marrow fritter, flatleaf parsley, shallots

A wonderful new food magazine, Saffron, acted as a timely reminder for me to stop procrastinating and to get on and write this post. Published for the first time last week, Saffron is a meticulously researched and beautifully illustrated journal that promises much for the future. It caught my eye for many reasons, not least of which was a eulogy to those fantastic ‘forgotten’ fats, lard and dripping.

If you’ve visited my blog (and my Twitter account) before, you’ll know that I’m an enthusiastic advocate of those very fats, as well as of suet. I only wish I could readily get hold of flead to cook with, too, but that’s a mission for another time.

But here’s another glorious source of fat which is too often overlooked and discarded – bone marrow.

Rich, slightly sweet, and as melt-in-the-mouth as you could possibly wish for, marrow is a highly nutritious treat that every self-declared food lover should try. I particularly love these fritters, in which the simple addition of lemon zest both counters and elevates the fatty marrow into something quite sublime. Do try.

Makes 2
50g marrow from veal marrow bones (see below)
20g fresh white bread crumbs
1 egg yolk
1 tbsp chopped flatleaf parsley
1 tsp lemon zest
salt, freshly ground black pepper to taste

Take a handful of marrow bones (cut across the bone – ask your butcher to do this) and cover with hot water. Bring to a bare simmer and cook the bones for no more than 5 minutes.

Remove the bones from the pan and leave to cool slightly on a plate. After a couple of minutes, push the marrow out of the bones using a teaspoon or other blunt cutlery. It will be a bit messy, but you should be left with some decent lumps of usable marrow.

Combine the marrow with all the other ingredients until they come together and you can shape the resultant mix. Roll into fritters about the length of your little finger.

In a heavy-based frying pan, heat a little vegetable oil (not olive oil). Put the fritter into the hot pan, and fry briskly, watching all the time, until the fritter is golden brown all over – this will take seconds, rather than minutes. Do not over fry!

Serve with a salad of flatleaf parsley, finely chopped shallots, dressed with olive or rapeseed oil.

Kentish Lenten pie

As Easter approaches, many people look forward to the end of Lent – the period during which, traditionally, we deny ourselves a favourite luxury as an act of penitence and in remembrance of the forty days Jesus spent fasting in the desert before starting his ministry. For most, Lent starts on Ash Wednesday – the day after Shrove Tuesday, a pre-Lent festival of indulgence – and ends on Maundy Thursday.

In times past, Kent folk broke the monotony of Lenten fasting – particularly abstention from meat – with a simple pie filled with a mixture of ground rice, eggs, butter and sugar (and lemon and nutmeg), and with a handful of currants scattered over the top. The exact origins of the pie are unclear. Perhaps the first published version is that given by Eliza Acton in 1845, but I rather suspect that the pie was being made well before that time.

Similarly, there is dispute over date on which the pie is supposed to be eaten. According to Steve Roud, it is either the first Sunday in Lent, or the middle Sunday of Lent, i.e. Mothering Sunday. Eliza Acton, on the other hand, makes no mention of a specific day, but observes merely that ‘[the pie] is made in abundance [in Kent], and eaten by all classes of people during Lent.’

These days, you can find numerous recipes for the pie, but its core ingredients remain the same whichever version you choose. The filling is ‘puddingy’, rather like a proper old-fashioned Bakewell pudding (not the new-fangled tart) or baked cheesecake, and is enclosed (but not covered) by a pastry shell.

I suppose I would say this, but I think it’s delicious, and well worth making as a Lenten treat – or, for that matter, at any time of year! It certainly deserves a wider audience.

The following recipe makes sufficient for a 20cm tart.

For the pastry:
175g plain flour
75g butter, diced
3-4 tbsp cold water

For the filling:
300ml milk
(or 200ml milk and 100ml double cream for a richer version)
30g ground rice
75g softened butter, diced
75g golden caster sugar
2 large eggs, beaten
1 bay leaf
finely grated zest of 2 lemons
1/2 tsp freshly grated nutmeg
1/2 vanilla pod, seeds only
30g currants

Heat the oven to 190C/375F/Gas 5.

Put the butter and plain flour in a large bowl. Rub together, as you would for a crumble, until the mixture has the appearance of fine breadcrumbs. Gradually stir in the cold water, mixing all the time, until it all just comes together to form a dough. Work it very lightly, then roll it out on a floured surface.

Ease the pastry into the tart case, and gently nudge it into the edges. Prick the bottom all over with a fork, and put it in the fridge for 20 minutes or so to chill and relax properly.

When it’s ready, bake the pastry case blind (with ceramic beans to weight it down) for 15-20 minutes. Remove the beans, then put the case back in the oven for another 5 minutes until it turns a light golden brown.

In the meantime, put the milk (and cream, if using) and bay leaf in a non-stick saucepan. Warm the milk gently, and then turn off the heat and set the pan aside for a short while to allow the bay to infuse.

Remove the bay leaf, add the rice to the liquid, and bring it all slowly to the boil, stirring all the time. Once the mixture has boiled, keep stirring until it thickens appreciably – this will take no more than a few seconds. Remove from the heat and allow to cool.

In a bowl, cream the softened butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Gradually whisk in the beaten eggs, and then add the lemon zest, nutmeg, vanilla, and rice mixture. Combine everything together thoroughly until you have a smooth but thickish batter.

Carefully pour the mixture into the cooked pastry shell. Scatter the currants over. Bake the pie for 25-30 minutes, until it’s turned golden brown and is set throughout. Leave to cool a little before serving. Good eaten warm or cold.

blood orange curd

It’s 1 March, and supposedly the first day of Spring. But yet the cold, grey, and damp weather persists here, and it seems a very long time ago that we enjoyed a spell of sunshine and warmth.

But in food terms, the signs of Spring have thankfully already arrived. I’ve enjoyed a few batches of forced rhubarb – albeit not from Kent – and for the past couple of weeks or so, I’ve been making the most of the blood oranges that have reached our shores from sunnier climes.

Ssince this is also the time when some of us are feeling a bit ‘marmaladed out’, in the aftermath of the Seville orange season, I wanted to make something different. Remembering the joys of homemade lemon curd from my childhood, I opted for a tweak on the same – blood orange curd. And while the health police will no doubt argue differently, I say it’s best slathered on liberally buttered thick, white bread or plain scones.

This recipe will make 2 x 8oz jars.

200g caster sugar
100g butter
zest and juice of 3 blood oranges
zest and juice of 1 lemon
3 large eggs and 1 large egg yolk, lightly whisked

Using a double boiler, or a bowl placed over a pan of simmering water, melt the butter together with the sugar.

Add the orange and lemon juices and zests. Stir until the sugar has dissolved.

Add the eggs and egg yolk, and whisk constantly until the mixture is cooked and has become thick – you’re looking for a light custard consistency.

Remove from the heat, and pour into sterilised jars and seal immediately. Store in a cool, dry place, and eat within 3 months. Once opened, store in the fridge, and eat within a couple of weeks at most – not that it will last that long!

Kentish Pan Cake

Pancakes have long been a British favourite, and certainly ever since the first cookbooks started being published on these shores. Hannah Glasse, arguably the first ‘proper’ English recipe writer, writing back in the eighteenth century, included a recipe for pancakes in her seminal tome, ‘The Art of Cookery’, and the formula for making them has barely changed since then.

Most of us, I suspect, are used to eating them one at a time. Tucking into a stack of them is, Dorothy Hartley once observed, something done ‘abroad’. ‘In England’, by contrast, ‘our pancakes are symbols of our insular detachment, for each is rolled up by itself, aloof, with its own small slice of lemon’.

Here in Kent, however, we like – or at least, liked, once upon a time – to do things differently. Maybe it’s because of our proximity to the continent, or perhaps it’s born from hearty appetites brought on by hard agricultural toil. Whatever the reason, a recipe cited by Pat Smith, in the Kentish edition of the quaint Salmon series of recipe books, is sure to meet with approval by those who like their pancakes. The Kentish Pan Cake is much as it sounds: a ‘cake’ of pancakes piled high, and made Kentish by the addition of chopped apples.

It bears resemblance to another old recipe book favourite, the Quire of Papers, but is less light (having a greater proportion of flour) and rather more rich.

Kentish Pan Cake
3 eggs
2 whites of egg
0.25pt milk
0.25pt double cream
2 tablespoons sherry (I used a medium dry)
3 dessertspoons brandy (I used my homemade quince ratafia – recipe to follow on here shortly)
4oz flour
A pinch of powdered ginger
A pinch of salt
Grated nutmeg to taste
1 tablespoon caster sugar
Half a medium-sized cooking apple

Put everything but the sugar and apple into a mixing bowl and beat well with a whisk until smooth.

Peel and core the apple, chop it finely, and add it to the batter along with the sugar. Leave the batter to stand for 30 minutes.

Lightly oil the frying pan with lard (sunflower oil will do, but lard is far preferable as it gives a crisper finish), and heat the pan over a high flame until the oil or lard is smoking.

Add a small ladle of batter to the pan, and swirl it around to fully cover the base of the pan. You’re aiming for thinness, not American-style pancakes. When it’s golden brown (no more than a minute or so), flip it and cook on the other side. Turn out onto greaseproof paper on a warm plate. Repeat until you’ve used all the batter – using a small frying pan, I managed to eke out 12 pancakes.

Turn the stack onto a warm plate and dredge liberally with icing sugar, and then slice into generous wedges. Smith advocates serving the cake with apple purée and whipped cream, but it’s entirely up to you. My own preference is for caramelised apples and double cream.

Happy Shrove Tuesday!

‘haggis and neeps’

If I had to live anywhere other than Kent, the chances are that it would be Scotland. I lived there for a year back in the nineties, and came close to moving there 5 years ago. There’s something about the landscape that draws me in – from the Gothic grey of urban buildings to the rich green and purple hues and spectacular vistas of the countryside.

And then, of course, there’s the food. Scotland plays to my weaknesses for big flavours and hearty sustenance. I have fond memories of – to name only a few – mutton pies, Fife haddock, Caboc cheese, and all manner of sweet baked treats. None of it was good for the waistline, but it was mighty good for the soul.

At this time of year, of course, it’s all about Burns, haggis, neeps, and tatties – and the obligatory whisky. It’s not for the faint hearted, but then why would it be? As Burns himself said, the Scots aren’t the type for lily-livered food. Instead, “Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care, and dish them out their bill o’ fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware that jaups in luggies: but, if ye wish her grateful prayer, gie her a Haggis!”

I may be Kentish, but I commend that spirit.

But just in case you can’t eat a whole one, or you’re not mad on the texture of haggis, here’s a variation on the theme. I’ve used turnips for ‘neeps’. I know there’s an ongoing debate about whether neeps comprise swede or turnips, and I confess that I typically eat the former with haggis – but here, turnips work far better. The idea is that they make a dip along the lines of the Greek skordalia. If you want more punch to it, leave the garlic raw.

‘Haggis and neeps’ (for 2)

1 small haggis, cooked as per instructions, and left to cool
A bowl of 2 beaten eggs
A bowl of plain flour, seasoned
A bowl of white breadcrumbs
Vegetable oil , enough for deep frying

4 turnips, peeled, boiled, and left to steam and cool, then mashed
8 peeled garlic cloves, poached for 5 minutes in milk, then mashed
Ground almonds
Olive or rapeseed oil
Lemon juice, a squeeze
Salt and black pepper

Get the turnips ready first. Using a mortar and pestle, pound the turnips, garlic, and ground almonds together. Add the ground almonds to your taste and texture preference – you will probably need up to 50g or so. Then add a little olive oil to loosen. Finally, add a pinch of salt and a generous twist of black pepper, and a squeeze of lemon juice. Taste, and adjust the flavours as necessary. Don’t stint on the pepper – turnips love it!

For the haggis, heat a deep pan, wok, or fryer filled with vegetable oil – it’s ready when a small piece of bread turns golden brown in a matter of seconds.

Using your hands, scoop up some of the cooled haggis, and roll it into a ball – aim for golf ball size. If it’s too wet, and keeps breaking up, add some breadcrumbs, and use an egg yolk to bind the mixture. Repeat until you’ve got as many balls as you want to eat.

Lower the balls into the hot oil – don’t overcrowd the pan, so fry in batches if necessary. They should turn golden within a minute or so. Remove from the pan, and drain onto kitchen towel.

Eat and enjoy while crisp and hot, with the neeps dip. Wash down with a wee dram of whisky.

wild mushroom and cob nut galette

With all the upcoming Christmas festivities in prospect, it’s time to make sure that everyone’s catered for. Delicious in its own right, but particularly perfect for a non meat-eater at Christmas, this mushroom and cob nut ‘galette’ is simple to make and full of seasonal flavours.

If you’re quick, it’s still possible to get hold of Kentish cob nuts for Christmas from Farnell Farm or Potash Farm. You can use hazelnuts instead, but cob nuts have a much richer, creamier, and – dare I say – nuttier hit that’s worth going the extra mile for. Similarly, although I prefer wild mushrooms, you can happily use other well-flavoured mushrooms instead, such as chestnut or portabello.

This recipe is a much simplified adaptation of one by the Irish food writer and restaurateur, Denis Cotter, from ‘Wild Garlic, Gooseberries, and Me’. If you want to try your hand at more unusual vegetarian food, or if you’re looking for a Christmas present for a keen cook, then I thoroughly recommend any of Cotter’s books.

Anyway, to the recipe… It may look a little fiddly, but it’s really quite straightforward and quick to make. Serves 4.

Ingredients
300g or so wild mushrooms, coarsely chopped
100g cob nuts, coarsely chopped
1 large celeriac, peeled
100g mascarpone
small bunch flat-leafed parsley, finely chopped
400ml red wine
200ml passata
1 tsp brown sugar
2 sprigs thyme
about 50g butter
seasoning, to taste

First, make the red wine and passata sauce. Put the red wine, passata, thyme, and sugar in a saucepan, and bring to the boil. Reduce the heat, and leave to simmer until reduced by half. Remove the thyme. Set aside.

Slice the celeriac as thinly as possible, and trim to the size and shape you want (mine were about 7cm squared). Shallow fry the slices, one at a time, in hot oil until tender and golden. Drain on kitchen roll and set aside.

In a large frying pan, heat a generous knob of butter until it begins to foam. Add the mushrooms to the pan, and sauté briskly over a high heat, until cooked and browned. Add the chopped parsley and 1 chopped sprig of thyme leaves right at the end of the cooking, and stir in.

Leave to cool slightly, and then add the mascarpone and chopped cob nuts, and mix in until properly incorporated. Season the mixture to taste.

Layer the galette, starting with a slice of celeriac, then a mushroom and cob nut layer, and so on, finishing with a slice of celeriac.

Reheat the red wine and tomato sauce, and whisk in a small knob of cold butter, so that the sauce becomes glossy. Carefully spoon it around the galette. Serve!

chocolate truffle-stuffed figs, quince comfits

Winter, and especially Christmas, feasts demand a special note on which to end. It is, after all, the season in which we burn off a few more calories as our bodies try to keep warm, so the occasional sweet treat can only be a good thing!

Earlier this year (as well as last), I made some quince paste from some fat and highly fragrant quinces given to me by our neighbours. While we frequently eat it with cheese, it makes for a simple, fruity after-dinner sweet if, in the old-fashioned way, it’s simply rolled in sugar, to make what used to be called a comfit (what we might more readily call a pastille these days).

As well as fruit, though, I often hanker after a taste of dark chocolate to finish a meal. And one of my most favourite things to tick that particular box is a chocolate truffle-stuffed fig (which also, cannily, ticks the ‘fruit’ box, too).

Figs might not seem particularly Kentish, but in fact they’ve been growing here for years. It’s likely that the Romans first brought them over to our shores, and they’ve been grown in Kent ever since, if not necessarily systematically. But now that our climate is becoming ever warmer, now is a good time to plant a tree or two, and to grow your own succulent fruit.

In the meantime, here’s a recipe to transform any fig into a mouthful of fruit-and-chocolatey joy…

Chocolate truffle-stuffed figs (makes about 25 truffles)
250g dark chocolate (at least 70% cocoa), in small pieces
100g dark muscovado sugar
Port to taste – about 150ml
Figs
Additional chocolate for dipping (about 250g)

Pour 200ml of water in a saucepan, and bring to a simmer. Add the sugar, and stir until it’s all dissolved.

Add the chocolate, and whisk well until the mixture is completely smooth. Leave to cool.

Gradually add the port to the ganache, tasting frequently so that you don’t overdo it! Allow to cool fully.

Take a teaspoon of ganache at a time, and roll it gently but quickly into a ball. Make a slit with a sharp knife in the side of the fig, and push the truffle inside. ‘Close’ the fig up again. Repeat until you’ve stuffed every fig.

Melt some more chocolate in a double boiler/bain marie. Carefully dip each fig in the chocolate, taking care not to cover the stalk. Remove from the chocolate, and leave to dry and cool on greaseproof paper. When ready to serve, dust with icing sugar for full wintry effect!

apple, butternut squash, ginger, and cobnut trifle

After a couple of hearty courses, the thought of a hefty pudding often defeats me. But a trifle… well, a trifle can always tempt me!

At this time of year, though, it seems fitting to make a version that’s in keeping with the seasons, rather than using frozen berries for a summer trifle, or rushing into clementines and sherry for a traditional Christmas or winter style one.

So here’s my offering. A late autumnal trifle using local apples, butternut squash, and my favourite Kentish cobnuts. It is simple to make, and utterly delicious. If nothing else (and if you’re not a trifle fan), I urge you to make the butternut squash sponge as an alternative to the more usual carrot cake.

You will need (for 4 people):

Apple purée – 3 or 4 large Bramleys, chopped. Put them in a saucepan with a splash of water and sugar to taste (a couple of tablespoons or so). Cook until the apples have become purée and all the water has disappeared.

For the butternut squash and ginger sponge – I simply used this recipe as my basis, and added 3 finely chopped balls of ginger in syrup. And, instead of using muffin tins, I poured the cake batter into a 20 x 20cm square tin. The result is a flattish sponge, perfect for cutting up and using in trifle. Soak the sponge in your preferred alcohol – I’d suggest dry cider or brandy.

For the custard: use your preferred recipe. A custard which incorporates cornflour, for a thicker, more stable custard, is ideal when making trifle. I also added a couple of spoonfuls of ginger syrup to mine.

Double cream: you’ll need however much you want – whipped until it reaches firm peak stage.

Cobnuts: a couple of generous handfuls, roasted in a warm oven (180C) for about 15 minutes. When the nuts have cooled, rub them between your hands to rid them of the as much of the skins as possible. Then chop coarsely.

Assemble your trifle however you like, but finishing with a layer of the whipped cream and a topping of chopped cobnuts.

roast mallard, red wine pears, celeriac, wild mushrooms

There are roasts, and then there are game roasts. With the game season now in full swing, it’s the time to to put aside your usual roast meats in favour of something more seasonal and, frankly, more flavoursome.

If you’ve yet to be converted, then mallard is a good starting point. As it’s smaller than farmed ducks, you’ll need 1 bird between 2 people, or even 1 each if you’re feeding large appetites!

To cook your mallard, simply smear it with butter or duck fat, and season. Pop it into a roasting dish, and put into a hot oven – 220C for 10 minutess, then 200C for a further 10 minutes. Remove from the oven and leave to rest for another 10 minutes, so that all the flavour can seep back into the muscle fibres.

For the pears, carefully peel your Conference pears, leaving the stalks on – you’ll need one pear per person. For 4 people, place 4 pears in a deep and wide saucepan, cover with red wine, 4 tbsps caster sugar, and about 250ml water. Add a couple of star anise and a stick of cinnamon to the pan. Bring the pan to just up below boiling, turn the heat down, and leave to simmer for about 20 minutes, or until the pears are fully tender. Remove the pears from the pan and leave to cool.

For the celeriac, simply prepare it as you would roast potatoes. Peel and chop, then boil for about 7 minutes. Drain, and leave to steam briefly. Season. Put into a dish with hot oil or duck fat, and roast at 200C for 40 minutes.

The wild mushrooms couldn’t be simpler. In a large frying pan, melt a generous knob of butter over a medium heat. As soon as the butter starts to foam, put in the mushrooms. Move them around until well coated, slightly softened, and golden. Don’t put too many in the pan at once, or they’ll stew.

For some greenery, and an element of bitterness to counter the richness of the mallard and the sweetness of the pears, kale, Swiss chard, or cavolo nero makes a great accompainment. In a wok or similar-shaped pan, put a generous knob of butter. Throw in your chopped kale (stripped from the stalks) and toss it around until glistening with the butter. Pour in a splash of hot water, and put a lid on the pan immediately. The kale is ready when it’s wilted – no more than a couple of minutes.

Serve with a red wine reduction, and enjoy!

mackerel, fennel, pomegranate

Mackerel may not be regarded as the most luxurious of fish – it’s not rare, delicate, or expensive – but that’s no reason not to put it centre stage. With its wonderful appearance – especially when the skin is cooked and turns various hues of silver and gold – and its meaty flavour and texture, it makes a delicious (and nutritious) highlight to any meal.

Because mackerel is a strong tasting and ‘oily’ fish, it needs to be balanced with acidity and fresh flavours. Fennel with mint and yogurt provide a good match, and orange and pomegranate bring both colour and citrus.

You’ll need, per serving:

One mackerel fillet
Half a fennel
A teaspoon or so of natural yogurt
Fresh mint, chopped – to taste
A few slices of orange
Pomegranate seeds

All you need to do is to shave the fennel as thinly as possible – a mandolin is great for this job, but a sharp knife will do the job just as well. Then add a little yogurt, no more than a heaped teaspoon, and mix it in. You want to barely coat the fennel, not slather it. Add some fresh mint to taste.

Put a small splash of sunflower or groundnut oil in a frying pan. Once the pan is good and hot, lay the mackerel fillet in, skin side down. Fry for 2 minutes, then turn the fish over, and fry for another minute.

Serve by placing a small mound of the fennel slaw on the centre of the plate. Lay the mackerel fillet on top. Decorate the plate with slices of orange and the pomegranate seeds in any way you like!