Bitterballen - a taste of the Holland and a fond farewell

I seem curiously connected with Holland. My daughter has a Dutch grandfather and surname to boot. My brother married a girl from a Dutch-Tasmanian family (though they later divorced). My boss of 5 years is married to a Dutchman. Yet I have never been to Holland - a fact I intend to remedy in the next year or two.

My daughter loves visiting Holland to see her grandparents, and had a particularly wonderful time back when the Icelandic Volcano ash caused her to be stranded there for the best part of a month. Her aunts and cousins made her very welcome, as she and her Step-mum, dad and little sister room-hopped the month away. She discovered Dutch food, how the Indonesian connection touched the Dutch palate, and waxes lyrical about stroopwafels and Nasi Goreng. She is also keen on her grandfathers and fathers fondness for smoked eel. I'm guessing the schnapps they quaff makes it slightly more palatable but this not what persuaded her. What she loved the most though, on her last trip, were Bitterballen.

Literally 'bitter balls'. This doesn't mean they taste bitter - rather, they traditionally are served as a snack with the Dutch aperitif Jenever. The daughter, however, merely ate them as a snack. She has begged and begged me to make them, but as I have never tried them, I didn't really know what I was doing. However, I am not one to be deterred by something as minor as never having tried them, so I started to trawl the interwebs, and this is what I came up with.

Essentially, you make a thick roux, as you do with other types of European croquettes; in this instance I made it with beef stock, and a dash of cream but traditionally it's a beef ragout. I also mixed in some cooked mince, and a small amount of Red Leicester cheese - not authentic, and you can't actually discern the cheese, but bloody good nonetheless - it adds a depth. Savoury is the watchword here - spices used were nutmeg, white pepper and celery salt. This is about deep brown flavours! Mix the meat into the roux and allow to set in the fridge overnight. You will then be rolling them into walnut sized balls, anointing them with egg, ensconsing them in breadcrumbs and frying them until golden and crispy. Before serving, allow to cool slightly or else you will take the roof of your mouth off. The combination of hot crispy coating and smooth, luscious, deeply savoury and slightly runny centre is second to none. They know what they are doing, them Dutchies! The daughter tells me that if you roll them into sausages, not balls, they become kroketten! So two recipes for the price of one!

Daughter tells me they are meatier than the Dutch creation, and that this is no bad thing. I may not have got it spot on, but they were pretty damned tasty anyway! I recommend eating them with salad, and some lovely sweet mustard from the Netherlands, Sweden or Germany, as we did. Make more than you need, too - they freeze brilliantly!

Update: I found this unfinished post from 2012 after digging around in my digital bottom drawer and realised I never published it. Earlier this year, I finally visited Holland. It was not the occasion I had wanted to visit for. My daughters grandfather passed away. 

I found myself spending a week grappling with the passport office and my local MPs office trying to make sure my daughter could say goodbye. Her grandfather was a very special man. Despite the fact my daughters father and I had long since parted ways, her grandfather made sure to call every birthday or special occasion, not just for my daughter, but for me too. He often spoke to my mother, and always remembered to give his regards to my brother and his family. 

At the end of last year, we heard he'd had a few falls. His wife of many years - the only 'grandmother' my daughter and her stepsister on her fathers side, took ill and passed away. Her grandfather said he no longer wanted to go on without her. Sure enough, not two months later, he died. He got to see his son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren one last time, and his son had seen him the day he went. As is typical of such a stoic man who'd survived years in a Japanese POW camp and has rarely mentioned this hardship, he chose a time to go when he was least likely to cause upset, and took his final breath when he was by himself. He'd passed on his story to my daughter shortly before his death and had asked her to remember it, and share it. 

My aunt, my late fathers sister, had died the same week, and I was due to attend her funeral with my mother. I felt torn. I'd not spoken to my aunt since my fathers funeral several years before - not maliciously, things had just...drifted, I guess. My Mum needed me to support her, but my daughter also needed me. It was a wretched situation.

In the end, I did what most parents would do and decided to support my child knowing that my Aunt, who has five children of her own, would understand as a mother.

Going to attend the funeral of the father of my ex was a difficult thing to do. But they had come to my Dads funeral, and I felt it was the very least I could do, and I very much wanted to pay my respects.

My daughters father was already in Holland with his cousins (again, it was almost as though his father had planned everything to coincide with his sons visit for everyone's convenience), and we coordinated our flights to land at the same time as my daughters stepmum. We all travelled to the residential home/hotel and I met the cousins and aunts, who I had heard so much about for so many years, and they were lovely. It was an unusual situation to say the least. But my daughters father & stepmother did not make me feel alienated at all. Quite the opposite. I took part as part of the family group. I'm sure primarily to support my daughter, but at what were extremely emotional moments, I was included. In Holland, the family screws the coffin lid on which to me is a very private moment. I made my excuses as the group were led into the chapel of rest, but my daughters father said 'No way. You're coming in.' His wife was equally insistent and I felt deeply moved that, despite the situation, we all came together as a family of sorts. After the ceremony, the immediate family were asked to stay behind and say goodbye and again I was included in this group. And although I felt strange, I didn't feel out of place. This was a man who had, despite the distance, been very much a part of my life. He'd made more effort with me and my daughter than my own grandfather had ever done, and that means something. We may have only been bonded by the fact I carried part of his DNA for nine months, but that didn't matter. People say you can't choose your family. This is true. But you can choose the depth of bond you have with that family. Like any relationship, that takes effort. But the rewards are far-reaching. I felt a bond that goes further than just being acquainted. I met people I may never meet again. People who know full well how strange a situation it was for me to be present, but everyone was accepting. We all knew we were there to celebrate the life of an extraordinary man, who has left an indelible mark on the life of so many, including myself and my daughter. I'm so grateful I had the chance to say my goodbyes.

The day before the funeral, I finally got to try bitterballen with my Dutch and Irish 'family' around me.

I can confirm, my version was pretty darn close and I think I've done justice to my daughters Dutch heritage despite the addition of Red Leicester, but I think the genius and success of the Dutch and British Union is a true metaphor for my family.

Selamat jalan, Cris.

Belazu Balsamic Pearls - tangy jewels of deliciousness

Well, again, it's been a while - you have a trip to Barcelona and a major project at work to thank for that - but my rest has been broken in a pleasingly sharp, mouthwatering manner. Those lovely people at Belazu sent me some of their latest creation to try, namely a jar of their balsamic pearls. Yes, you heard me right - little pearls of balsamic vinegar.

Before I get to the pearls, I must first ask whether you have tried their balsamic vinegar? No? Then you have been missing an essential gourmet experience, my friend! I have long been a lover of vinegars to add acetic tang to a meal, right back to when I was a mere lardball-in-waiting at school, when my favourite pack-up would be peanut butter and home-made pickled onion sandwiches on bloomer bread. Before you recoil in horror, try it. You'd be surprised. The sharpness of the vinegar cuts through the cloying peanut butter like a thermic lance through a steel safe. I had a fondness for dipping bread crusts in pickle vinegar, putting beetroot vinegar straight from the jar in my mothers lovingly served stews, and perhaps slightly weirdly, dipping Milky Ways in ketchup. I had a preference for cheap ketchup (which has never quite left) for the tang factor alone.

Needless to say, as I've grown older and educated my palate, my tastes have become more refined. I progressed from harsh malt pickling vinegar to tarragon vinegar, on to sherry vinegar, cabernet vinegar, cider vinegar, black rice vinegar, and of course, the king of vinegars, Balsamic Vinegar, from Modena. I love that balsamic is now such a staple in our cupboards that Waitrose see fit to put it in their 'essentials' range. I've tried many balsamics in my time, but undoubtedly the best vinegar on the shelves today is Belazu Balsamic Vinegar. I have never experienced such a deliciously sweet, unctuous vinegar in my life. If you've tried a balsamic 'glaze' and enjoyed it, you'd be in heaven with this. It has a natural sweetness coupled with a depth of flavour and almost syrupy viscosity that even the best manufactured glaze cannot compare to. It's worth every penny in my book, despite it's higher price tag. Once you've had Belazu, anything else just tastes like a watered-down substitute for a balsamic vinegar. One can see why those chefs with stars are so enamoured of it.

So how exciting, then, that Belazu have taken it upon themselves to take the balsamic journey a step further - by encapsulating this ambrosial fluid into little black pearls of sweetly luscious tang.

Spherification is one of those cheffy things we see on the television programmes that has often seemed a tad out of reach. Something we have to buy a kit for, something a bit gimmicky, something that most hard-pressed, time-starved wage-slaves amongst us are happy to have served up to us in Michelineries, but simply don't have the time to create at home. It also takes a bit of practice to get right, by all accounts. So even if you did fancy a bit of spherifrippery, it's likely to be somewhat hit and miss. Which is part of the genius of Belazu Balsamic Pearls - these little black jewels are visually stunning, taste amazing, but come out of a jar! A JAR! How perfect could it be? (Hint: not much more perfect than that).

The minute I saw these delightful little spheres in knew immediately what I wanted to do with them. I would make a salad of pancetta cubes, fried until crispy and a couple of Burford Browns (care of Clarence Court, natch), which sits atop some toasted ciabatta slices, which has in turn been given a scrub with a garlic clove. This is then topped with some peppery mixed leaves, a chopped, de-seeded red chilli, and some rings of shallot. It is then usually libated with balsamic vinegar. Oil is not needed due to the fried eggs and bacon.

Now, as delicious as it is, the vinegar does have a tendency to run once devouring commences, but I hoped that the pearls would maintain their integrity a little longer, adding to the visual appeal of the dish. I was not wrong! Given the way they yield to pressure between your teeth and burst with flavour in your mouth, I worried they might collapse upon contact with heat, or salt, or some other suspected slayer of spherification as yet unidentified, but I need not have worried. They are curiously robust. I've included a picture of the half-eaten plate so you can see exactly how well they maintain their shape throughout the plates 'journey' from plate to belly via gob.

I cannot recommend these little blighters strongly enough. They lend themselves to such a variety of applications, you are only limited by your imagination. The next plan is a strawberry cheesecake, studded with these tiny obsidian jewels. If Belazu Balsamic Vinegar verged on perfect, then Belazu Balsamic Pearls are surely a legend in their own lifetime. Try them - you will not be disappointed. 

Warm salad of pancetta and eggs with balsamic pearls
You will note a lack of salt and pepper in this dish - this is deliberate. The pancetta provides enough salt, and any pepper would, in my opinion, detract from the delicate flavour of the vinegar. But if you feel the need, go ahead!


70g pancetta cubes
2 Burford Brown eggs, fried
1 small shallot
1 small mild red chilli, deseeded and chopped
half ciabatta, or 2 slices of ciabatta from a large loaf, toasted
handful or two of fancy leaves 
a clove of garlic
Belazu Balsamic Pearls
1 tbsp olive oil
6 tbsp vegetable oil

Method:
1) Fry pancetta cubes until crispy. Drain in some kitchen paper to remove excess oil.
2) Toast the ciabatta until some of the edges have caught.
3) Take a clove of garlic and rub the surface of the ciabatta.
4) Place the leaves over the ciabatta
5) Heat the vegetable oil in a frying pan and cook the eggs until the white has set, but the yolks are still runny.
6) Place the cooked eggs, drained of excess oil, on top of the leaves, and scatter over the pancetta, chilli and shallot rings.
7) Scatter over the balsamic pearls
8) Devour, greedily.

Maple Monkey Bread

So it's been a while since I last posted - life has a habit of getting in the way of my virtual musings, however today is one of those bleak British April days when you wonder whether spring has been decommissioned and we are going to skip straight from winter to summer.

There is nothing to do - or rather nothing one feels inclined to do - except watch old films and carb-load. The morning drifts aimlessly into the afternoon, which meanders without purpose into the evening, via copious quantities of tea. Outside, it is dark, dank and one could be forgiven for thinking we have gone back in time to January. In fact, I think this year, January may have been warmer. 

It seems almost inconceivable that not four weeks ago a hosepipe ban came into force, the smell of barbecues hung in the air and I spent entire saturdays pottering in the garden with the spring sunlight glinting on my vampirically pale, sun-starved skin. 

I do remember one distinctly dull day in January when the only thing that was able to radiate some warmth into the house was a burnished and bronzed ring of Monkey Bread baking in the oven. The recipe I used actually makes the bread with proper yeast, flour, butter and for a rich, sweet, bosky resin note, a slurp of Maple Syrup. Many recipes you will find merely advise you to open the can of brioche dough/biscuit dough/bread dough. I have never tried using this method because something in me baulks at buying dough when it is so easy to make. But if you want to try the cheat approach, by all means do. 

Recipes with numerous steps and stages of resting and rising lend themselves well to adding structure to days like today. So for those of you who are feeling in need of some inner warmth, purpose and sweet, soul-nourishing sustenance to accompany the tea and movies, try this!

Maple Monkey Bread (adapted from a recipe on The Pink Whisk)

Ingredients:

500g Strong White Flour
1 tsp Cinnamon
1 1/2 tsp Salt
55g Butter, cold, chopped into dice
2 Eggs, beaten
2 tbsp Maple Syrup
15g Dried Yeast (3 tsp)
175ml Milk (approx)

Sugar coating:
150g Caster Sugar
2 tsp Cinnamon

Sauce:
200g Butter
100g Dark Brown Sugar

2 tbsp Maple Syrup

1. Warm the milk in a small saucepan until it is just warm (blood temperature).
2. Mix 2 tbsp of the warmed milk with the yeast and mix to a smoothish paste. Put to one side.
3. Next, prepare the flour - sift together with the salt and cinnamon into a large bowl.
4. Add the butter cubes and rub in to resemble breadcrumbs.
5. Add eggs, Maple Syrup, yeast and milk paste and enough milk to make a dough (depends on absorbancy of your flour so difficult too be precise).
6. Tip dough onto a lightly floured surface and knead for about 8-10 minutes.
7. Place into an oiled bowl, cover and place somewhere warm to double in size, approx 1.5 hrs.

8. Next, you need to tip it out, knead it again lightly, them chop it into nuggets. The easiest way to do this is to roll it into a sausage and chop it into little pillows, about an inch cubed. don't be too precise or make it too even - it adds to the alure!
9. Once you have all your pieces, pop them into the bowl and scatter the sugar and cinnamon coating over it - make sure it is evenly distributed and each little pillow has a sandy sugary coating.

10. Transfer the doughy pillows to a greased kugelhopf ring. You really do need a ring pan for this to get an even distribution of heat to all the pieces. Let the pieces rise one last time for about an hour.
11. About 20 minutes before you are ready to bake the bread, preheat the oven to 200 degrees centigrade (180 fan). Start the sauce by adding 200g butter to 100g dark brown sugar and Maple Syrup. Melt and stir until the sugar has dissolved.
12. The doughballs should now have doubled in size - pour the hot sauce all over them, then stick them in the oven for about 40 minutes (check after 35).

You might need to make a foil 'lid' to pop over the pan about half way through, to stop them catching.
13. Once 40 mins is up, take out from the oven and allow to cool for a few minutes before attempting to turn out - but don't leave it too long or you will have a job getting it out of the tin. 

I found the easiest way to do this was the plate on top, then flip (you will need oven gloves so take care!).
14. Stand back in admiration at the gorgeous, toffee, chewy, chrunchy, dribbly mass that stands before you. 

The best things about this are that the caramelisation varies between setting to a hard toffee, to pooling into delicious slicks of molten lusciousness; and that it is positively bad form to eat this any other way than for each diner to rip off the scented nuggets of sticky heaven.

Review: Kopi - Your Gourmet Monthly Coffee Delivery

Since New Years Day, I had decided to forego my daily diet of 3 large buckets of Starbucks coffee. The new year would see a new, coffee-free me. Not because I have any issues with caffeine - I still knock back 6 cans of diet coke a day like any good office worker. No, this abstinence was because coffee went far too well with whichever sweet treat I was dining finely upon and my waistline was suffering. Toasted bagel as big as your face, slathered in blackcurrant preserves for breakfast. Chocolate Brownie for elevenses. Oaty biscuits for the afternoon lull. All accompanied by COFFEE! You see my point.
Coffee, and it's accompaniments, was making me fat (ter).

I never make New Years Resolutions. I feel that the very nature of them means you are setting yourself up to fail. Thus it was my coffee abstinence was never to be permanent. Had I known it would be broken in such spectacular fashion, however, I would not have mourned my 'final' cup in 2011 with such abject grief. For, little did I know, I was to be sent a curious idea that would bring me, with a suitably caffeine-infused jolt, to my senses.
Let me introduce you to the world of Kopi.

Kopi is kinda like Graze for caffeine fiends, and they had asked me to sample their product. Each month you get sent a 250g pack of ground coffee, and based on your subscription level (which currently ranges from £7 - £9) you can either cancel immediately, after 6 months, or after a year. So far so good.

Along with your coffee, you get a detailed tasting card giving you notes on the varying coffees they send, along with some guidance on brewing and information about it's provenance. Oh, and a few of those lovely caramelised cafe biscuits you get in restaurants in individual packets. You even get a code that allows you to trace your coffee on www.trackyourcoffee.com.

The website also states Kopi pays its social conscience dues to Fairtrade, Soil Association and Rainforest Alliance initiatives, and clarifies its views on Fairtrade - not all of their coffee is, but they state clearly why. Principally, Fairtrade only certifies co-ops which excludes small growers that Kopi could otherwise not use. They still ensure they pay these smaller growers premium prices for a premium product, and crucially, above the Fairtrade minimum.
This months (I reviewed Decembers coffee) selection, an Arabica coffee and roasted on 6th December according to the pack, was Mexican Terruño Nayarita Reserva, described as 'An indulgent Grand Cru of a Mexican coffee' from the West Coast of Mexico. A rare product, only 20 bags of it having been produced.

So far so interesting. But what of the taste?
One of the things, as a food blogger, I feel I owe to a reader is honesty. I only ever blog what I genuinely think. Whilst its nice Kopi have sent me a lovely pack of coffee if it doesn't ring my bell, I shall darn well say so, or else how do you know when I genuinely love something? I cannot abide it when food bloggers only ever tell you that what they produce, try, review etc is amaaaazing. Not everything I make is amazing, simply because I am human, and I read recipes or try products invented by humans, and as such, we can get things wrong, or we can have different views and opinions on what is nice or good. You need to hear the rough to know that the smooth has value.

Fortunately, I have only good things to report in this case, bar one niggle which I will come to. This coffee is really very, VERY good. I spend at least £7 a day on extremely so-so coffee. If this is all it costs to have something of this quality delivered to my desk for a year, well - I'm blown away. As soon as I smelt the aroma wafting nostrilwards, I knew this was going to be good.

A bright, zingy fruitiness with underlying rich toffee, mocha notes. The guidance card said that there was a delicate orangey sweetness and they weren't wrong. The roast is excellent - not an acrid note in there, and it has a rather pleasing tangy backnote in the aftertaste. It fills your mouth almost like liquid chocolate, it's so velvety. It filled my mouth, anyway - I literally gulped it back. This is sublime stuff. I encourage, nay, urge you to sign up immediately, and then sign up your families, and then your friends. If this first pack is anything to go by, I think Kopi is about to become a phenomenon.
Now, I did mention a niggle. And it is probably being pettish, but I have to tell you when I am not digging a vibe, so, here goes. Kopi - take note! This is easily solved!
The pack, as you can see, is filled to the gunnels, which is lovely of them. You can also see, there are some notches to help you rip open your pack, and a handy press'n'seal strip to seal in the flavour. Except, because of the generosity of the pack, you end up having to use a knife or scissors to open it.

 

And because of the nature of coffee grounds, the press'n'seal strip did not seal. The grounds get into the strip and block it. See what happens in this video (excuse quality - was done on my iPhone).


This is such a shame, because they have quite obviously really tried. However, for me, I think a sticky tab would have been a better solution. Maybe their market research said otherwise, I don't know. But I want to stress this absolutely should not deter you in any way from trying this product. If you are partial to a caffeine blast, then this hits a deep, profound and previously unchartered spot. The whole concept behind this brand is very well thought out. The fact you can trace the coffee, the information on where its grown, the altitude, the grading process, the little graphics, the quality packaging - it all adds to a certain romance and exotic allure. There is even a recipe for spiced mexican coffee! Personally, with a product this refined, I would not want to sully it. But it's a demonstration of how well the company has thought around the whole coffee drinking experience, right down to the little biscuits on the side. But most importantly, the taste is, quite simply, exceptional. Kopi have found my caffeine G-spot and that, my friends, is good enough for me! Go and visit their coffee subscription page immediately!

Website: www.kopi.co.uk
Twitter: @wearekopi

Some fruity kitchen garden ideas for the year ahead

Now is the time I usually turn my mind to my garden planning for the year ahead. The autumn/advent hiatus is over, and the land is at its most dormant, waiting to be woken from its slumber by the warm spring rays of sun. How will I reorganise my beds? What can be consigned to the compost heap? And most exciting, what new things might I try this year? One of the delights of home grown veg is that you get to try things that, ordinarily, are not readily available in the supermarkets. Varieties or species that are just not 'commercial'. I'm no gardening expert, but that doesn't mean I can't broaden my horticultural skillset. So, what to try?
Cast your minds back to last April (2011), when what appeared to be a rather elaborate April Fools day trick was much publicised through the internets and old-school press alike. People were not sure whether to believe that there was an actual strawberry that appeared to be in reverse, or back to front, or inside out, or opposite or whatever. The berry in question was a Pineberry. A strawberry that was white, with little red seeds, and taste of pineapple. Yeah right! Yet there also appeared to be an SEO agency that was also called Pineberry – was this a very clever example of viral marketing, or did the things actually exist?

The somewhat cynical web team I work with was wholeheartedly on the side of it being an April Fool. But in a BBC article, it stated that Pineberries were sold by Waitrose. I thought it odd that a hoax would be so specific, and unless Waitrose was in on it, this started to look promising. So I did no more that call Waitrose at their head office in Bracknell. The lovely chap I spoke to thought I was having a laugh, initially, when I enquired about the nearest Waitrose that stocked them. He did not seem overly well-versed in the berry range that Waitrose offered their customers. Thus when I mentioned our suspicions that this was a hoax, he concurred without much persuasion. But what he then did, and this is why I love the John Lewis Partnership, was to go off and check with his manager. Even though he probably thought his manager was about to laugh her head off at him, he bore no malice and martyred himself on the alter of superior customer service. His manager had obviously read her dispatches that day, for she confirmed that this berry was no hoax. It was real. The hallowed berry was a horticultural truth. The lovely chap confirmed that the nearest stores to me that sold it were some distance from me. I think that was their politically correct way of saying ‘we are only selling it in areas where people fall into the 'right' demographic’.
Thus, I had to suffice with knowing that the Pineberry was an actual berry and not the brainchild of an ad agency, without actually managing to get a taste of it.

However all is not lost! For this year, I am pleased to announce you will be able to purchase your very own supply of white fruits with red-seeded pock-marks. Crocus.co.uk will now be stocking Pineberries on their virtual garden-centre shelves! Which means you won’t have to live in exorbitantly priced, stock-broker belt areas in order to purchase them. Now you too can pretend you are one of the Softfruiteratti. All you will need is a sunny spot, some decent soil, a bed of straw, some organic fertilizer and water. Organic fertillizer because, when it comes to things I eat, the act of dousing my home-grown foodstuffs with chemicals renders them psychologically inedible for fear of the carcinogens that lay within (said the ex-40-a-day-smoker). Even though I don't buy wholly organic at the supermarket. Go figure.
I read the following review in The Guardian which was less than complimentary about these curious fruits, however this has not disuaded me. There are those for whom the aesthetics will be persuasion enough to buy them, and those, like me, who enjoy the novelty factor. I am not persuaded by a one punnet experiment either. I have been waiting a long time to try the little blighters, and will be putting in an order for them immediately!
There are other varieties of white strawberry available, with excellent flavour, and you can purchase seeds for the White Soul variety from Suttons. These have no red on them at all. Right now, it's just about the right time to sew them under glass.

Here are a couple of other ideas for your garden that aren’t quite so run-of-the-mill:

Medlars

From the dimiutive strawberry to the enormous tree. These have started to re-appear in the food-blogs & telly progs over the last year or so. I remember seeing them discussed on QI some time ago, and I do wonder whether this mention got people pondering upon them. The nerd in me wants to look at broadcast dates of the show in question and check medlar sales in comparison, but that would be phenomenally sad. There is something rather pornographic about these fruits, indeed their nickname during the middle ages was ‘open-arses’. If you take a look at the photo you will understand why that name is rather apt. Medlars require ‘bletting’ before they are edible – you will read in varying sources that this means you have to leave them until they are rotten before they can be enjoyed, but I am here to reassure you this is not quite the case. They do not rot in the true sense of the word, i.e. decay - there is no bacterial activity. It’s just their ripening process is rather lengthy and extreme and indeed you could be forgiven for thinking it had gone bad. The texture is a somewhat grainy, reminiscent of pear, applesauce and the taste is like appley booze or boozy sweet apples. Acquired, but worth acquiring.

Mulberries

A fruit immortalised in the famous nursery rhyme, this is a plant that again seems to have fallen from edible favour, possibly since they do not store or travel well. Perhaps it’s because of their association with silkworms that children find them off-putting, I don’t know. However these are also tasty little fruits and come in a variety of colours, from white to deep red and black. The white mulberry (the silkwormy one, native to China and available from Reads ) has white fruits which turn pinkish, so not white in the strictest sense. Happily, no doubt due to our renewed interest in heritage fruits and foraging, Crocus.co.uk is also selling the common black mulberry too. Be warned, though - it will need space and a suitable site. This is a full-sized, albeit magnificent, tree.

Now, if you happen to find yourself with white strawberries and white pineberries, I am envisaging a rather minimalist white pavlova, swathed in snowy, softly billowing whipped cream and scattered with your collection of white fruits, and a frosted bunch of whitecurrants adorning it, with a scattering of glitter for that sparkly touch of the camp. You could guarantee nobody else would be serving it on your dinner party circuit. And that's the joy of growing your own!

Small batch baking: Cherry crumble

Ok, so not strictly baking in the sense of a cake but it satisfied my need to smell butter, sugar and flour caramelising in the oven!
As I have previously bemoaned before on my humble bloglette, baking for one or two, indeed cooking in general for one or two, can be bothersome. Regardless of how expensive it can be to cook large batches that either get wasted or given away, there is also the irritating recipe reduction part. What I mean by this is the time spent prior to actual baking putting my (lamentable) maths skills to good use (or rather my iPhone calculator to good use), and infrequently realising that this recipe is now so diminutive it cannot be mixed in my beloved Kitchenaid. Instead it requires me to break out into a sweat whilst I process my ingredients manually. The ignominy! So it's rather pleasing when one happens upon a recipe quite by chance, and in the habit of all great inventions, it was borne of necessity.

This recipe came about after I had a self-generated glut of cherries in the fridge. I'm a sucker for a plump, shiny, tight-skinned red fruit, and these cherries were looking all appealing and winsome at me in the supermarket. It was physically impossible not to pop them in my basket. However, with a plethora of apples, tangerines, grapes, mangoes and the like already cascading out of my fridge, after a few days I decided these would possibly require cooking into a compote for storage in the freezer until a later date or else they would not get eaten.

I promptly popped all 250g into a pan, along with a tablespoon of caster sugar, a tablespoon of cherry jam (my favourite), a tablespoon of water and a healthy splosh of Chambord (although I was torn between this and my trusty bottle of supercassis).

I warmed it through, dissolving the sugar, and made sure it didn't boil.
Oh good heavens, it was marvellous. As soon as I tasted the ambrosial juices I knew this would never see the inside of the food no-mansland that is my freezer. This was going straight in my tummy, possibly via a scoop of vanilla ice cream. I mean, there wasn't enough for a pie. Or a cheesecake. I couldn't think of anything more imaginative than hot cherries over a blob of Green & Blacks Vanilla.
And then I had the brainwave!
I quickly dug out a couple of mini Pyrex casserole dishes (glorified ramekins) I'd never had use for, and divided the contents of the saucepan between the two. I then grabbed a mixing bowl, and emptied the contents of a sachet of Dorset cereals porridge oats into it, along with 2 dessertspoons of brown sugar, two dessertspoons of plain flour and two dessertspoons of butter. I threw in a half teaspoon of cinnamon, and started rubbing in.

The flour was fairly absorbent so took another couple of teaspoons of butter before I was happy. I didn't want a crumble in the true sense of the word - I wanted something rather more nubbly. So I wet my fingers with some cold water, and started to squeeze the crumble into little rough clumps of flapjackyness. I then scattered my broken sandstone lumpoids over the two casseroles of Cherry compote. Dinner was already in a 170 degree fan oven, so that's what my crumbles went in at. For about 15 - 20 minutes.

Art is not always about straight lines, perfect angles and intent. Sometimes the artist gets the best out of the materials by just watching what happens. By the happy accidents.  
The cherry compote had a lot of liquid. Some would say too much. And the rubbley flapjack crumble left little holes the juice seeped through. But shown the heat of the oven, this seepage turned to glorious toffiness, forming a sticky shell around the knots of oaty crumble. The fruit was deliciously tart against the warmly spiced, sandy, biscuity topping. This was pudding art.

A little scoop of cold vanilla ice cream melted gently into the sauce creating a magenta, cherry-scented custard. It was everything I had hoped it would be. I'd have been happy to consume the other pot the following day, but the teenager devoured it with unashamed gusto, declaring it fabulousness in a dish. I think she might just be right.

One of the joys of small batch baking is the happy fact that you can afford to be a little luxurious. A standard crumble made with just cherries is ludicrously expensive unless you are lucky enough to have a tree. But a crumble made for two allows a little more decadence, and satisfies the small batch baker all at the same time! Huzzah!