Putting the Knife in

The last time I mentioned my toasted-sandwich maker, it was in a post about my kitchen clutter. Yesterday I was putting some steak knives away in the back of a cupboard – they live in a wooden block which  itself is part of the clutter: to be honest we don’t often have steak – and I had to move the said sandwich maker, and the tray bake pan balanced on top of it, to do so. It was then that I discovered an electric juicer.

This particular juicer, which is more battery-powered than electric per se, is not one of those drink-making machines. It will literally juice half a citrus fruit, and is operated by pressing the lid down. The juicer was probably a free gift given away by one of my wife’s catalogues. I don’t think either of us is so silly as to have bought such an item.

The juicer count in the kitchen is thus four (I was about to type three when I recalled the lever-operated device we bought when we tasted real lemonade at a music festival). The other two are a Tupperware version which also has a grater and – if I could only find it – an egg-separator, and a simple wooden one which probably yelled out at me from an artisan craft stall somewhere.

I don’t need four juicers.

The battery version can go – we’re neither of us so crocked with arthritis or bursitis that it would save any effort or pain. The lever-operated version is useful for bulk juicing, and I suppose it has some aesthetic appeal sat on the windowsill. That leaves the Tupperware and the wooden juicers. I think the planet is already damaged by my having four when one or two is sufficient, so it is not a case of choosing recyclable material over non-recyclable.

In the final analysis, the Tupperware juicer has no redeeming features. Its built-in jug feature is of little use, the egg-separator is lost, and the grater itself one of a group of competing kitchen items.

The wooden juicer wins. A kitchen drawer becomes slightly less cramped. Mary Berry’s Cooker Course has struck again, because the steak knives were in use for her Steak with Onion Marmalade, and the juicer(s) for her Lemon Drizzle Traybake, of which more anon.

Cookin'

“I’ve gone back to basics – the classic recipes we all love, cooked simply.” So says Mary Berry in the introduction to one of her latest books (Berry, M (2013), Mary Berry’s Cookery Course, London: Dorling Kindersley Limited).

Since I too have gone back to basics, this is not the place to be churlish about whether “classic” means “recycled”. However, one observation I have about many a book masquerading as a ‘cookery course’ is that they are usually just a selection of recipes with some added ‘how to’ inserts. Mary Berry’s does however go so far as to include a compendium of techniques cross-referenced to the recipes in which they are used. That is better than most, but I am resigned to the idea that working through this book is not like undergoing a course of instruction: it is more about prompts to my learning.

The next few posts in this blog are therefore a sort of ‘learning journal’ in which to reflect on what I have picked up, practised, and pondered. Although I intend to follow every recipe and technique in the book, I don’t want to make soups for a week, become egg-bound the next, and so on. I will skip on to recipes that help vary our family diet and fit with our activities and the actual availability of ingredients: which brings us to Mango Passion.

Mango Passion is a simple pudding, and since our Abel and Cole box contained a mango the week before last, I thought it expedient to use. Unbelievably, it still wasn’t ripe enough: the flesh was quite firm and unblemished and when I cut into it, it wasn’t that deep – the ‘stone’ being quite large and impenetrable. That perhaps is why it didn’t taste of much, and perhaps next time I make such a simple pudding, I’ll use something else.

The fruit layer has a sprinkling of sugar, and the whole pudding is topped off with quite a bit too. I used dark instead of light Muscavado sugar in order to avoid a 24km round trip grocery expedition. It seems to me that Muscavado either doesn’t contain anti-caking agents, or the molasses in it are hygroscopic: either way, the bag was a solid lump. Breaking off the right amount and then using a blender I ended up with something akin to icing sugar. A search on the web indicates the ‘bricking’ is due to a loss of moisture, and that among the remedies are to put a slice of apple of moist bread in the bag for a day or so before use. Another contribution suggested using a grater, which I think more immediately practical.

On the topic of equipment, this pudding would probably look better in a dish that is slightly taller than it is wide. The shallow glass bowls I used made the pudding look a bit ‘lumpy’: simple can also look elegant!

The essence of the recipe is fruit, sugared as necessary, covered in a yoghurt and crème fraîche mix, topped off with brown sugar which absorbs moisture and hence makes the top look like a crème brulée. It can be made hours in advance, refrigerated, and brought back to room temperature before serving.

The Unbearable Squareness of Baking with a Bread Machine

At the moment I’m reading The Bread Book (Lewis, Sara (2004), The Bread Book, London: Index). It contains within it, if not a lie, the misrepresentation that bread machines are useful when pushed for time.

It has just taken me 2½ hours to bake a quick white loaf using a machine, whereas by hand typically it takes just 1½ hours. The actual contact time may be less in the bread machine, but wrestling to remove the finished loaf afterwards soon erases the benefit. Indeed, if you scarcely bother to knead the dough – and some argue it is unnecessary – then there is little benefit whatsoever in using a machine compared to the earlier ready-time of a hand-made loaf.

The crust of a machine-made loaf tends to be quite thicker than the hand-made equivalent. To my taste, such a crust is unpleasantly chewy and rough on the gums.

I believe I may have made my last machine-made loaf. Never say never, however, for the ability to set a bread machine on a timer may one day save my bacon-butty. I won’t always be young enough or well enough to appreciate the idea of getting up a tad earlier to get the oven going!

Sad but True

Related to the Madeira, which is still work in progress, is this Lemon and Thyme cake from the Hummingbird Bakery book Cake Days. Very delicious too, at the edges ...

For I made two errors in baking this, the first of which was having run out of plain flour I used self-raising but still added baking powder. That said, I would have expected it to have collapsed on top rather than in the middle. The second error, evident at the edges of the hole, is that the cake is undercooked ('sad').

Worth another try, if only because the book contains a number of variations on the basic method. It is always worth reading around recipes to see what can be changed as the mood takes you.

M'dear Madeira

A first attempt at Madeira cake using Mary Berry's Baking Bible (BBC, 2009). I don't want this to turn into Julie and Julia, making every recipe in the book and charting it. What I do want to do is to bring together the best of the recipes in the books I own and having decided on the underlying principles, see what I can do next.

Given that this is my first post in a long while, don't hold your breath for the next instalment of this search!

Stock Questions

Dealing with a recent glut of brown onions from the veg box scheme, I decided to make some French Onion Soup. That led me to re-consider the humble chicken stock.

One of the recipes for chicken stock I’ve been using includes in the recipe a stock cube (Knorr, says Nick Nairn in his book ‘Cook School’). That strikes me as oddly like saying that home-brewed beer would be helped by mixing it with Wadworth 6X or similar – you get the idea. So I began to wonder if I could get the same effect by simply making up a Knorr stock cube twice as concentrated as directed. That in itself led me to wonder if I could tell different stock cubes apart.

This is work in progress, but here is an observation. In the Channel4 series ‘ºCookery School’ it was suggested that an ideal level of seasoning equates to 1g salt dissolved in 100ml of water. That’s quite a lot, and not far off tasting of sea-water. I found that a Knorr stock cube (made as directed) tasted much the same, which is to say quite brackish. However, a Kallo organic chicken stock cube was much smoother on the palate: far more pleasing to my taste.

I’m off to make some more of my own stock now, having used the last of it in the onion soup. I’m tempted to make a cube-less version as per Joanna Farrow’s ‘Chef School’: I wonder how it’ll taste compared to the Kallo?

Batterie de Cuisine

I have too many kitchen gadgets: do they get in the way of my cooking?

My food heroes have wide-ranging attitudes to gizmos. Old Scrote professes to need little more than a knife – a table knife will do if sharpened – and a cast-iron casserole to cook everything in. Elizabeth David banned garlic presses and suchlike from her kitchen supplies shop, whereas Delia Smith has only to mention a favourite device for it to sell out in kitchenware stores.

My kitchen is too small for ephemera, but certainly contains things that I’ve either forgotten what they are for, are broken, need more effort to clean than they save, and/or simply cause clutter. Which is for baking, for example: my Roule ’Pat or the near identical Silpat? It is a shame I had to look that up (it’s the Silpat). The dishwasher is broken, but then my hand-operated whisk would probably seize up if put in it, and I’m sure my balloon whisk is just as easy to use anyway. Further, the unit drawers catch on each other because they’re so full of items I scarcely use: surely I don’t need four slices? Finally, when I was making French Onion Soup recently, I struggled to see the caramel film forming on the bottom of a pan because it had black insides: some items simply don’t work at a basic level.

I need to look again at each item and its use, researching if necessary. Anything broken I need to fix; I suspect many things will also benefit from a good clean. It is then time for a cull; I’ve bought a large storage box for the purpose.

What will survive; what will vanish only for me to remember it wistfully at a crucial moment in a recipe; and what - like the toasted-sandwich maker – will I revive more for nostalgia’s sake than gustatory pleasure? And when I know what I’ve got, what it’s for, trust it to work, can reach it easily, and believe it fit for purpose … will I be a better cook?