Archives for July 2016

Pink Currant & Custard Tarts

July 19, 2016

Timing isn’t a strong point. I first made croissants on a bread making course some years ago on one of the only blisteringly hot days on record in the Scottish Borders, and now here I am trying to make fancy custard tarts when the thermometer is tipping 30. Working with butter and soaring temperatures do not go hand in hand, not to mention the slight inconvenience of having the oven on.

Nursing a sporting injury which is currently preventing me from doing all but the most rudimentary exercise it seemed like a good weekend to get some jobs done in the house. When I use the phrase “jobs done in the house” I generally mean “messing about in the kitchen”, and armed with enough jewel like fruit from my pink currant bush to enhance a fancy tart but little else I set to work.

Not every job in the kitchen must be completed in the minimum time. On occasion it’s alright to move at a leisurely pace and enjoy the process. There is a difference between functional cooking and recreational cooking and establishing which frame you are in is important. Something tasty emerges either way but the journey bringing you toward it is infinitely more comfortable.

Talking of comfortable, this morning it isn’t. Even with the bi-fold doors wide open the house is warm and airless. Perfect for making custard..hmm.

I am a big fan of custard but an even bigger fan of those wonderful little Portuguese tarts, Pastel De Nata. But I want shortcrust pastry instead of puff and I am adding a little compote made from the modest harvest of pink currants.

In a pan I put my fruits, there must be 200g or so. I add a little sugar, probably a dessert spoon and a splash of water. I then bring it to a gentle boil on the hob until the fruits break down and begins to reduce. There is a lot of natural pectin in pink currants so its easy to get the quick jam to set a little. When it will coat the back of a spoon I push the fruit through a fine sieve and leave the clear pink jam to cool.

For the custard I break three eggs and put the yolks in a bowl with 120g of caster sugar and beat them in the electric mixer. You can use a hand mixer or, if you are feeling mightily energetic, a whisk. Whichever you choose keep going until the sugar and egg mixture is pale yellow. Then mix in 2 tablespoons of cornflour until you have a thick paste.

In a saucepan heat a mixture of 300ml double cream and 150ml of milk into which you have added half a vanilla pod. When it is just approaching a boil take it off the heat. Add a splash of the hot milk/cream to the egg mixture and whisk like crazy to incorporate. Then add the rest of the milk/cream and whisk again. Put the mixture back in a pan and heat gently until the custard thickens. It will take ten to fifteen minutes depending on the pan. If you have a thermometer you are looking to heat the custard to somewhere around 85 celsius. Don’t overheat it and don’t stop stirring it otherwise you’ll have scrambled egg custard which is not what we want, no no no, not at all. When its thickened take it off the heat and put the pan in a bowl/sink of cold water to stop it heating. Keep stirring until the temperature stabilises. Then cover with cling film or baking paper making sure the covering touches the custard or you’ll have an unpleasant skin form on the top.

To make the pastry measure out 180g of plain flour and 25g of caster sugar into which you add 100g of cold butter cut into small pieces. Rub the butter into the flour with your fingertips until you have a mixture resembling breadcrumbs. You can do this in seconds in the food processor but a bit of gentle rubbing in flour and butter is hugely therapeutic. Put some nice music on, or treat yourself to some silence and just feel the textures on your hands. When its all rubbed in add a scant tablespoon of cold water and mix together with a knife, then push it into a clump with your hands. Clingfilm it and let it rest in the fridge for 30 minutes.

When you come to cut out your pastry make sure you liberally grease your tin or tins. I made six small tarts but you could just make one large one if the fancy takes you.

Line your tin(s) and blind bake for 10 minutes at 180 celsius (Gas Mark 4). If you don’t have any baking beans use dried beans. I use the chickpeas that I always forget to put onto soak when I want to make hummus, so at least they have served some sort of purpose.

Take your tarts out of the oven and first add a layer of the fruit jam (you could use any jam here, even some bought from a shop if you aren’t as obsessed as I am. You could also leave the jam out altogether but that’s no fun is it? You just made a custard tart, anyone can do that so, come on, live a little.) and then fill them with custard to just below the top. You might get a rise in the oven but it will flatten out again, so half filled tarts will result in, well, half filled tarts.

Bake in the oven at 180 celsius (Gas 4) for around thirty minutes, or until they look as if they are beginning to scorch a little on the top.

You’ll probably be alarmed at how quickly they disappear after all the time you spent making them. The good news is that you probably have enough custard left for a few more and, if you don’t let on, you can eat them all yourself, out in the garden, under the stars, especially if summer has popped into visit you like she did us.

Fruit Jam

200g Pink Currants (Blackcurrants, Redcurrants would work fine)

1 dessert spoon of sugar

Splash of water

Custard

300ml double cream

150ml milk

2 tablespoons cornflour

3 egg yolks

120g caster sugar

Pastry

180g plain flour

25g caster sugar

100g cold unsalted butter

1 tablespoon cold water (the less water you get away with the crumblier the pastry)

Spaghetti & Summer Vegetables

July 9, 2016

Thursday and I’m working late meaning that there isn’t much time to either think about dinner or make it. It’s in these situations that its easy to reach for the microwave or snack through the contents of the fridge while idly wondering what there is in the fridge to cook. Making great food which is both simple and quick is so much more possible than we think and this combination of spaghetti and summer vegetables is undoubtedly fast and delicious.

I’ll admit that I am helped by the variety of crops which are growing in the garden but you wont find it hard to source anything I’ve used in your local supermarket or farm shop, not to mention that you can substitute anything I’ve used for something which you have (within reason, don’t substitute peas for a grapefruit, it won’t work).

Aside from needing food which is nourishing, satisfying and tasty after coming home from a long day it is truly helpful if the process itself can bring a sense of calm and peace too. Wandering around the garden in the early evening sun picking the bits and pieces which look ready for the pot is much less a chore and more a simple joy. In my little bowl I select a few tiny green beans, a handful or two of peas bulging in their bright green pods, a dozen sorrel leaves, some broad beans and a sprig or two of oregano. I also picked a yellow beetroot, not because I had any intention of using in the recipe but just because I get a thrill from cutting into it and seeing the glowing yellow flesh happily grated into a salad tomorrow.

Back in the kitchen I melt a thick slice of butter in a shallow pan and add both a couple of crushed cloves of wet garlic (wet garlic is young and less pungent but if you don’t have it you can use one clove from a normal bulb) and the chopped leaves from the oregano. After thirty seconds or so I add the podded peas, the podded and peeled broad beans (leaving the skins on the individual beans is what gives the broad bean a bad name so take the trouble to peel them), the french beans cut into pieces and the sorrel leaves. I let them heat through gently in the butter and squeeze half a lemon over it all and add a generous sprinkle of salt.

When the pasta is cooked I add about half a ladle of the cooking liquid to the vegetables and then transfer the drained and hot pasta into the pan with the vegetables, and then serve with more than enough freshly grated parmesan.

While I’ve been lazily cooking my son has been watering the garden. There is something satisfyingly synergistic about me cooking with the fruits of the garden while he tends it to ripen its bountiful gifts. I have seconds, he has thirds and, as the sun sets, all is quite perfect.

350g Spaghetti (yes, we’re greedy)

Handful of podded peas

Handful of podded and peeled broad beans

A dozen green beans cut into pieces

Ten or so sorrel leaves

A crushed clove of garlic or two of wet garlic

A slice of butter weighing around 20g

Two sprigs of oregano leaves

Juice of half a lemon

More parmesan than is strictly necessary

Rhubarb & Mint Salad. Yes, That’s Right.

July 4, 2016

It’s true that growing things to eat in the garden has a definite therapeutic pay off. The psychological boost which comes from eating something you have grown yourself is really quite striking, quite apart from the turbo charged improvement in taste. That said, there are things which are tricky to grow (celery, pak choi, melons) and there are other plants which seem to be all too eager to please and spring up without so much as a hint of rebellion. Two such are rhubarb and mint.

You might not have considered putting them together and, even if you have, the notion of combining them in a salad is probably just step too far but, not so fast.

With a glut of rhubarb and mint I decided there had to be a way to encourage their co-existence in a way which would provide something nice to eat.

Slicing two stalks of the rhubarb as thinly as my fingers would allow I do the same with a small cucumber and combine them in a bowl. I finely chop some sprigs of mint until I have about a tablespoon full. Adding the mint to the rhubarb and cucumber I then mix two desert spoons of white wine vinegar with one of caster sugar and a teaspoon of salt and, once the sugar is dissolved from my gentle mixing, I pour it over the rhubarb, cucumber and mint and stir well. I squeeze half a lime over the top. Covered with cling film and left to macerate in the fridge for half an hour what emerges is as fragrant and fresh a salad as I can imagine. I ate mine on its own while sitting watching next doors cat try and catch little cornflower blue butterflies but you can eat it however you like.

Still left with half a dozen sticks of rhubarb I cut them into chunks and throw them into a pan with a splash of water, a couple of tablespoons of sugar, a thumb sized piece of ginger (sliced) and a handful of mint. Simmered gently for ten minutes the balance of the flavours is a revelation. The ginger gently sweetened but with a ferocious kick and the mint balancing the sweetness and bringing a mellow background to the rhubarb. Eaten with some natural yoghurt is the breakfast of kings or, poured across a small scoop of very good vanilla ice cream it really would challenge anyone’s aversion to this most giving of garden gifts.

Lazy Sunday Afternoon Roasted Vegetables

July 3, 2016

The ceremony and trepidation caused by the humble Sunday lunch makes me smile. It’s so unnecessary to be fearful of something so wonderful, so English and so delicious. What its ease relies upon is understanding which of two rewarding paths you want to walk. Is it the one which creates togetherness and connection through the food, or is the the one which releases you to do something else entirely without compromising the most celebratory and special meal of the week? Either way these roasted vegetables will be a welcome addition to any Sunday lunch.

The sun is shining after an interminable period of rain. Staring up into the bright blue sky yesterday I hung the washing out only to to be drenched half an hour later when I was frantically unpegging the sodden garments and seizing them from yet another violent summer shower. So today there are plants to pot on, washing to dry, papers to read. I don’t want to spend hours in the kitchen but I do want to experience the delightful waft of lunch cooking as I am elbow deep in potting compost just outside.

Roasting a joint of meat is a doddle. Slather it with some olive oil, a sprinkle of salt and some herbs and off it goes into the oven for the required duration. It’s the rest of the plate which seems to cause us so much angst.

From the fridge and the garden I assemble a collection of roots. Onions, carrots, dark red beetroots. I thickly cut a couple of courgettes for no reason other than they need using and I enjoy their unctuousness when giving long slow cooking. Thrown together in a shallow roasting tin and adorned with some glugs of olive oil, a shake or two of balsamic vinegar, a few bay leaves, some thyme, cloves of garlic still in their papery jackets and a good seasoning, there is nothing more to do. It took barely ten minutes to prepare and, given 45 minutes in the oven at a moderate heat, I will have a plethora of vegetables to eat with the roast without so much as breaking into a trot. (You could add potatoes if you wanted, but I’m simmering some Pinto beans in water with another bay leaf by way of a change)

I might steam a handful of black cabbage from the garden just for a bit of contrast but that’s it. A beautiful Sunday lunch which has all but cooked itself.

I’m off into the garden. All the rain has given me a slug problem which I have more than enough time to address.