Lemon Cotswold

Leafing through an old cookbook, a recipe catches my eye.  Or, more accurately, the name attracts me -  Lemon Cotswold.

I love lemons.  I think I love the Cotswolds (http://www.cotswolds.info/) but I can’t be sure, I’ve only been there once. 

This is essentially a lemon cheesecake. Not as evocative a name as Lemon Cotswold, I know.  

Sometimes I find cheesecakes a bit heavy.  This one has a whipped, creamy lemon topping – all light and soufflé-like. 

First point to note: this recipe made a lot of filling.  The recipe said to fill the biscuit lining.  It did not say to pile it high.  There was no photo to guide me.  Unless I was heading for the leaning tower of lemon, (you may want to go there), there was no way I could use the full amount, so I froze the leftovers.  I was happy with the amount I used (see photo) but you could use the entire filling and stack it up high.

Since making this recipe, I spotted a similar one whilst browsing through a cookbook at work (the ones that come in every few weeks for sale at some ridiculously low price when you’ve paid a fortune for it back in its prime).  It had a picture of a lemon cheesecake with the topping piled high on the base.

Second point to note: I swapped the digestive biscuits for ginger nuts.  I’m not being original.  People do this all the time.  Choose your preference.  I just liked the idea of lemon and ginger – kind of reminded me of my soothing herbal tea.  However, ginger nuts being the kind of tooth-breaking biscuits they are, try not to layer them too thick on the base and sides.

Lastly, the recipe stated half a large tin of evaporated milk.  Well, chef, just how big were tins of evaporated milk back then? I figured I’d use half of a normal sized tin of today – that being half of 375ml – work it out, I’m useless at maths.  It seemed to work.

As for the frozen leftover topping – I have no idea how well this will freeze but I feel a Lemon Cotswold Frozen Dessert coming on….

Lemon Cotswold

115g butter, melted                             2 lemons (1 large or two small should suffice)

250g (1 packet) ginger nut biscuits      170g Philadelphia (cream) cheese

(or use digestives)                              230g caster sugar                   

1 lemon jelly                                       ½ of a 375ml tin of evaporated milk (chilled)

6 fl oz water, boiled

Line the bottom of a 20cm cake tin with baking paper.  I normally cut a circle slightly larger than the detachable base.  Place the circle of baking paper over the base before clipping the top on.  That way it sits neatly across the bottom.  Melt the butter and while it is cooling, crush the biscuits (either put them in a plastic bag and bash a rolling pin on top of them or, take the easy route and blitz them in your food processor).  Pour in the melted butter and mix to combine.   Place the biscuit mixture in the cake tin as evenly as possible, bringing the mixture up the side of the tin.

Dissolve the jelly in the hot water and squeeze the lemons.  Cream together the cheese and sugar in a cake mixer with a beater paddle (or by hand with a wooden spoon) until light.   Beat in the jelly and lemon juice.

Whisk the chilled, evaporated milk as stiff as possible and fold it into the cheese mixture.  Fill the biscuit base with as much as you want and chill in the fridge for a few hours or overnight.

The recipe is one of a collection of recipes from The Good Cook’s Guide (1974) – and originally came from the chef at the Tudor Rose in East Horsley.

etcetera...

The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake

Aimee Bender

I’ve tried not to give too much away of the plot.  If in doubt, don’t read.

If you read my last Etcetera you’ll know how much I had anticipated the arrival of this book. But having heard whisperings of it - something a little strange and weird - I hesitantly turned each page.  Something disquieting was happening and I was soon to realize that the quirky title and light-hearted cover design belied the wistful story inside. 

Rose, 9 years old, is given a slice of lemon cake her mother has baked.   That is when she discovers she has a gift – she is able to taste and feel the emotions of the person who made the food.  In her mother’s case, the tastes she feels are ones of upset, distance and hollowness.  My mother’s hands had made the cake … but she was not there, in it.  From then on, eating food becomes a huge burden for Rose and as she ages we follow her journey through her feelings and thoughts about her gift; her relationships with her family; her school girl crush on her brother’s friend; to her awareness and an eventual kind of acceptance. 

Rose is a believable and likeable character.  She shows maturity way beyond her years and in spite of her gift appears to be the only “normal” one in her family.  Her parents and brother are less well drawn.  Perhaps this is intended to highlight their self-absorption and withdrawal from each other. Rose tries to anchor the family together, reassuring her mother and keeping secrets; trying to find a common bond with her father and to connect with her brother.  But in the end Rose must make her own way in life and find a way to live with her gift.

So far so good, but when the novel moves its focus to Rose’s brother, Joseph, it takes off in a different direction, one that I just found weird and not in any way as convincing as the first part of the book. The reason for Joe’s disappearances was confusing (I had to go back and reread it to see if I’d missed something).  It wasn’t satisfactorily explained. From this point, I felt less interested in the outcome and the remainder of the read was perfunctory.

If you ask me whether I liked it, I’ll tell you that I don’t know.  It was not what I expected, for sure. I can only say that it was a beautiful, melancholy read for the most part but overall it left me unfulfilled. The writing was beautiful and Rose’s childhood and teenage experiences were utterly convincing but in the end it was just a little too weird. I would still say read it – many people have loved this book.  I wanted to love it too.  I just didn’t.

A Family in Paris – Stories of food, life and adventure

Jane Paech

And so from kicking leaves to skipping through them, I picked up this book.  A memoir from Australian, Jane Paech, of observations, stories and anecdotes of the joys and maddening frustrations of living in Paris, this book was so enjoyable and amusing.  One of the delights of Paris is discovering what’s in each shop window or around each corner and so it is with this book.  Beautiful design and layout, great photos, easy, intelligent writing and thoughtful inclusions of her favourite places, this book will either make you want to go there or return.  I’m already making my list.

chocolate date crumble slice

My intention was to make brownies.  I figured if I left some lovely morsels for the photography group, I’d be bound to get one decent photo of the slices for my blog.  Came back from book club and the shutters on their cameras had not even blinked.   The chocolate date crumble slices however had gone down a treat.

I changed my mind about the brownies when I remembered these slices.  My first taste was at a friend’s house - Try these, you’ll love them, she said.  And I did.  She knew I would.  I think I had two.  It is good to know that I can restrain myself when I am out.

In many ways they are reminiscent of chocolate fudge brownies, but they are more complex with a damp, dark richness.  The dates add soft-fibre lusciousness.  The chocolate chips add texture, as does the coconut which doesn’t overpower, as it can do.

I love the creamy pale-golden colour of the middle layer as you pour it on to the baked base.  It’s so glossy and glorious.  

And that’s part of the delight of baking and cooking.  It’s not just the end result that gives satisfaction.  Yes, sometimes cooking can be a hassle.  I read somewhere that on any given day at 4pm most women (and let’s face it, it is mainly women who cook dinner) don’t know what they are going to cook for dinner that night.  I am normally one of those women. 

I try to plan meals for the week.  What happens is that I get up in the morning and don’t feel like having the planned dish of the day.  That’s when I know that weekly menu planners will never work for me as I feel, taste and desire food, I don’t just eat it.  It’s spontaneous - what am I in the mood for today?  Living a little bit away from shops, I do have to have some idea of what I’m doing though or the 4pm problem becomes the 6pm nightmare.

So instead of agonizing over what’s for dinner? I prefer my kitchen moments to be something I want to do, choose to do.  When I have the luxury of time to potter, I tend to have the inclination to head for the kitchen.   I am happy and content there.

These slices are dense enough for me to halve the portion size…. yes, I do.  Okay – I have the other half later in the day.  I think I’m supposed to feel virtuous about that?

chocolate date crumble slice

Julie Le Clerc  (A Treasury of New Zealand Baking)

Makes about 18 squares

150g pitted dates, chopped

125ml water

100g caster sugar

150g standard flour

50g desiccated coconut

20g cocoa powder

120g dark brown sugar

200g cold butter, cubed

1 egg

10g standard flour

½ cup chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 180°C (160°C fan-bake).  Line a 17 x 27cm slice tin with baking paper, leaving an overhang on all sides.

Combine the dates, water and half the caster sugar in a saucepan.  Simmer for 5 minutes, until the dates have softened and the sugar has dissolved.  Set aside to cool.

Place the first measure of flour, coconut, cocoa and brown sugar in the bowl of a food processor and pulse to sift.  Add the cubed butter and process until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs.  Reserve 1 cupful of this mixture.  Press the remaining mixture into the base of the prepared tin.

Bake for 20 minutes.  Remove from the oven, leaving the temperature at 180°C.

In a clean bowl, beat the egg and remaining caster sugar until thick and pale.  Fold in the flour, the date mixture and the chocolate chips.  Pour this mixture over the baked crust and scatter the reserved crumb mixture on top.

Bake for a further 50 minutes, or until firm and golden brown.  Cool in the tin, then remove to a board and cut into squares.

The slice will keep for up to 5 days in an airtight container.

tea loaf

I’m all for easy recipes.   Ones where I don’t have to think too much.  Ones where I can just throw it all in and get on with something else.  This Barm Brack (tea loaf) fits the bill nicely. 

And, if you are in a hurry, please scroll straight to the recipe.  I won’t mind.  I know how you feel. 

But for those of you who want to know what Barm Brack is, I’ll tell you what I know so far.  It may not be much, but it may be enough.  I do know that it is good.

As is often the case with older recipes, there is some discrepancy over the origin of the name. But the words yeast and bread and speckled appear regularly.  This is fitting, as Barm Brack is a traditional Irish tea bread, speckled with dried fruit.  Although, to be honest, there is no yeast in this one. 

The loaf was traditionally served at Hallowe’en and, in keeping with a night when superstition was elevated, small charms were hidden in the mixture to foretell the fortunes of those gathered around the table — a wedding ring meant impending marriage, a rag warned of a poor life ahead, a thimble was a sad portent of spinsterhood.   Choose carefully, my friend, and please do not choke.

You have nothing to worry about with this recipe.  No surprises, I promise.

The sultanas and dates can be substituted with dried fruit of your choice.  You may like to add spices and mixed peel.

I have used Earl Grey tea but it works well with regular tea.  The tea plumps up the sultanas and dates giving them their soft texture. 

This recipe was sent to me from my father (a retired chef).  Dad scribbled a note on the recipe (Bill is my Irish partner):

Bill will think he is back in Ireland when he tastes it!!

Barm Brack

350ml (12 fluid oz) hot, strong tea (use 3 teabags)

200g (7oz) soft brown sugar

175g (6oz) sultanas

175g (6oz) dates, chopped

285g (10oz) self-raising flour

1 egg, lightly beaten

Grease and line a 2lb loaf tin.

Put the tea, sugar and dried fruit in a bowl, stir to combine and leave overnight to soak. 

Mix the soaked fruit into the sieved flour, add the beaten egg and mix to combine.  Turn into the loaf tin and cover loosely with tin foil.

Bake in a moderate oven (180°C/350°F) for 1 hour 45 minutes.  Turn off the heat and leave to cool, with foil intact, in the oven.

When cold, cut in thick slices, butter generously and serve with a cup of tea.  But it also tastes good without the butter.

Barm Brack keeps well, but if it ever lasts long enough to become stale, it is very good toasted and buttered.

The loaf also freezes well – although I can’t say for certain, as it has never made it to the freezer in our house.

filling the tartan tins

I suppose it will come as no surprise that I like shortbread.  After all, the biscuit that has graced tartan tins for a very long time did originate in Scotland.

I recall thick wedges of melt-in-the-mouth shortbread, dredged in sugar served at former Edinburgh institution, The Laigh Coffee House.  It was there that I discovered there is no easy way to eat shortbread without leaving a scattering of crumbs and sugar behind. 

More recently, I was fortunate enough to sample the best shortbread I have tasted since leaving Scotland.  Made by my friend’s father, (a Scot) and using only the basic ingredients of flour, butter, sugar and a pinch of salt, Jim’s shortbread was simply wonderful.  Sadly, Jim has passed on.  I have his recipe but I think I will keep it as a memento.  I don’t think I could match his.

For all the variations on shortbread I could have - and there are plenty - I prefer the “authentic” taste of classic shortbread.  A rich, crumbly, buttery finger or petticoat tail.  I love that description of the skirted wedge cut from the flat round of shortbread dough.  And yes, I know that the term may originate from the French petits cotés, (a pointed biscuit), but I am going with the flouncy petticoat version as it’s far more romantic.

That’s not to say I haven’t or wouldn’t try different flavours.  Shortbread is nothing if not versatile.  I’m tempted by shortbread studded with dark chocolate chunks – a millionaire’s chocolate chip cookie?  I’ve made blissful biscuits delicately flavoured with chopped rosemary or lavender.  I’m not averse to adding nuts or seeds.  It’s just that each time I make shortbread I tend to opt for the unadorned.  It’s how I remember it.

There’s versatility in the eating too.  Shortbread crumbled over berries and cream or ice cream, or served whole with custard-based desserts is divine.  Jamie Oliver has a delicious recipe where he sprinkles smashed shortbread over grilled strawberries, Pimm’s and vanilla ice cream, mmm…. bring back summer!  Shortbread is also perfect cut into heart or star shapes, popped in little cellophane bags and tied with pretty ribbons to present as a home-baked gift.

For this recipe, I normally use the rice flour, but as I didn't have any, I used semolina instead.  I like the grittiness it adds.   Cornflour, another substitute, gives it a more melt-in-the-mouth texture.  Some recipes include custard powder as an additional ingredient, which makes for heavenly, sweet and silky biscuits.  Experiment a little and find your own favourite.

shortbread

200g slightly salted butter, softened

½ cup caster sugar

2 cups flour, sifted

¼ cup rice flour, sifted

Preheat oven to 160ºC. Grease and line a 20cm x 30cm baking tin with baking paper.

Cream the butter and sugar until pale and creamy.  Sieve the flours into the mixture and gently work into the mixture.  Do not over-mix.

Press the dough into the baking tin so it is level all over.  Smooth the surface. With a sharp knife, score the dough into fingers (bars) about 3cm x 7cm.  Using the tines of a fork (that’s the pointy bits), prick each finger three times.  You can do this accurately so they all look the same or, like me, you can stab at them rather hastily as you just want to get to the eating part. 

Bake for about 50 minutes or until a sandy brown colour.  If the shortbread is browning too quickly, loosely cover with tin foil.  Remove from the oven and leave in the tin for about 10 minutes.  Re-cut the fingers while hot.  Place on a cake rack to cool.   When cool, dredge with caster sugar, or leave as is. 

the particular happiness of eating lemon cake

Apart from new titles from favourite authors, the appeal of a book to you may be in its cover.  Or perhaps a good review finds you searching out a particular title.  Or a recommendation from a friend.

Lately, I’ve noticed a tendency for quirky book titles.  Titles that make you stop and think I wonder what that is about?  Or perhaps, how on earth did they come by that title?  Something unusual enough to make you pick up the book and leaf through it.

I’m thinking…

 

A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian

The Unbearable Lightness of Scones

The Elegance of the Hedgehog

Started Early, took my Dog

But I’m totally smitten by the title The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, written by Aimee Bender. 

I wonder what could possibly be sad about a lemon cake?  Nothing that a good slice of it with a dollop of Greek yogurt (oh, a marriage made in heaven!) couldn’t cure, I’m sure.  Which brings me to this lovely, luscious lemon cake.  Given to me by a former work colleague, the recipe is originally from someone known only as Ann and featured in the Waikato Times.  Well Ann, thank you.  I have been making this cake since I got the recipe – I think it’s the only lemon cake that I have made in all those years. 

Words of advice from the Waikato Times “don’t mess with the tried and true”.  In other words, follow the recipe as stated – it is a particularly perfect lemon cake.

Some days, I can’t bear to hear the noise of my cake mixer in the kitchen (I suspect there are much quieter ones out there (Kitchen Aid anyone?), but mine has been around a while, and in the quiet stillness of a Saturday morning with all its anticipation of the weekend ahead, I choose to beat the mixture by hand.  If I had to really cream it, you would find me reaching for the cake mixer but it only requires beating the butter and sugar until well combined.  And, if you find the odd male wandering into the kitchen by chance, then handing them the bowl and wooden spoon for a particular male spin on it makes the job a little easier for you.

As for the book, I’m so intrigued I have placed an advance order for the paperback.  I only hope the book is as good as the lemon cake.  If anyone out there has read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts on it (but no plot spoilers for me, please!).

lemon cake

Grated rind of 2 medium to large lemons

140g butter, softened, but not melted

3 eggs (size 7 stated but I use what’s on hand)

1 ½ cups caster sugar

¾ cup self-raising flour

¾ cup plain flour

1/3 cup trim milk

¼ cup lemon juice

¼ cup extra caster sugar

¼ cup lemon juice extra

Pre-heat oven to 190ºC fan-bake.

Lightly grease or spray a 20cm round cake tin and line the bottom with baking paper.

Beat softened butter, caster sugar and rind together by hand in a large bowl with a wooden spoon.  The mixture does not have to be thoroughly creamed, just beaten until very well combined. 

Whisk the eggs together in a bowl, then stir into the mixture.

Sift the self-raising flour and plain flour together and fold in to the mixture.

Blend together the milk and first measure of lemon juice and fold in to combine.

Transfer the mixture to the prepared tin and bake for about 50 minutes until cake is golden and a skewer inserted in the middle of the cake comes out clean.  If the cake is browning too much on top during cooking time, place some tin foil loosely over the top.

While the cake is baking, combine the extra measures of caster sugar and lemon juice.  As soon as the cake is ready and comes out of the oven, pour the extra sugar and lemon juice mixture spoonful by spoonful over the hot cake and allow to cool for 10-15 minutes in the tin.  (You might just want to place a tray or plate under this in case your tin leaks.)

Place on a cake rack to cool completely.

Serve with Greek yogurt or a dollop of cream.

know your onions

I once had a checkout operator at the local supermarket pick up a red onion from my groceries on the conveyor belt and ask me what it was.  I recovered from that Jamie Oliver moment where I was stunned into silence that someone did not recognize a fairly common vegetable, and told her.  She asked what you would do with it.  After that, I picked her checkout every time.  I truly liked her innocence.  It made going to the supermarket a much more rewarding experience.  She never failed to ask me questions about produce I had bought or comment on how much wine I had in my shopping trolley and was I going to drink it all myself. (I wasn’t!)  Sadly, she is not on the checkouts anymore.  I hope it was an educational experience for her.

What’s been an educational experience for me is watching the onion pickers out here in the produce belt. They spend hours from daybreak to sunset  lifting the onions from the earth. Inside the house you can hear the hypnotic clicking sound as the pickers move slowly down the rows, hand clipping the onion tops off. Sometimes, it’s like an art form. The picked and clipped onions are placed on the earth in groups. Gradually a line forms as they are laid out to dry in the sun (this apparently kills the root system at the bottom of each bulb). And finally, there is row upon row of bagged onions waiting to be collected. It’s a beautiful sight - a photo begging to be taken.

I love ...

oven baked red onions and vegetables
sliced raw red onions with cheese in toasted sandwiches
raw red onions in salads – sweet and juicy, adding colour



I tried making onion marmalade for the first time. It turned out fine - a little sweet for me perhaps, but others liked it. Later I saw a recipe on the BBC website. From the photo, it looked like their onions had held their glorious red colour (perhaps they'd just Photo-shopped it?).  I'll try it sometime and let you know...

This one is adapted from a recipe in Fruits of the Earth by Gloria Nicol.

red onion marmalade

1kg (2lb 4oz) red onions, peeled, quartered and then sliced

2 tbsp olive oil

250ml (17fl oz) red wine vinegar

250ml (17fl oz) balsamic vinegar

750g (1lb 10oz) muscovado sugar (or a dark brown sugar)

2 bay leaves

2 tsp salt

ground black pepper

1. Heat the oil in a large stainless steel pan or preserving pan.  Add onions and cook gently for about 20 minutes until soft but not browned.
2. Add all other ingredients and simmer gently for 1-1½ hours until mixture is dark and thick but still juicy, stirring occasionally.
3. Pour the marmalade into hot, sterilized jars and seal.

Tip
I wash the jars in hot soapy water, then rinse. While still wet, I place them in the microwave for 1 minute to sterilize. I pour boiling hot water over the lids and any utensils I will be using to spoon the preserve into the jars. I tend to use a mini ladle for this.

I've been having a hard time posting this blog.  The formatting keeps previewing all wrong.  Now, I don't know if this is me or Blogger.  So, if you're looking at it and it looks kind of funny - I've given up and gone to bed!