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.

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. 

I Love Lemons

Ballyprior Castle, Co. Carlow

I'm on a whistle-stop tour of most of the midlands / southeast for work - lots of driving to and fro (my colleague) and frantic navigating (me), interspersed with visits to some of the most spectacular archaeological sites that Ireland has to offer. After a clear day on Monday, the weather yesterday was fairly grim - grey skies with clouds that seem to merge with the bands of wind-blown rain, creating a blanket of mist that hides the hills and sits low over the fields - but even that couldn't detract from the amazing sight of Ballymoon Castle in Co. Carlow. More used to the singular column of a tower house or the compact fortified house, many of which are dotted about the countryside, this was a surprise. It was a proper castle (albeit ruined) - not enclosed in a town, as so many of our large stone castles are, but standing proud on a rise in a pasture field at the side of the road. As we walked across the field towards it, birds were circling the walls and with the dark clouds and misty rain, there was a sense of stepping back in time (I want to tell you the birds were crows or ravens, as that would add even more atmosphere, but truth be told, I'm rubbish at bird-spotting). 

I had great hopes for this jaunt through Irish archaeology, having been told of fabulously good scones and coffee down by the river at St Mullins monastic site (also Co. Carlow). To be honest, I got a bit carried away in my mind, imagining that this could also be The Great Scone Tour of Ireland. There was one lovely scone on Monday in Kilcullen and after a rather hurried and busy day yesterday, we finally reached St Mullins at about 3pm (no lunch) and were running on empty, ready for the promised scone. Oh dear. It seems the nice man down by the river doesn't open his little cafe until February 1st (yes, that means we missed out by barely a week!). The site was stunning (with a very impressive motte-and-bailey beside it), but sadly my memory of St Mullins will always be coloured by the absence of a scone. 

Castlelyons Abbey

In contrast today - a beautiful, clear-sky winter's day - there was a promising start, with a fruit scone in the hotel for breakfast but this proved to be a disappointment. There was a decent plain scone offering later in the day in a bakery in Cappoquin (not bad at all) and apart from the odd shower, the weather held and we had blue skies as we drove southwest towards Cork. We ended the day with a look at the pretty little abbey ruins at Castlelyons, just as the sun was beginning its descent. It was as good a way to end a long day's work as I can imagine.

Lemon Madeira Cake, Take 1

So what does the rest of the week hold? I'm not too hopeful on the scone-front. Finding the right cafe at the right time is proving tricky, especially as we criss-cross the countryside all day, only occasionally dipping into a town. Thankfully I have an emergency stash of lemon madeira cake in the glove compartment. Baked on Sunday as the first in a trial of madeira recipes (I'm looking for the perfect lemon madeira recipe for a wedding), it was still delicious today. Although I was so tired that I inadvertently set the oven too high, this recipe was a winner. A mix of flour and ground almonds, it stays moist and more-ish for days (we'll be giving it a proper road-test and will still be nibbling on it come Friday). So perhaps I should forget scones altogether and save myself from further disappointment. From here on out it's all about the lovely madeira and its lemony goodness. 

January blues resolved

The last of the Christmas Cake...

I gave up giving up years ago. To my mind, facing the remainder of the cold, dark winter with nary a piece of chocolate or cake to brighten up a dull day is a depressing thought indeed. Life can be hard enough sometimes, so no need to make things even more difficult I say. A spot of self-flagellation or a hair-shirt anyone? Nope, me neither, thank you very much. Generally speaking then, I usually resolve to add rather than subtract - to do something nice for myself instead of enduring months of self-inflicted deprivation. Because when I'm feeling happy, I tend to take better care of myself. That's not to say I don't recognise the need for a return to a more sensible approach to life after the excesses of Christmas. Continuing down the road of over-indulgence would soon turn me into a grumpy, over-fed couch-potato (or a porkling, as they would have called me in medieval England - guess who got a new word book for Christmas?). 

Christmas Tart Amandine

I take a two-pronged approach post-Christmas: If variety is the spice of life - the sparkly, outgoing soul of the party - then moderation is the more sensible sister, keeping everything and everyone on an even keel. One of the reasons I love the first mince-pie of the festive season and hanker after a sausage roll or two to go with a glass of hot port, is that I don't have mince-pies or sausage rolls at any other time of the year. Ditto Christmas cake, turkey, cranberry sauce, gingerbread stuffing... the list goes on. All of this is deliciously moreish at the start of the season, but there is no doubt that come January first, I'm always ready for something new. 

Before moving on to the 'something new', a quick word to say that if you have any mincemeat left over in your fridge, Mary Berry has a wonderful recipe for a Christmas Tart Amandine - essentially a twist on the Bakewell tart, using mincemeat instead of jam. It is incredibly good. Mam baked this twice in the run up to Christmas and it was demolished each time. The recipe is printed below if you need a little January Blues Treat and would like to try it. But I digress - back to the 'something new' (or in this case, something different). 

And so to inject some variety into the traditional festive feasting, I started the year with an Italian feast for four on New Year's Day, with freshly baked bread-sticks, olives and other yummy nibbles, all washed down by the last of the Christmas cocktail devised by Sister No.1 (a rather tasty but dangerous combination of home-made cranberry gin mixed with prosecco). In spite of the slight cocktail-induced wobble in my step, I managed to keep my hostess hat on straight and succeeded in cooking a lovely risotto with roasted butternut squash and crispy bacon, served up with a fresh green salad. Thankfully, I had dessert prepped and ready to go from the day before - I say thankfully, as we had wine with the risotto, which left me incapable of doing anything more than dishing up scoops of the vanilla gelato (sticking with the Italian theme here) and letting everyone help themselves to the warm chocolate fudge sauce and toasted coconut shards, hazelnuts and chocolate brownie pieces (DIY ice-cream sundaes all round). Suitably stuffed, we drank espresso and amused ourselves with tiny saucer crackers that Sister No.2 had given me for Christmas (quite the cutest thing I've ever seen). It was a brilliant start to the new year - fabulous food, fabulous company, laughter and bubbles. What more could a girl ask for?

Having kicked off 2014 with a feast of equal proportion to the Christmas fare but vastly different in taste, I think now is the time for some of that sensible moderation. I've ordered a couple of new baking books and eagerly await their arrival. My plan for the next few weeks is to get back to the yoga mat for some much needed stretching, plenty of beach-walking and fresh air, time spent contemplating the baking year ahead and perhaps a chocolate or two (that tin of Roses is like the magic porridge pot - I swear they're multiplying every time I put the lid back on). I'm going to dive into my cake books as soon as they arrive and find something new and delicious to bake. With a little bit of delayed gratification, I think I'm going to really enjoy my next piece of cake. 

The Great Christmas Bake-Off

Boy am I glad to be within touching distance of Christmas Eve. One cake left to bake and deliver and then it'll be time for Christmas Cocktails, sausage rolls and mince-pies with the family. Unbeknownst to the producers at the BBC, the Great Christmas Bake-Off has been taking place in my kitchen for the last few weeks. As the days progressed, the challenges grew, well, more challenging. I was contestant and judge all rolled into one. Depending on the day (or the hour frankly) I was either the calm, steady contestant, unflappable in the face of disaster, or the one who gets that slightly crazed look before rapidly descending into a frenzied panic as the tasks mount up. When in judging-mode, I was more Paul Hollywood than Mary Berry - a tough task-master and harsh critic. 

First came the legion of angels (yep, that's them lined up for their photo-op above) - iced gingerbread angel biscuits, with hand-painted golden halos. Angels made a return appearance the following weekend (more a host than a legion this time), along with a copse of Christmas Trees and a small flurry of Snowflakes. These featured the Christmas-Spiced Chocolate biscuits (i.e. chocolate gingerbread) that I had tried-out last month and proved very popular. 

In between, I've been busy rustling up batches of puddini, chocolate and peanut-butter cups, fudge and Christmas Tree Decoration biscuits. As someone who loves language (I am a word nerd and have been known to read the dictionary for fun), I started thinking about collective nouns. Looking at a table full of puddini truffles and cooling racks lined with biscuits, I wanted a word other than 'batch' to describe them (my mind is indeed a strange and wondrous place). Most of the collective nouns in the English language relate to animals or birds and some are fairly well-known (a herd of cattle for instance or a flock of seagulls) but some are brilliantly obscure and descriptive, often conjuring up amusing images - a congregation of alligators (all neatly dressed for mass), a gang of elk and a mob of emus (villains of the animal kingdom?), a bloat of hippopotamuses and a waddling of ducks (how apt). There are even some for us humans - a blush of boys, a draught of butlers, a hastiness of cooks and a superfluity of nuns - while right at the top of the heap is the pantheon of gods.

A twinkle of Tiny Christmas Cakes

So what then to call my myriad little Christmas confections? Perhaps a jolly of puddini truffles, a jingle of Christmas Tree decoration biscuits and a chime of chocolate and peanut-butter cups? I could bake a scent of gingerbread men and decorate a twinkle of Tiny Christmas Cakes. Much better than boring old 'batch' every time. The next time the phone rings, I can answer and say 'Sorry, can't talk, I'm in the middle of stirring up a bauble of fudge'. Festive collective nouns? Language is constantly evolving, so why not? 

On the subject of language, and more specifically words, I was playing with a new toy the other day - tiny little letter stamps that can be arranged on a rack to make whatever word you choose, which you then impress onto a biscuit before it's baked. In my defence, I was quite tired and brain-addled at the time, so working out which way the letters had to go was probably more of a challenge than it should have been (they're all back-to-front so that when impressed, they come out the right way). As a result, my planned Christmas star biscuit with 'star' written on it, became 'rats' ('Oh rats!' she cried when she realised what she had done). Not quite the traditional nativity scene eh? 'So the three wise men followed the Christmas rats to Bethlehem, where they found the Baby Jesus in the manger'. And on that note, I wish you a very merry, twinkly Christmas, rats and all.

Mrs Santa Claus

Groom & Bride iced biscuits

They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, which I can only hope, since I have indeed been absent for a few weeks now. My world of crazy got even crazier, with baking and archaeology colliding, leaving me in a sad little heap on the floor (No.2 Sister talked me safely down off the ledge). I had an early order of puddini and gingerbread men to get ready last weekend, a large order of iced-biscuit wedding favours to make during the week and spreadsheets of archaeological sites and monuments to sort. I was firing on all cylinders until finally, my brain hurting from the academic work and my hands cramping from all the piped-icing detail, I reached this weekend. Oh the relief!

Not that all work here ceased. I wanted to get ahead with some of the Christmas order prep, but thankfully No.1 Sister appeared like an angel at my door to lend a much-needed hand. We made sugar-paste stars and crowns (now dry and ready to be sprayed with edible gold paint) and cut out lots of little Christmas tags. What with the extremely busy couple of weeks and the early batch of puddini-making bringing me firmly into festive mode, I am considering a name change to Mrs Santa Claus (without the physical festive upgrade to plump, grey-haired and red-cheeked please). I even had the able-assistance of a little elf in my workshop yesterday (a.k.a. my sister). But even Mrs Clause needs a break every now and again and while my plan for today is to relax, read the Sunday papers and recharge my batteries for the week ahead, already I can feel the cogs in my mind starting to turn, listing all of the things I really should be doing instead...the Christmas cakes need feeding ... biscuit dough to make ... Gingerbread men to get ready... next batch of puddini to prepare...

Just in the nick of time of I spoke to No.3 Sister, who has ordered me to expel all such thoughts from my mind and camp out on the sofa for the rest of the day. So the Tiny Christmas cakes can wait (that's them in the photo, fresh from the oven last month - it feels slightly wrong to be displaying them naked, without even their marzipan underwear on, but I promise, the next time you see them, they will be fully dressed) and so too can all of the other chores I could or should be doing. Given that it's the first of December and XmasFM is broadcasting live once more, I think it's time to stop and smell the roses (or the cinnamon, ginger and nutmeg). In the spirit of all things festive, I thought I'd also post a picture I took of the last piece of that chocolate gingerbread biscuit batch (now more aptly named the Christmas-Spiced Chocolate Biscuit). It's a Christmas tree shape and I was playing around with some icing to plan out a design for this year's Christmas biscuits. I hope it infects you with some of my Christmas spirit. Yes folks, it is indeed beginning to look alot like Christmas!