ball? - so the reason that the incident is so memorable probably has little to do with how lovely or fashionable the shoes might have been. I think it was more a budding awareness of their power; those shoes gave Susan a status beyond mere primary school student and for that one day, she was a queen among us.

Years later the hunt revolves around finding the perfect shoe to go with an outfit or to suit a particular occasion, location, season or activity. It's never one perfect pair of shoes (that would be way too easy); instead the list is endless and the goalposts constantly moving (the right boot for a hike in the mountains is most definitely not the perfect boot to wear to the office or out to dinner). And of course, that's the problem with perfection - our idea of what it is changes according to our needs, wants and desires (thus my idea of perfection can be quite different to yours). So does perfection exist? Am I doomed to search forever for the perfect shoe or the perfect brownie, all to no avail?

Chocolate Shoes

'Perfect' is a word that is bandied about recklessly - how often have you heard someone talking about wanting the 'perfect life' or the 'perfect job' for instance? But nobody has the perfect life (scratch the surface of what appears to be a perfect life and you would soon see the flawed, normal reality beneath) and certainly the perfect job is no more than a daydream (every job, even the great ones, have their humdrum, bang-your-head-against-a-wall moments). Seeking perfection in the big things will only lead to disappointment - there's simply too much scope for imperfection to creep in. But the little things, the everyday moments - they can be perfect. The perfect Mojito? Just ask my sister - she enjoyed one on a sunny afternoon recently, while sitting on her swing out the back garden. 

Perfection can be something to strive for, but it can also sneak up on you, creating a magical moment when all seems right with the world. For me, unexpectedly, that was an hour spent on the beach yesterday writing this. It was warm enough to walk barefoot in the sand, along the water's edge, and I had the whole beach almost to myself. I returned to sit on a rock in the sun, near the old railway bridge, where the babbling brook entered the sea (very picturesque indeed). At one point, I looked up from my scribbling and realised that I was perfectly content (despite a slightly numb bum from sitting on a hard rock) and for no particular reason at all. These moments might not last (the numbness and onset of clouds eventually drove me off), but while they do, they should be savoured. 

The Shoe of Perfection

So, the perfect shoes. Do they exist? Quite possibly: these chocolate shoes (a gift from Mam at Christmas) have it all - beauty, elegance, fabulous packaging, they work wonderfully with a cocktail, you can take them everywhere with you and they'll go with anything. But best of all, they taste delicious (a chocolate shoe! I know!!). Who could ask for anything more? 

But the perfect brownie? Well, No. 2 Sister happened to mention a recent outstanding brownie experience, in which a delicious chocolate brownie was topped with the most amazing chocolate fudge icing. It sounded so good that I simply have to give them a go. Could they supplant the current favourite, my perfect salted caramel and peanut brownie? Watch this space... 

Rising to the occasion

Dad's Brilliant Brown Bread

I’ve just realised that my Dad rarely gets a mention in my blog-musings. Since yesterday was Father’s Day, it seems apposite that the subject of today’s post was inspired by him. His absence in my posts is no reflection on his importance in my life, it’s just that he doesn’t bake and most of my posts are cake related. He also takes a bit of a back seat in our girlie gatherings - though he frequently supplies the bottles of bubbly that keep us going, bless him - usually slipping away to the sofa with his book, Kindle or Pad as soon as the squealing and chatter gets too much for him. Not that he strays too far mind you (he has to be within hearing range of the gossip after all - Dad likes to know what's going on).

So who is my Dad? Well, when I think of him, I think of drugs (odd but true) – he’s a retired pharmacist and always knows what you need to take when you’re sick. Actually, I really should have said ‘medicine’, as I fear I now have you picturing him as either a twitchy drug-addict or a swaggering drug-dealer (sorry Dad). 

Making the brown soda

I also think of Spain, where he spends most of his time since he retired (yes, you’ve guessed it, the Costa del Sol, where all the dodgy drug barons go - Dad this coming out all wrong! To clarify, Dad is neither an addict nor a king pin dealer - hold the print Sunday Mirror).

Mostly when I think of my Dad, though, books come to mind (phew – think I’m safe on that one). Dad is a voracious reader (especially since he retired) and from the time I was very young, would buy me books for birthdays and Christmas. It’s Dad I have to thank for introducing me to J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis – who or where would I be now if I hadn’t had the pleasure of journeying into new worlds with the likes of Bilbo and Frodo Baggins in Middle Earth and the children from the 'Land of Spare Oom', who went through the wardrobe into Narnia? 

White soda with jam

Now to the inspiration: this weekend I fancied a bit of soda bread and ended up making two loaves – one white and one brown and the brown, which I made today, is one that Dad makes. Yes, I did say that Dad doesn’t bake, but ever since he went on a bit of a health kick a few years ago and had to cut down on the white bread, he learned how to make brown soda bread (so he could make it for himself while in Spain - very independent is my Dad). The recipe originally came from No.1 Sister but has now been tweaked and adapted by Dad for the perfect loaf. Tweaking and adapting is a true sign that you have mastered a recipe, which makes Dad the Master Brown Soda Bread Maker (No.1 Sister actually took Dad’s new and improved recipe back to replace hers, as his bread turned out better every time). 

I know Dad won’t mind me saying that it’s very easy to make and that, frankly, if he can do it anyone can (he’s nothing if not modest). Unlike yeast bread, there’s no temperamental yeasty antics, no waiting for the bread to prove and no kneading. Soda bread is also more versatile than you might imagine and certainly more than just brown vs. white. You could add some raisins or other dried fruit to the white, as I did yesterday, should you fancy a fruity loaf. Or you could make a savoury focaccia-style bread using cheese, olive oil and herbs (Rachel Allen has a lovely recipe here). Add chocolate and cinnamon or maybe crispy bacon - whatever takes your fancy. But really, there's nothing nicer than a slice of freshly baked, unadorned and unadulterated soda bread, spread with salted butter and perhaps some strawberry jam (my favourite on the white) or marmalade (ditto for the brown).

White fruity soda bread

The magic of soda bread is in the name - it relies on the chemical reaction between the bicarbonate of soda (a.k.a. bread soda) and an acidic liquid (such as buttermilk) to create lots of lovely bubbles that make the bread rise. It's also used in some cakes as a raising agent, either alone or alongside baking powder (and you'll see yoghurt, lemon juice, buttermilk or sour cream in these cake recipes for the same reason - all are acidic). The trick with soda bread, as with cakes, is to avoid over-mixing (which will make it tough and dense) and to get it in the oven quickly (before the rising action of the bicarb exhausts itself). 

It's quick to make - just mix the dry and wet ingredients (it literally takes minutes) and pop it into the oven for about 40-45 mins, either as a traditional round loaf on a baking sheet, or in a loaf tin (recipes below). Once it comes out of the oven, set it on a tea-towel, brush it with some milk and wrap it up in the tea-towel like an Egyptian bread mummy - this traps the steam, making the crust soft and slightly chewy rather than hard and sharp enough to cut the roof of your mouth (I go for a mummified loaf every time to save on cuts and grazes, but the choice is yours). The only time you have to spend twiddling your thumbs is while you wait for it to be cool enough to cut. As with all breads, it's best eaten on the day it's baked while it's still pillowy soft, but freezes beautifully and makes lovely toast.

So Happy Father's Day to my wonderful Dad. Thank you for sharing your recipe and your delicious bread, and for not minding that everyone who reads this blog now suspects you're a drug-baron gangster, holed up on the Costa!

Black Forest Misadventure

Black Cherries

Week from hell, Ladies and Gentlemen. Week. From. Hell. Whatever could go wrong last week, did. After finishing up a rather hellish day at work on Tuesday - first day back after the bank holiday etc. - I plopped exhausted into the car to drive home, hoping to beat the worst of the traffic. After driving for approximately two whole minutes, I heard a familiar whup-whup-whup sound and felt a slight drag on the car. Flat tyre. Wonderful. I sat there, stress levels building, waiting for assistance (yes yes, helpless female), knowing that Dublin's roads were quickly clogging up with the traffic I had hoped to miss. 

In an attempt to find a silver lining, I tried counting the good things about my little misadventure: it wasn't raining (which would snarl traffic up even more and would mean I'd get wet while my tyre was being changed); the lady mechanic arrived really quickly (clearly not all females are helpless in these matters); and I got to relax for half an hour (enforced stillness with no chores / projects / work to do). With time to breathe and none of the usual distractions, I decided to amuse myself by planning a new bake for this weekend.

Devilishly good chocolate muffin

And good thing I did too, as the week proceeded as it had begun. It descended painfully through Dante's nine circles of hell and reached its nadir on Friday afternoon, when Word decided to create it's own numbering format throughout the report I'd spent most of the day working on (and crucially, it wouldn't 'Undo' - why??!!). Cue two hours of (unpaid) overtime trying to get the report back to its original state. The only thing that helped was the thought of the (hopefully) delicious bake I had planned for Saturday.

It all began with the Black Forest Gateau I made a couple of weeks ago (recipe as promised below). After sending it off to meet its destiny, I had a bowl of black cherries left over - soaked in a reduced cherry syrup with a dash of fruity liqueur. Now, I could have eaten them with yoghurt and granola for breakfast (albeit a slightly naughty breakfast, given there was alcohol in the syrup) or even as a dessert with some creamy Greek Yoghurt or vanilla ice-cream and toasted coconut flakes. But I had other plans. Looking at the plump cherries glistening in the thick syrup and with memories of the lovely Black Forest fresh in my mind, I wondered if I could make something like that, but in miniature. A cupcake or muffin maybe. 

Chocolate had to be involved - dark and devilishly good - so my base would be a chocolate muffin. Cherries (obviously). Could I just mix the cherries through? Hmmm, not sure. Thinking of the black cherries in their luscious syrup brought me to cheesecake (I know, bit of a leap, but I do love a black cherry baked cheesecake), which led me straight to a chocolate chip muffin, with a cream cheese and black cherry swirl. 

Chocolate chip muffin with black cherry and cream cheese swirl

There was a bit of a palaver in the making of them. Not because they were tricky - couldn't be easier in fact - but because I was so tired on Saturday after The Week From Hell that I completely forgot to put sugar in the first batch (it seems I never learn my lesson about baking when tired). Thankfully I licked some cake batter off my finger (and quickly spat it out again) before they went into the oven or I would've been serving inedible muffins to No.1 Sister when I visited her later that day. As muffins are incredibly quick to rustle up (dry ingredients in one bowl, wet in another, mix them together and dollop into the muffin cases), it didn't take me long to get a new batch made and baked (recipe below). 

Fortune favours the brave and my instincts had not led me astray; the muffin sponge was light (the muffin mix only contains 75g butter in total) and perfectly chocolatey, but with a hint of decadence in the cheesecake, chunks of chocolate and juicy cherries. All in all, the ideal muffin with which to drink coffee, chat and wind down after a particularly hellish week. From Dante's Inferno to heavenly bliss - I really couldn't ask for anything more from a muffin, now could I?