Caution: Cake demolition in progress

I've been thinking a lot about destruction and its opposite, construction, lately - cake philosophising if you will. Destruction, although a word with mostly negative connotations, is not always a bad thing. In fact, two of my (many) favourite things - archaeology and cakes - have destruction at their very heart. 

Partly reconstructed basilica in Bolonia, Andalucia

When the lay person thinks about archaeology, they don’t automatically jump to ‘destruction’, but one of the first tenets of archaeological fieldwork is that the excavation of a site means its total destruction. Once you have dug a site, it’s gone and, a bit like poor Humpty Dumpty, there’s no putting it back together again. To counteract this necessary destruction, we record and document each little step (‘we call it ‘preservation by record’), so that the site can be ‘virtually’ reconstructed. Sometimes, where there are extensive stone remains, it also allows the partial reconstruction of a site (as you might see at excavations of a Roman town, for example) - giving us tourists something at least half-way recognisable to look at. Why excavate at all? I hear you ask. Well, sometimes it’s about ‘rescuing’ a site that would otherwise be destroyed (e.g. by erosion) or excavating it in advance of planned construction or as part of a research project. Ultimately it’s about knowledge. We excavate to find answers that are nowhere else to be found. When was the site built? What is it? Who built it? Why? Of course, we don’t always find the answers we’re looking for and there are times when we only find more questions. But without the 'destruction' of the site, there would be no answers at all.

Black Forest Gateau

Naturally, you can't have destruction without first having construction. Two of my friends are in the middle of building projects (one large-scale, one small; both driving them round the bend). As I'm in the process of re-building my blog (bigger, better, shinier - coming to a page near you soon!), I too have had construction on my mind. I have discovered that, much like a real building project, doing a bit of a refurb on my blog is just as slippery time-wise as the real thing. My friend with the small-scale project was told it would take five days to complete. Two weeks later, she's still suffering the hell of builders in the house all day (she works from home), plaster dust in the air and hearing the constant refrain of 'yep, should definitely be done by tomorrow luv'. I naively thought I'd re-name and re-design my blog overnight. Not so. And as I only have myself to blame (no tea-drinking, head-scratching builders to vent my frustrations at) it requires lots of deep breaths and patience - Rome was not built in a day and my new blog won't be either it seems.

Cake demolition

Construction of another kind altogether was involved in the creation of a birthday cake last weekend - there was a request for a Black Forest Gateau for a surprise 50th birthday celebration (a very retro cake and also very male, I often think - men usually request it. Odd fact of the day). So last Saturday morning saw me getting back to the 1970s to construct a towering gateau, with layers of chocolate sponge, cream and cherries (recipe next week). I rarely get to see my cakes once they reach the hungry hoards, but my sister happened to be at the party and sent me a photo of the gateau when it was all but demolished. Seeing the rubble and crumbs on the platter, with one lone slice standing of what was once a proud tower of Black Forest... well, it should have made me sad (all my hard work!), but instead it made me smile. Not just because all reports were that it was 'the best cake ever' (such outbursts always please), but because that is what a cake is for. A well-made, beautifully presented cake has only one real function - to be eaten and enjoyed. It is made for destruction and until it has been destroyed, it can't fulfil its destiny. I think Black Forest met his destiny very well indeed. 

Hijacked by cake

I have a problem. I don't consciously think about cake, but there it always is, hovering just out of sight, ready to skip into view when I'm least expecting it. I haven't had a spare second to even think about baking anything of late and although I intended to spend last weekend working on my new-look, new-name blog, I got sucked into the great black hole that is the archive in my spare room. I took on the task of finishing off an archiving project that had first commenced in 2010. The last of the boxes are finally available to be processed for the national archaeological archive and I was offered the job. I took it on in my spare time and took the dusty boxes into my spare room (why oh why?!). Weeks of procrastination later, the musty smell and dust motes creeping out from the beneath the closed doorway forced me to take action. Before I knew it, much of the weekend had disappeared and I was coated in a layer of decades old dust and dirt (archaeological field sheets, notes and plans get written or drawn up on site and are frequently - and sometimes liberally - coated with dried mud). 

So, no time or thought for baking, but I did manage to make a fresh batch of granola - a necessary occupation as I had run out the previous week. Making your own granola might seem a luxury if you're pressed for time or in fact, might be something you've never even considered, but home-made granola is something I will nearly always have in the cupboard. It's yummy (most importantly), nutritious and as healthy as you want to make it. This particular recipe is so delicious that No.1 Sister had to stop making it - her husband would just eat it by the (large) handful every time he passed the dresser where the tub was stored and it would be gone in a flash. Nothing at all wrong with eating it just like that (I sometimes bring a bag of it in the car so I can), but I tend to have it with berries and yoghurt for breakfast or sprinkled on top of porridge (highly recommended). It's also good with rhubarb or stewed apple and custard or you could convert it into a crumble topping if you need a quick dessert. 

Home-made Granola

The original recipe was printed in Nigella's Feast, but I don't think I've ever used even half the amount of sweeteners as are in the original. I usually reduce the amount (or even eliminate altogether) some of the sugar / syrup / honey and increase the amount of stewed apple / apple compote. Making your own means you can also use whatever nuts, seeds and dried fruit takes your fancy. For me, no nasty raisins (I don't like them in granola any more than in muesli and my views on that were made very clear in an earlier post), but I do add extra seeds and coconut, either regular desiccated or the big flakes you get in the health food shop. There's ginger and cinnamon, lots of tasty oats and all you have to do is mix it all up together and bake in the oven, giving it a quick shovel every 10 mins or so, to make sure it bakes evenly into crunchy clusters and crispy flakes.

Anyhow, granola recipes aside (find it below if you'd like to try it), there I was, dusty and tired with not a thought of cake or baking in my head. At least that's how it was until I sat down on Sunday evening, watching TV, safe (I presumed) from distraction. My mind had other ideas. It was mulling over the day's activities, tripping past excavation licence numbers, mucky field notebooks and archiving and landing straight on granola. I can't be too sure, but I imagine the thought process went something like this: 

"Granola... Hmmmm, toasty oats... Ooooh, you know, if you added even more apple sauce and squished the wetter mix into the tin to bake, it would make lovely granola bars, just like flapjacks... Oooh, remember flapjacks? You used to love flapjacks. God, it's been years since you made flapjacks. Yum. Didn't you see a recipe for chocolate flapjacks somewhere...?"

Dangerously good chocolate flapjacks

Before I quite knew what I was doing, I was out of the armchair, kneeling on the floor in front of the bookcase and thumbing through the pages of the Green&Black's chocolate cookbook, where I did indeed find a recipe for chocolate flapjacks (with cocoa in them rather than chocolate on them). They looked so delicious in the picture and the recipe seemed like a winner, so here we are. In a week when I had no intention of making anything even resembling a cake, I found myself compelled to rustle up a tray of chocolate flapjacks. 

Happily, flapjack-making is uncomplicated, fast and so alarmingly simple to do, that I couldn't recall why I ever stopped. For such little effort, the rewards are great. The basic recipe is butter, oats, sugar and golden syrup and all that's involved is melt, stir and bake. My only caveat is that you really should use quality ingredients (as in all simple recipes, with so few ingredients, there's nowhere to hide). This is no place for butter substitutes and sub-standard cocoa - the flavour of the finished product would be the worse for it. Similarly, the use of brown and muscovado sugar in the chocolate flapjack recipe (see below) helps to reduce the tooth-aching sweetness of the traditional flapjack and also gives a lovely caramelly note - so don't resort to white sugar, caster or otherwise.

A stack of chocolate flapjacks

My only word of caution in relation to this recipe is that you might want to make a smaller amount - unless you're baking for a school cake sale or feeding a family of ten that is. I'm doing neither of those things and yet somehow didn't think to reduce the recipe to a 'trial bake' size. Unlike the granola recipe, there's no pretending that this one is at all healthy, though you could put a shout out for the nutritious oats (B vitamins!!). Ahem. I will hold my hands up and tell you straight out - the amount of sugar and butter was enough to give me pause. Granted I made the full quantity, making it seem even more decadent. So be prepared and don't let that stop you (just make sure you don't consume the entire lot yourself) because these little chocolatey oat-filled, buttery flapjacks are outstanding. Magnificently, spectacularly good. These are the champions of the tray-bake world. 

I now have a big box full of incredibly delicious, gloriously rich and more-ish chocolate flapjacks. All for me. Just look where being hijacked by cake thoughts gets you. I think I'll be bringing them with me tomorrow when I'm heading back into the office and I'll definitely be serving some up to my sister and hubby when they pop in on Saturday. They do say a problem halved is a problem shared. 

A few of my favourite things

Such beauty! Ballymaloe House
(photo from the official website)

For Julie Andrews, it was raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens, and it was a visit to East Cork last weekend that made me think about some of my own favourite things. Many of them, happily, were tied up in the very pretty package that is Ballymaloe House, my destination for the day and a Mecca for Irish foodie pilgrims. There was the Georgian house itself, its symmetrical facade adorned with lilac wisteria in full bloom. The picturesque restored stone outbuildings and grain-store around the courtyard. The stately old trees standing solidly in the grounds, with the wind whipping around them and rippling across the fields of wheat. There was the small but perfectly formed cafe, serving simple, delicious food and fragrant coffee roasted on site, and a shop full of every wonderful frippery you can imagine. It's a place where every detail has been thought through and it appeals to all the senses. It's clear that there is a passion for doing things right, a passion for food and a passion for the landscape and our architectural heritage (it had me at 'doing things right', perfectionist that I am). Be still my beating heart. Reader, I think I'm in love.
 

Pretty!

 What was I doing down in Ballymaloe? I was there to attend a blogging workshop at the Cookery School and as I haven't been feeling too well lately, No.1 Sister had kindly offered her services as chauffeur. Not that it was an entirely selfless act (albeit greatly appreciated); she was like a child en route to Disneyland. The prospect of visiting Ballymaloe, nipping off to wander the market at Middleton and then returning to join me for a lunch in the fabulous cafe, was nearly too much for her. The lovely folk at the Cookery School welcomed us both with coffee and cake (first thing in the morning, but who's arguing?), even though No.1 Sister wasn't even attending the course. They also gave her a free pass to meander through the gardens when I went into the workshop. So while I was listening to the inspiring Lucy Pearce speak, No.1 Sister was frolicking about the raised vegetable beds, saying hello to the pigs in their pen and the Jersey cows in the field, and just generally getting her fill of the bucolic scene before heading back to Middleton Market. 

Delightful!

We enjoyed a browse around the shops after I had finshed (delightful objects or yummy food everywhere). Notice I said 'shops', plural. A word of caution: there is a shop both at the Cookery School and at the cafe, which is about 4km on down the road at Ballymaloe House - this is exceedingly crafty (wallets beware!) but undoubtedly makes good business sense, since we did indeed make purchases in each. One delicious lunch later (asparagus & ricotta tart for me and a Ruben sandwich for the sis) and we were on the road back to the Big Smoke. 

Coconut cupcakes

Arriving in Dublin later that afternoon, weary but contented, we got to enjoy the fruits of my labours the previous evening - cupcakes left over from an order for one of my regular customers - and I got to round off an already lovely day with another of my favourite things: a coconut cupcake with cream cheese frosting sprinkled with yet more dessicated coconut (I use the Barefoot Contessa recipe, which I can highly recommend, with the caveat that it makes a few more than stated - though how can that be bad? ;) ). 

What did I learn from a day playing hooky from my normal Dublin life? Lucy asked us to think really hard about what we were passionate about and what we're good at. Yes I love cakes and baking, but I also love (in no particular order):

• 'old stuff' (archaeological sites and crumbling ruins, atmospheric old houses, vintage fashion, antique crockery and furniture) - basically if it has history, I'm in; 
• books (I'll try any genre once and have devoured books for as long as I can read);
• language (how we use it, why we use it, what words mean).

Such non-cake thoughts and ideas frequently creep into my cake blog posts, pushing their way to the front of the queue and shouting for attention. I now realise that I have strayed far from the original premise of a Bake Shop Blog, documenting my life making and selling cakes, and it is time that my blog reflected that. 

So the blog is getting an overhaul and will be re-christened, though the name is as yet undecided (much as I would like to call it 'A few of my favourite things', some dastardly blogger has stolen that one already). There will still be cake at every turn (you just try and stop me) and plenty of baking tips and recipes, but the conversations may wend in and out of other areas as the muse takes me. It will be just like sitting in a warm cafe with your best friends huddled around the table, forks poised over slices of cake, coffee and tea steaming in the cups, chatting about all of your favourite things. I hope you join me there for a cuppa and a slice next week.

Strawberry Fields Forever

If ever there was a sign that Summer is almost here, it's the sight of punnets of fragrant Irish strawberries lining the Supermarket shelves and strawberry stalls by the roadside (and I say 'amost here' because in spite of what I had to learn by rote in Primary School, for me, Summer begins with June rather than May). The availability of different fruit and veg all year round - including strawberries - provides a false sense of 'aren't we lucky?'. There's nothing remotely lucky about the taste (or lack thereof) of strawberries from Spain or elsewhere, outside of the natural growing season in Ireland. They may look the part, but in terms of fragrance and flavour, they reveal themselves to be imposters. Many things in life are worth waiting for (nothing wrong with a bit of delayed gratification) and strawberries in season is one of them. 

On the baking front, strawberries need little help (and even less heat, unless you want to make jam). They benefit from being up-front and au naturel in any recipe worth its salt - strawberries and cream anyone? All you have to do is peruse any baking book and you'll find a variation of one or other of the following recipes: no-bake strawberry cheesecake (with the berries both in and on top), strawberry cake (with the fresh berries as a filling and very occasionally in the sponge itself) and strawberries on a Pavlova or served with meringues and cream. Strawberries, when in season, have a scent and taste that's all their own and need no further embellishment - a juicy, plump red berry popped straight into the mouth is one of life's simple pleasures. 

For some reason, thinking about strawberries dredged up a childhood memory of fancy paper. Now for those of you who didn't grow up in Ireland in the late 70s / early 80s, you might be wondering what on earth I'm talking about, so a quick recap. The basic premise was that young girls would set about collecting 'fancy paper', i.e. pretty stationery. The variety of sizes, shapes, designs and colours were infinite, with some designs produced as sets. Thus, for example, you might have the same design but different colours or perhaps the same character in different poses or situations. Some of the designs were strawberry-related (the Strawberry Shortcake girl) and even strawberry-scented, which probably explains my mind's wanderings. 

It sounds very straightforward, but there was a whole set of rules and a hierarchy among collectors and things could get quite heated indeed. The ultimate goal was to collect as many sheets as possible of different designs and to complete a set if you could - for no other reason than to have them to look at and to show off to everyone else. At the very top of the fancy-paper pile were the lucky (smug) few who had copious amounts of fancy paper, with a wide range and complete sets of especially rare designs or even (gasp) a brand new pad of a particular 'fancy paper' (which they could dole out pityingly, if the mood took them, to the poorer citizens of Fancy Paper Land). In the middle were the majority (me included), who had one or two prized possessions (the fisherboy was one that stands out - he was quite the rarity) in an otherwise mediocre collection (which was none the more precious for its mediocrity). At the bottom were the younger girls who were only beginning their collections and who had to rely on the generosity of others to slowly build it up. We all felt so sorry for the beginners (Imagine having no fancy paper! The horror!!) that each of us would contribute and reluctantly part with a piece or two (usually a least favourite or less valuable piece to be honest, so not that generous really).

Swapping was the principal means of improving your collection: 'I'll give you three small heart-shaped strawberry-scented sheets in pink with a picture of a small girl in a bonnet, for one colour sheet showing the labrador puppy' (some of the puppy collection were damn hard to get your hands on, especially the colour ones - black and white were two-a-penny). We would gather outside on Summer days, on a picnic blanket on the grass, weather permitting (and in my mind, the sun was always shining), or in the dining room of our house, all seated on the carpet. We would spread our fancy paper collections in front of us, prized sheets proudly placed in prominent positions, and commence bargaining and swapping like the sharpest market traders. Given this early introduction to trading, you would think I'd be better at bargaining and the like now, but alas, no such luck. I think it must be a natural born talent - you either have it or you don't (I guess that's why my collection was never top-drawer). 

Eton Mess 

But having digressed way beyond the topic of the day, it's back to strawberries! One of the easiest strawberry desserts to make is also one of the most delicious - Eton Mess (so-called because it is traditionally served at cricket games in Eton College). There are no complex ingredients, just the perfect marriage of strawberries, meringue and cream - the fresh berries and sweet, crunchy meringue provide a wonderful counterpoint to the smooth, cool, rich cream. It's made by crushing meringues (not too small - you want recognisable pieces to give the dish texture) and mixing them with strawberries and whipped cream - and that's it. Simples, as Russian meerkat Aleksandr Olav would say. 

The term 'mess' may well refer to its appearance, as it's not a looker (as you can see in the photo). You could dicky it up by serving it in a pretty stemmed dessert glass, with a few fresh strawberries placed on top for colour, though I had to serve it in a cup due to a lack of crockery (needs must - any port in a storm and all that). The more likely derivation for the word, though, can be found in its older meanings: 'mess' can also be used in the sense of a quantity of food, particularly a prepared dish of soft food or a mixture of ingredients cooked or eaten together. In the 15th century, the word was even used to describe a group of people who eat together (hence the modern military application of 'soldiers' mess' as a place where soldiers gather to cook or eat). 

Whatever its origins and whatever it looks like, this dish is second to none when it comes to foodie pleasures. I made us up an Eton Mess when we were in Kenmare last weekend - words could not do justice to the experience, so all I can say is get yourself some fabulous Irish strawberries, fresh cream and meringue and see for yourself. (Shop-bought meringues will do in this instance, though I would never normally advocate buying them from a shop). It's quick and it's easy and since the strawberry season doesn't last forever, go make a mess.

Baking Mad

Iced Daisy Biscuit

I may have mentioned once or twice that I find baking to be therapeutic, in much the same way as any physical task that fully occupies the mind and hands. I used to do embroidery for this very reason - the detailed work and the focus required prevents my mind from racing in circles around a problem or issue that is stressing me out. A session of yoga, a walk along the beach or a hike in the mountains gets the endorphins rushing in, renders me calm and creates a sense of well-being, but sometimes energy levels, poor time management, or the lack of opportunity means I can't do any of these things. 

A crackle of honeycomb

As someone who finds true meditation a near impossible task (all the more reason to keep trying no doubt), I seek a meditative state through the kind of precision, detailed work that would drive most people insane - the repetitive needlework for an embroidery piece, moving tiny stitch by tiny stitch, or piping delicate lace or bead work in royal icing onto a cake or biscuit. Both require a steady hand, patience, a calm focus and a willingness to take one small step at a time. It can only be achieved by keeping your mind in the present and not allowing the size of the task to overwhelm you. In a more general sense, baking requires a similar presence of mind, for as soon as you allow other thoughts in, you can find yourself making mistakes (which also happens if I'm baking whilst very tired, a lesson I never seem to learn!). 

Chocolate Biscuit Cake,
set and ready for action

As I had started out Easter week full of rage (for reasons I won't bore you with here), energy sources sadly depleted and a mountain of baking ahead of me, I had neither the time nor the requisite oomph for a session of yoga or a nice long walk. Given the levels of rage and frustration, all of the baking I had to do was probably very well timed indeed (I don't think even the Dammit Doll could have withstood a session with me). There were orders to fill for Easter, a promised birthday treat to make for my niece and a wedding cake and biscuits to create the following week. 

I love Jammie Dodgers

By the time Good Friday dawned, I had rolled and cut biscuit dough, iced little Easter bunnies, lambs, chicks and eggs, stirred fudge into submission and made enough chocolate fudge cakes that the whole apartment was scented with vanilla, chocolate and the aroma of freshly baked cakes. Although exhausted, I arrived safely at the Easter weekend feeling markedly more calm and content (and quite possibly with a dusting of cocoa powder and icing sugar still coating my hair). Refreshed by some Coffee & Walnut Cake (thank you kindly No.1 Sister) and a glass of Prosecco, I was ready and able to face the challenge of a three-tier wedding cake without complete melt-down.

...and all is well with the world again.

Maybe this could be the start of something big - the newest in a very long line of self-help books (well, why not?). If you can't afford a therapist or anger management course and a good bout of physical activity hasn't done the trick, might I recommend some baking? You can even adjust the type of baking therapy to your particular issue. Serious rage would require lengthy, vigorous kneading and pounding of bread dough. Mild frustration could be handled with a spot of biscuit dough rolling and the methodical cutting-out of shapes (roll and repeat until all of the dough is used up, the delicious biscuits are baked and your frustration is gone). A busy, frantic mind can be calmed by icing beautiful (or otherwise) decorations on biscuits or cakes. Need to acquire a focused mind quickly? Get out your digital thermometer and make some honeycomb - it happens fast and furious, so you have to concentrate, but is oh so very satisfying once you add the bicarb and watch it bubble! 

And if all that fails and you just want something sweet to feed the demon inside, no baking required, then melt and stir-up a deluxe chocolate biscuit cake (recipe below) - satisfaction guaranteed. If it worked for me, it can work for anyone - from Incredible Hulk (all green, furious and rage-y) to mild-mannered baker / archaeologist once more. And it was all thanks to baking. 

Old Friends

Today's post is a nod to friends, old and new. As someone who has suffered with a chronic illness for the last four years, I am keenly aware that in the friendship stakes, I have lucked out. It takes a very good friendship to survive the constant battering of cancelled arrangements, early exits and the need for emotional support. Some friends I see less of, others have drifted away, and I have culled that pool of acquaintances or not-so-close friends that I used to see socially. But my close friends still circle around me, full of sympathy for my plight when it gets bad, with fun and laughter to cheer me up, and keeping my seat at the table for when times are good.  

I was reminded of this when I met up with two good friends last Saturday. I hadn't seen them for an age, so we met for lots of chat and lunch in the lovely Fallon and Byrne. One of the girls had been browsing the foodie aisles downstairs beforehand and had purchased a chocolate spread. Now in case you're thinking Nutella (yum), I have to tell you that would be like comparing my car (a solid and reliable Toyota) with a Porsche (which I can only imagine is a much more exciting drive). This is no mere chocolate spread people. Expensive, yes, but what's life without its little luxuries? I always have a jar of chocolate hazelnut spread on the go (Nutella or otherwise), so when Aoife snuck the jar out of the brown paper bag at the dining table, a big smile on her face, I was intrigued. A small jar, with a classy label, full of the most delicious looking chocolate spread imaginable. To top it all off, it hailed from Aix-en-Provence, where I once spent a wonderful six months doing research for my PhD. Memories of lavender fields, hot sun and azure blue skies, all bound up in one little jar of chocolate spread. 


Since today's theme is friendship (and chocolate I guess - it just snuck in there), I have to mention the irresistible pairing of coffee and chocolate - BFFs of the culinary world. Even if you don't like to drink coffee alongside a chocolate nibble of some description (to which I say, are you mad?), there should still be a place in your world for this pair. The addition of coffee to a chocolate cake or dessert can take it from ordinary to sublime. It does something to make the chocolate taste more chocolaty, without turning it into a mocha - you shouldn't add so much that people know it's there, just enough that it intensifies the chocolate experience. For that reason, my all time favourite chocolate fudge cake has coffee in both the sponge and the icing. It's originally Nigella's choc fudge cake recipe, to which I add three tablespoons of strong coffee to the cake mixture and one to the icing (recipe link here - if you're going to make any cake for Easter, make it this one, as it's both easy and addictively good). Similarly, I will add a hint of coffee to chocolate brownies, mousse or any other type of chocolate cake. And to take a step away from the sweet trolley for a moment - most unlike me I know - adding a few squares of chocolate (74% cocoa solids or higher) to a chilli con carne that has been made using strong coffee as the stock liquid, makes the most more-ish chilli you've ever tasted.

But back to my chocolate spread (I can't bear to leave it). As soon as our lunch was over, I abandoned the girls to make their way home and headed straight for the condiment aisle. I did manage to resist the temptation to purchase not just this, but also the dark chocolate version (Oh God!) and a salted caramel spread (Lord save me!). One day, I have promised myself, I will make my own chocolate spread - just for the sheer joy of it - but in the meantime, I do believe this will do. I have died and gone to chocolate heaven. It tastes like the most luscious praline-filled chocolate, but in spreadable form. As you can see from the photo, I couldn't wait until I had something to put it on (or for that matter a spoon), instead I just dove straight in... resistance was futile in this instance. My next free time is this Friday (just me, the armchair and some trashy TV). I'm planning to sit with my feet up, a slice of fresh, crusty bread liberally coated with the chocolate spread and cup of coffee in hand. Bring it on!

Jill of all trades...

I am self-aware enough to acknowledge that there are certain things that I am just terrible at. I know, for example, that I have no natural inclination towards the sciences or maths (unlike my sisters). Nor will I ever excel at anything sporty. But that's OK. This is not an exercise in me-bashing. I'm equally aware of what I am particularly good at, which usually (though not always) coincides with what I am most interested in - namely baking cakes, dealing with the past (history and archaeology - not incredibly useful in daily life unless you're an archaeologist, it has to be said) and all things linguistic (languages, books, writing).

But scattered all along the middle of the road are the many, many things that I'm OK at - I'm happy to have a go simply because I enjoy them, safe in the knowledge that I don't have to master them to perfection (Jill of all trades, master of none?). And as they're not something I have to do well in order to make a living out of them, perform to an audience or ace in an exam, I can remain content in my mediocrity. So I can sing somewhat tunefully along to my favourite songs (I will confess that, although my music tastes are broad, I have a penchant for a Country and Western ballad to sing along to - take it away Dolly!). I can make a half-decent curry for dinner (and no, I don't roast and grind my own spices). I can benefit from my years of yoga practice without ever beating myself up for not managing a headstand unaided or full lotus position. I'm also pretty handy with a paint-brush, though other feats of DIY require a handyman. 

Maltana

This is all by way of an introduction to my recipe for my malted raisin yeast bread. I will confess straight up that I am no Master Bread Baker. I love good bread, but generally wouldn't ever get a yearning for it in the same way that I would for cake, and I don't tend to eat a huge amount of it. So while I have spent years mastering the baking of cakes, biscuits and other sweet treats, yeast bread is a relatively new endeavour. I probably would have left well enough alone had my sister not bought a bread machine a few years ago. Her success led to us buying one for our Dad (already a champion soda bread maker). More than any other bread from the machines (all of which is pretty fabulous by the way), the Maltana made me want to try my hand at bread-making. Yes, you can still buy lovely Maltana in the shops, but it's nice to make it yourself and know exactly what's in it. 

Now my kitchen is small and counter space is tight, so there was no way I'd be investing in a bread machine myself. Armed with the recipe from the bread-machine book, I began the first of what would be many trials. The recipe as it stood turned out OK but was a bit dense (what works in the controlled environment of a bread-machine doesn't necessarily do the same outside). I upped the yeast quotient for the next loaf and added some treacle for colour, but still wasn't happy - too heavy. After a bit of research, I realised one of my fundamental errors was adding the raisins in at the start of the process, instead of kneading them in after the first prove (yes indeed, research first would have been a great idea). Third trial involved a whole new recipe (by Delia), which oddly required no kneading (should have trusted my instincts there) and contained a lot more treacle - this one was funny in texture and had a burnt after-taste from too much treacle (third time was not the charm). 

Finally, a variation on the original recipe worked a treat, with the addition of some melted butter, a touch of mixed spice for flavour, milk instead of water (for a softer crumb), and making sure the dough was wetter than usual and the raisins pre-soaked (to stop them sucking the moisture from the dough). And if you’re feeling a bit lazy like I was, instead of kneading in the raisins, simply roll the dough out flat, press on the raisins and roll the dough up tightly before placing in the tin. This has the added advantage of looking a bit like a pain au raisin, which fools the eye into thinking you’re being bold, when really you’re not.

I'm sure the formidable Paul Hollywood would toss it aside dismissively as an imperfect loaf of bread. And he would be right - it wasn't perfect, but it was pretty damn good and no doubt it will get better with practice. So if, like me, you're no Master Bread-Maker, don't worry about it. Give it a go anyway (I've put the recipe below). There's nothing like the smell of bread baking in the house and the sight of a loaf warm from the oven, cooling on the rack. If at first you don't succeed, try and try again (they do say practice makes perfect, so I live in hope). Or if you're not as tenacious (stubborn) as I am, do as my sister would tell you - buy a bread-machine.

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.