Once upon a time...

Living in the 21st century means that we are often slaves to time. The alarm clock alerts us that it's time to awaken and wrenches us from sleep. We rush to get the 7.32 train or the 8.16 bus or to cycle our 40 minute commute. We take an hour's lunch (if lucky) and a 15 minute break (if very lucky) during our working day of carefully clocked hours, squeezing in a 20 minute presentation or a two hour meeting. For a quick dinner, we might cook pasta (boil for about 10 minutes) or watch the timer on the microwave count down the 3 minutes it takes to heat a ready-meal. We're told to take at least 30 minutes of exercise every day. We're constantly measuring time, whether by ticking clock or watch, or by digital display on a phone, computer or TV, and we're regulated by the minutes and hours that make up each day. 
  

Of course human beings have always lived and worked to a rhythm (with the rising and setting sun being the most basic), though modern technology has allowed us to take this to extremes. But as regimented as this can be, being able to tell the time down to the minute is not always a bad thing and no more so for me than when baking and cooking. Take a typical cake recipe, which will instruct you to beat the butter and sugar for 10 minutes with an electric whisk or to bake in the oven for 35 minutes. Giving specific timings in a recipe means that (in theory) anyone can follow the instructions and successfully bake the cake. Similarly, we can set a timer when boiling an egg, knowing that in precisely 8 minutes we'll have the perfect hard-boiled egg. 

Obviously being able to time certain parts of the cooking process has always been necessary, but what do you do if you don't have a clock or other time-piece? Well, an experienced cook can usually tell by the look and smell of a cake that it's done, even if there's no timer beeping officiously when the requisite 35 minutes is up. But how to discern if an egg is boiled to your satisfaction while it's still in the pot? How to instruct an inexperienced cook or to describe the timings in a new recipe? It all becomes rather tricky without the handy device of precise time-telling. The mechanical clock wasn't invented until the 14th century and clocks (and subsequently watches) remained a rare and expensive luxury during the medieval period and into the early modern period. Surviving recipes show that cooks relied on communal knowledge to measure time, using prayers (e.g. boil for the time it takes to say two Hail Mary's) or even distance (e.g. bake for the time a person would take to walk three miles), though the latter is rather subjective, depending as it does on the speed, height and gait of the person walking. 

Timing by prayer would have been a particularly useful measure in an age when daily life revolved around the Church and everyone was expected to attend mass and know their prayers. I've been trying to imagine how 21st century cooks might manage if all of our clocks, watches and digital appliances magically disappeared. In our more secular and multi-racial society, we would struggle to find a prayer, song or poem that would be known by both young and old alike (I might know all the words to that classic 80s power ballad - ahem - but I can guarantee that my niece will not). For all that I sometimes resent being tied to timetables and schedules, hours and minutes, I won't be giving up my precious timer anytime soon.


You might be wondering right about now what any of this has to do with the photos of French pastries dotted throughout the post. Well, I had plenty of time to ponder the rhythms of our days and our reliance on clocks while I was making them. I've long wanted to try my hand at making croissant dough and finally had a few days free recently and a good incentive (Mam's birthday weekend). 

Full disclosure here: Making French pastries at home is a labour of love. I enjoyed both the process and the result (outstanding pastries, well worth the effort), but it would only be repeated for very special occasions. Granted, I made life even harder for myself by making three types of pastries - plain and almond croissants and pain au chocolat - so if you fancied giving it a go, making just the one type should ease the burden slightly. If you do decide to try, I followed Paul Hollywood's recipe, which is clear, concise and illustrated with photos of the different steps (happily it also sticks to modern conventions of timings, with not a Hail Mary in sight). 

It's a long, drawn-out affair- albeit not particularly difficult - that is very much regulated by time and by the different stages in the process over a period of two or three days. There's lots of rolling, folding and chilling involved and to describe it in detail here would bore you silly, so in case you're rushing to catch the 17.13 train home, here's the abbreviated version: 

Once upon a time, I made some French pastries. They were flaky, buttery and delicious and everyone loved them. 

The End.

Figaro, Figaro, Figaro!

Magical fig tree

For no reason other than their shared initial letters, every time I think of figs, the jukebox in my head starts singing Figaro's aria from the Barber of Seville opera (you'd know it if you heard it). Figaro is the name of the aforementioned barber and has not a thing to do with figs, but either way, I've found myself singing the tune constantly since I came back from my holidays, partly because figs were in season while I was there and partly because of the beautiful fig tree on the beach (I know! Who knew fig trees could grow on beaches??). It was old and gnarled, with wide branches sweeping down to the sand and laden with unripe fruit. The low-lying branches and full foliage created a majestic canopy, providing a cool, shady den for anyone who needed it (one man appeared to have taken up almost permanent residence there, blankets and all). And every time we passed by, there was the most incredible perfume in the air - slightly sweet and nutty and uniquely figgy. 

And since we're on the topic of figs, have you ever wondered how Jacob's get the figs in the Fig Roll? I've puzzled over this mystery for many a year, no doubt prompted by the TV ad of my childhood which asked the very same question (the one with the cartoon spy trying to gain access to the factory to find the answer). Now it's not something I've thought long and hard about, but it has warranted the occasional musing. If you make a sausage roll, for example, the crease where you join the two sides of the pastry is always visible. But any dough soft enough that it melts in the heat of the oven - thus smoothing out the crease - could not be moulded successfully into shape to contain the figs. A veritable conundrum, but one that was finally answered when I thought to ask a friend of mine who used to work in Jacob's (she shall henceforth be known as Agent F). The answer is remarkably (and sadly) mundane: co-extrusion (the method whereby both filling and dough are extruded at the same time from two tubes, one inside another). As is often the case, life's little mysteries are much more exciting unsolved. Ho hum. So apologies if I've taken the magic of the Fig Roll away. I'd like to blame Agent F, but really, I did ask.

The King of Dates

When it comes to using dried fruit in treats - baked or otherwise - I find figs a little underwhelming, so in spite of the lengthy intro featuring figs, I'm now going to turn my attention to dates (another exotic fruit not native to our little island in the Atlantic). If your only experience of dates are the small, dried-up variety, may I introduce you to their much rarer cousin, the Medjool. They are at least twice the size, softer, squidgier and decadently plump. In the same way that regular dried dates are like nature's toffees, these are a sophisticated soft caramel created especially by Mother Nature. They are quite expensive to buy here, when you can find them, but every year I bring home an enormous bag of them from the market in Spain (much cheaper). Generally I just eat them as they are - a sweet treat with a cuppa - but this time I had bigger plans. Home-made Nutella.

Chocolate nirvana

Yes, you read that right. I've been wanting to try my hand at a home-made hazelnut chocolate spread for quite some time now and recently came across a recipe that used Medjool dates. The original recipe came from Deliciously Ella, a blog dedicated to wholesome recipes, and uses only good things (which of course means that this is one guilt-free treat). The Medjool dates (full of nutritious goodness) provide much of the sweetness as well as adding a soft texture and caramel notes. For the chocolate spread, they're blended with raw cacao powder (like cocoa, but in its natural, unroasted state, so it retains the nutrients and enzymes of the cacao bean), roasted hazelnuts, water and some pure maple syrup (another natural product). I tweaked the recipe, adding a greater amount of cacao powder for a richer chocolate hit and roasted hazelnuts instead of soaked, unroasted ones. I also added a little bit of Maldon salt to balance the flavours and a sprinkle of instant espresso powder to further enhance the chocolate kick. 

Oat cakes made chocolatey

As my food processor is not brilliant, the hazelnuts didn't get completely whizzed into a paste, but the resulting spread had a pleasing nutty bite to it (much like crunchy peanut butter, which I love). Although you need to keep the spread in the fridge, it remains slightly soft; the perfect spreading consisting. In keeping with the healthy theme, I tried it on some oat cakes (yum), on a spoon (even more yum) and had to draw the line at just diving on in there face first, though it was tempting. I reckon it would make a delicious filling for a chocolate layer cake and I'm looking forward to trying it on toast, fresh crusty bread, crackers, on a larger spoon... While this is indeed a very healthy treat, good health is first and foremost about moderation, so I may be in trouble here. It's possible that I have just created my own chocolatey doom. But what a way to go, Ladies and Gentlemen, what a way to go.

Happy Mistakes

I'm currently on my holidays and so, it seems, are my brain cells. There is always a natural wind-down in the first week of a holiday, when you realise how tired you are, so you sleep alot, eat and drink nice things then come alive a bit in Week 2. Worryingly, I've done the opposite. I was positively buzzing at the start of Week 1 and managed to read three books in two days. Since then, I've been slogging through the fourth book, even though it's actually a very easy read - not too taxing, good characters and a plot that races along nicely (the perfect holiday book). More worrying still, I can't seem to get any of the answers in our daily beach crossword (it's all happening here folks) and - worst of all - I'm making really silly grammatical mistakes. I've been saying things like 'it was wrote', 'warm it is' and 'she rided the bike', and just generally stumbling my way through sentences like a foreigner speaking English for the first time.  

Now you may have gathered from previous posts that I love language and all its intricacies - I read books on word origins, meanings and linguistics just for fun - so for me to start spouting sentences with glaringly poor grammar is akin to walking along a crowded path in Dublin while wind-milling my arms and shouting at passers-by. It is both horrifying (what on earth is happening to me?) and embarrassing (I wince when anyone else uses bad grammar and this is infinitely worse, as I know better). My youngest sister, who is on hols with me, is greatly amused by my grammatical slip-ups - she reckons I never get anything wrong (absolutely not true) and sees this as a breath of fresh air. Perhaps this is a form of Tourette's Syndrome, only instead of cursing or twitching, I use the wrong past-participle? Hopefully, it's simply the result of extreme tiredness and will pass before I head home. If it continues to worsen, this may well be the last comprehensible blog post that I write (if indeed you can understand my ramblings at all). 

In the meantime, I shall leave you with a wonderful recipe for muffins - originally by Hugh Fearnsley-Whittingstall and improved through happy circumstance. The use of lemon zest, lemon curd and ground almonds in these muffins seems fitting, given that I am, at present, ensconced in sunny southern Spain. Both lemons and almonds abound here and are used in both savoury and sweet dishes alike. I first made these little treasures a couple of months ago and haven't yet gotten round to sharing them with you. They are about half the size of the typical shop / cafe muffin, which means that they are a guilt-free pleasure or indeed that you could happily eat two of them (baker's choice). The use of ground almonds helps them to stay lovely and moist - a bonus with muffins as generally they're best eaten on the day you make them (home-made muffins contain less fat proportionally than other cakes and so stale more quickly). 

The original recipe called for the lemon curd to be swirled through the batter in the bowl, but being lazy that day I just dropped a blob into each filled muffin case and popped the tray in the oven. This led to an unforeseen volcano-effect, with the lemon curd bubbling up and spilling over slightly onto the tray (oh dear, I thought, when I saw what had happened). But the butter and sugar in the lemon curd caramelised and formed a crust on top of each muffin, which was such a fantastic bonus that it more than made up for the sticky mess on the tray (nothing a sink full of hot sudsy water couldn't tackle anyhow). The lemon curd beneath the sticky crust remains like the liquid gold it is; a melting, creamy, zingy contrast to the sweetness of the light almond sponge. These are an altogether wonderful addition to my catalogue of muffin recipes and in the event that I continue my slow but steady decline into Jelly Brain, with grammatical errors at every turn, I can console myself with the fact that not all mistakes are unfortunate; some are very happy indeed.

The Great Birthday Festival, Part 20

It has been a festival of many parts and while I do exaggerate slightly in the title (not quite Part 20 yet, though I'm getting there), the celebrations have indeed been many and varied. There were lunches out and lunches in, glasses of bubbly, birthday cakes (yes, plural - who has just one birthday cake?), a birthday dinner, birthday bouquet and lots of fabulous presents. As is ever the case, some of the best gifts are handmade and I was lucky enough to receive some really thoughtful ones: a beautiful, soft grey woollen blanket, hand-knitted by No.1 Sister; a framed photo collage featuring yours truly over the years, which was put together by my Mam (it includes this photo of one-year old me, very much delighted with myself in a rather wonderful lace-trimmed hat); and a playlist of my favourite songs from the last four decades or so, painstakingly selected and burned onto CDs by No.3 Sister (in deference to my car stereo, which is stuck in the pre-digital age).

The Birthday Bouquet

As it was my birthday, I was banned from baking and was instead given the opportunity to select whatever cake I liked for my birthday (which No.1 Sister would make for me). It proved a difficult decision (so many cakes, so little time!) and made me realise how much more I like baking cakes than eating them. Or more accurately, how much I enjoy the combination of creating the cake and then sharing in the eating of it. With the prospect of baking and decorating a cake removed from the equation, however, I had to think long and hard about what it is I would like to enjoy with a cup of coffee on my birthday weekend. 

Birthday Cake No. 1

I had made a chocolate fudge cake for No.1 Sister the previous weekend for her birthday down in Kerry, so it wouldn't be that. A summer staple in our house is the simple but delicious Victoria Sponge filled with cream, jam and strawberries, but much as I love it, my Mam had already surprised me with a yummy swiss roll with cream and strawberries on my actual birthday. The meringue and lemon curd variation of the Victoria Sponge, lovely and all as it is, wasn't calling me either (one of the layers is a fabulous combination of sponge and meringue - a neat trick that looks much more impressive than it actually is, but that's a topic for another day's post). Coffee and walnut cake was a real contender and plans advanced enough that there were discussions of trying a cream cheese instead of plain butter coffee icing. Although it didn't win pride of place as my official birthday cake, it is a variant I am determined to try soon. But ultimately, the only way I could choose was to figuratively remove my baker's apron and hat and pretend I was sitting in a cafe, a cup of steaming coffee in front of me. What would I like to see on the plate in front of me? 

The Definitive Carrot Cake 

The winner, ladies and gentlemen, was the humble carrot cake. It can be found in different forms in cafes and tea-shops across the land; some of them too dry, others too dense and many too sweet and lacking in any discernible flavour. But when it's made properly and decorated as a luscious gateau, it is one of the best cakes you could ever wish to have alongside your cup of coffee (or tea, if that's your tipple). The use of oil instead of butter and the chopped nuts and grated carrots in the sponge ensure that it gets better with age (much like me, ahem). 

Birthday Cake No. 2

The cake remains beautifully moist, so you can safely make it a day or two ahead of time (ever a baking bonus). The addition of lemon and orange zest really perk up the flavours of the cinnamon, ginger and mixed spice, while lemon juice in the cream cheese frosting is the perfect counterpoint to the sweetness. At my request, No. 1 Sister used pecans instead of walnuts - for some reason, walnuts baked into a cake make me nauseous (weird but true), but by all means stick with walnuts if it makes you happy. And if I've learned nothing in my forty years thus far, it's that cake is all about what makes you happy. This is the definitive carrot cake, made to a recipe adapted by No. 1 Sister especially for me, from the 'Best Ever Carrot Cake' featured in the Good Food magazine (see her variation below).

So 10 days on from the birthday and the festivities continue a-pace, but I've taken a moment to reflect (a much needed moment - these extended festivals require some stamina!). With age comes a certain amount of wisdom, but as the saying goes, you learn something new every day. My first discovery of this decade is a modest one (no Nobel prizes here) and possibly already a well-known fact, but I thought I would share it nonetheless: a slice of delicious carrot cake goes equally well with a glass of prosecco (complete with drunken strawberry) as it does with a cup of coffee. Just so you know.

The Great Birthday Festival, Part 1

The Wild Atlantic Way

Today is my birthday and, as anyone who knows me will be aware, that makes me very, very happy indeed. The fact that this is a Big Birthday (as we call them in our house, when referring to the mile-marker ages - 13, 18, 21, 30, 40 etc), means that I can extend the birthday celebrations beyond the usual weekend or week and keep the festivities going for at least a month or two. So although I only turned 40 today, party-time commenced last weekend on a mini-break in Kenmare, when I shamelessly muscled in on No.1 Sister's birthday (though to be fair, we've been sharing the birthday-party spirit ever since I arrived just five days after her first birthday).

G&T by Cocoa Bean Chocolate Co.

As mini-breaks go, this one deserves its very own Carlsberg ad. We had mostly fabulous weather, despite dire predictions by Met Eireann, with the only rain falling on Friday while we were safely ensconced in what is probably the world's best spa (Samas in the Kenmare Park Hotel if you're interested). By Sunday, the sun was shining once more, the sky was blue and the views were outstanding as we drove along a stretch of the Wild Atlantic Way towards Valentia Island. We reached the Skellig chocolate factory just before lunch time and decided to pop in for a look, thinking we might have a browse and maybe (!!) buy some chocolates. Much to my surprise and continued delight, there was a tasting area where you were welcomed by a cheerful chocolate-loving assistant, who made it their business to introduce you to as many wonderful chocolates as possible. 

Now by 'introduce' I mean 'encourage you to eat', which we did. Presentations were made in twos: there was the battle of the pralines (dark chocolate vanilla versus milk chocolate hazelnut); an alcoholic skirmish (Irish whiskey truffle in dark chocolate weighing in against a milk choc strawberry champagne truffle); and a duel of chocolate brittles (dark chocolate mint versus milk chocolate orange). I know there were others - one stand-out winner was the lime zest and black pepper dark chocolate bar - but sadly I can no longer recall the details thanks to partial amnesia as a result of the ensuing chocolate coma. 

Edible G&T 

However, I was determined not to be defeated by the tasting and shuffled along the counter with the rest of the chocolate zombies to the bagged and packaged chocolate treats available for purchase (canny Skellig chocolatiers!). Despite grabbing up more bags of chocolates than I could safely hold, I managed to exercise a little restraint and settled for a bag of milk chocolate salted caramels (amazing) and a bar of Gin & Tonic dark chocolate (yes, really!). The latter is produced by the Cocoa Bean Chocolate Company (also responsible for the fabulous lime zest and black pepper bar). They recently joined forces with Skellig Chocolates (makers of the incredibly yummy salted caramel chocolates) and may I say, I wish them a long and happy marriage and hope to hear the pitter-patter of tiny chocolate feet for many a year to come.

The G&T chocolate bar is, I've decided, the perfect treat to settle down with and enjoy as I launch myself into my forties. I adore nothing more than a cold G&T (made with Bombay Sapphire or Tanqueray gin) with ice and a slice of lime, ideally imbibed on a lazy, sunny afternoon. Unfortunately, alcohol is not always my friend, especially when I'm unwell, which has put paid to many a lovely G&T moment over the last few years. Happily, chocolate is a loyal and constant ally and now here it is, in the guise of my favourite tipple. The fresh lime zest and crushed juniper berries in the dark chocolate somehow fool the brain into thinking you've just had a sip of a G&T, instantly transporting you to your happy place (Margaritaville here I come!). Sophisticated flavours, very pretty packaging and delicious chocolate - who could ask for anything more? The perfect mini-break in Kenmare, a G&T in a chocolate bar and with more treats and celebrations yet to come, this is probably the best birthday festival in the world. 

Gnome-man's Land

Gnomes. A rather odd preoccupation and yet, there they are, stumpy little bearded fellows with conical hats and brightly coloured tunics, constantly popping in and out of my head over the last few days. Possibly the onset of madness, but in this case I reckon I know the cause. I was working near Stepaside last Thursday and driving through it sparked a memory of childhood trips to the seaside. Stepaside was en route to Brittas Bay in County Wicklow and one of the houses in the village was practically suffocating beneath hundreds of gnomes: In the garden, on the garage roof, on the window-sills... they were everywhere, in varying sizes and hues, some with garden tools, others in lederhosen and most with beards, hats and chubby cheeks. Slightly creepy when I think of it now, but as a child it was simply mesmerizing - my sisters, my brother and I would watch anxiously from the car window on the approach to the village, for fear that we'd miss it. 

Recipe Folder

Sadly (or perhaps not), I couldn't find the Gnome House last week but the memory lives on in my head and since it doesn't seem to want to leave, I decided to write about it and (hopefully) exorcise it from my mind. Having gnomes on the brain has not led to a cake- or baking-inspired post, so this is not an account of a gnome-shaped cake or a cake that a gnome might like to eat (Which would be what I wonder? Mississippi Mud Pie perhaps?). Instead, today's post is all about being crafty. And by 'crafty' I do of course mean the art of making things, rather than the art of wily, crafty ways, a la Machiavelli. Bit of a leap from gnomes to arts and crafts I hear you say, but as gnomes are often ceramic, it made me think of plaster casts and pottery, which in turn lead to arts and crafts (you see? demented but still logical). 

Having outed myself as a closeted baker in one of my early posts, I think it's now time to exit the crafting closet, embroidery in one hand and decoupage glue in the other, proudly declaring my love for all things crafty. Looking back, I can see that I come by my crafty ways honestly. Early exposure to BBC's Blue Peter was reinforced by RTE's own arts and crafts show, hosted by Mary 'Make and Do' as she was known to all of us (apparently her real name is Mary Fitzgerald and the show was called 'How do you do?', though I have no memory of that). Hours and hours of fun projects involving crepe paper, cardboard toilet roll inserts, glue and paint... Resistance was futile. 

As a grown-up, arts and crafts can be fun and you can produce some really fabulous pieces even if you don't have specialist training and an elaborate work-shop. Not all crafts require you to fabricate an object from scratch, so even if you don't have the particular skills or tools needed for the likes of pottery, silver-smithing, woodwork or dress-making, there's always something you can do. Much of what I enjoy in the craft world is essentially embellishment or ornamental work - taking a plain, bland or unloved item and making it pretty (or otherwise livening it up - it doesn't have to be pretty, it can be a mad gothic delight if you so choose). 

Decoupage swan tray

A very simple technique to use if you can't paint or draw a picture to save your life (that would be me) is decoupage. It comes from the French word meaning 'to cut up' and unsurprisingly consists of cutting out bits of paper (from magazines, newspapers, old wallpaper - whatever catches your eye) and gluing them on to whatever it is you'd like to embellish. I decided to do a spot of decoupage on the folder that I use to store torn-out or scribbled down recipes. It was an old, cheap, red plastic ring-binder that upset me with its ugliness every time I took it down from the shelf. The joy of decoupage is that you can make any pattern or design that you like, very easily. Simply cut and glue (that really is all there is to it), then in the case of my folder, I simply covered it with clear plastic sticky sheets. Alternatively, you could jazz up an old wooden tray by painting it white and getting busy with some cut-outs, before varnishing the finished surface to protect it. The craft world is your oyster, so to speak.

Art Deco Poppy

Embroidery, as I've mentioned before, is another craft that I turn to every so often and there are any number and variety of needlepoint kits out there, from the twee kitten ones to heavy-metal band logos (Seriously). I've framed two of the larger embroidery pieces that I've completed, but as it seems a tad 'Cat Lady' to cover the walls of my apartment in embroidered images (it would be very easy to find yourself slipping down that particular road), this begs the question: what does one do with the finished pieces, accumulated over years of embroidering? Generally I just put them away somewhere and forget about them, since for me the joy is in the process rather than in the display of the finished product. I did, however, come across an embroidered poppy bookmark last year, safely stashed away in a book on Classical art (a heavy tome of a book, so I presume I put it there to press it). It was quite a stylised image, reminiscent of Art Deco designs, and it inspired me to decorate a big, grey velvet lounging cushion (sourced from Ikea) to give to my sister for her birthday. A few scraps of material, some pretty gold ribbon and lots of tiny stitches later, No.1 Sister now has a comfy Art Deco-style cushion to prop her up as she drinks her coffee on a Sunday morning.

The birthday cushion

So from decorative pieces to hang on your wall to gifts for loved ones - arts and crafts are the way forward. Indeed, there's an awful lot to be said for the therapeutic nature of craft and the satisfaction to be gained from creativity. Just one note of caution though - dip your toe into this crafty world and you can suddenly find yourself diving head first into the deep end. One day you're embroidering a small scene of lavender fields and the next you wake up to discover that you've crossed no-man's land and entered enemy territory - there are framed embroidery pictures on every wall, lace doilies on the tables, knitted cushion covers on the sofa, crochet dolls covering the toilet roll in the bathroom and an extended family of ceramic gnomes inhabiting your garden. So if you're thinking of taking up a craft, go for it - I can highly recommend it and if you're not quite sure where to start, there's inspiration to be found all around you. Just don't stray into gnome-man's land. It's a scary place of no return. You have been warned.

O.C.D.

A relaxing Sunday with no plans and no chores. Now doesn't that sound simply wonderful? I had a good start, walking along the sea-shore to the shops to get the Sunday papers (the sun was shining and the sky was mostly blue - a glorious morning), but ever the restless spirit, I soon gave in to the need to be doing something. Whenever my need to take it easy is fighting the good fight against my desire to be busy (insufficient chill time leads me sadly but surely down the road to relapse and illness), I try desperately to tune in to the clamour of voices in my head (which would be all of my family screeching at me to for god's sake just relax!). In this instance, the devil on my shoulder won the battle and off I went to make brownies (they were baking in the oven as I started to write this and boy did they smell good). In my own defence, brownies are both speedy and easy to make, which means I haven't really broken my do-nothing vow... I swear! Besides, since I find baking so therapeutic and relaxing, I'm really doing myself a favour (I can be quite persuasive with myself when I want to be).

Brownies in the making...

So let's talk brownie. They have to be dense, fudgy and moist, rather than light, airy and cake-like. This means none of the usual faffing about with creaming methods, whisking eggs or raising agents, and it's what makes them perfect as a starter recipe for the novice baker. Yes, you have to melt chocolate, which some people find terrifying (though some recipes contain cocoa instead - easier and less expensive but not as luxurious as the melted chocolate version). The method is fool-proof: simply melt chocolate and butter together (there is much less chance of your chocolate seizing or burning if you melt it with butter, so fear not), add sugar, eggs and vanilla extract and mix until incorporated, then stir in the flour. Job done. To this basic chocolate brownie recipe (see below) you can then go wild - add nuts, dried fruit, chocolate chips or salted caramel. Whatever your little heart desires, there's probably already a recipe out there (even if you don't have my library of baking books, Google is your friend here), but if you're confident enough, feel free to strike out on your own. The joy of baking for your own pleasure is that if it goes wrong, it doesn't really matter. You'll know what to do or what not to do the next time. 
  

The icing on the cake...

I often feel that the basic chocolate brownie - no matter how deliciously chocolatey or perfectly baked it is - needs improvement. I'm not sure what it is about it - the sameness of texture and flavour perhaps? Whatever it is, I feel it's crying out for a make-over. It's the ultimate fixer-upper of a cake; a dense chocolate slab that can take a multitude of different flavours and textures. That's why the idea of chocolate icing to go on top of an already rich, decadent brownie really appealed to me. Not a new idea by any means and I currently have two go-to recipes for something similar, but the icing described by No.2 Sister recently was a fresh take on it. 

The icing recipe comes from the kitchen of young Donal Skehan and is, apparently, the very one that No.2 Sister enjoyed on the fabulous brownie. I managed to track it down on his blog (she says, like it was a marathon search - it actually popped up on first google). It's essentially a chocolate cream cheese frosting and folks, it is a winner (recipe below). The result is an unusually light, very luxurious frosting. It has the consistency of softly whipped double cream, but is even silkier in texture. It's immensely chocolatey but not overly rich and the slight tang of the cream cheese contrasts with the dense chocolate brownie beautifully (and the combination of icing and brownie tastes for all the world like the best chocolate cheesecake ever). It hasn't quite nudged the salted caramel and peanut brownie off first place, but I don't have the heart to relegate it to second place either. We might just have a draw in the perfect brownie stakes. 

Reflecting on the compulsion I've felt over the last two weeks to make these brownies has given me pause. I'm quite busy, very tired and don't have a marvellous appetite just now and yet I absolutely had to make these brownies. Is it normal to be so obsessed with cake and cake-making? I've even been reading a book on the history of cakes (fascinating by the way). There's no way round it - I believe I'm suffering from Obsessive Cake Disorder and, Lord save me, I'm so far gone that I don't even want to be cured... 

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?