Category Archives: eggs

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.

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.

seasonal sticky toffee apple cake

What with Hallowe’en and Bonfire Night, there’s a seasonal need for a sweet treat involving apples, toffee, and autumnal spicing. At this point, I should share a recipe of my own, but a BBC Good Food recipe does the job so well that I feel I must flag it up instead.

So here’s the recipe, and here’s a picture of the sticky delight you can expect to enjoy…

Now, isn’t that so much better than breaking your teeth on an toffee apple?

a summer salad

I don’t know about you, but I’m loving this glorious sunshine and – finally – the chance to enjoy some suitably summery salads, and the chance to make use of my veg patch crops, like this magnificent and intensely lemony red-veined sorrel.

I grow a number of varieties of salad greens, as well as some ‘usual’ summer vegetables (such as courgettes), as well as innumerable herbs. A few days ago, I put a few of these all on a plate, together with a hard-boiled egg, and some delicious lemon and garlic-marinated anchovies (kindly given to me by Lola Espana to try). While the anchovies are obviously not Kentish, I must admit that they combined beautifully with the rest of the salad, particularly the sorrel. You could easily use, say, mackerel, sardines, whitebait, or even sprats instead, if you want to use locally-caught fish.

So what went in the salad? Mizuna, wild rocket, courgette flowers, borage flowers, red-veined sorrel, egg, anchovies, croutons. And finished with a a generous drizzle of local rapeseed oil.

asparagus and duck egg

I must admit – I wasn’t aware that Kent was known particularly for its asparagus. But, as they say, time changes everything, and it seems that the same is true for the summer’s earthy green spears. I’ve noticed that a number of top London restaurants have had it on their menus in recent years, and yesterday I learnt that a newish independent pub mini-chain, the Draft House, has chosen specifically Kentish asaparagus for a special beer-pairing menu and event.

I’m not sure I’d be able to tell the difference between asparagus from Kent and that from any other part of the country, but I do know I love the stuff, and am already wondering what I’ll do without it next week – I’m down to my last few spears of the all-too short season.

I eat mine with local duck eggs (from Nash Farm, in Ash). The generous yolk of the egg is a perfect match for the asparagus. Fry both, in butter. Serve when the egg is cooked and the asparagus tips have started to caramelise and go slightly crisp. Put it all onto a plate, and pour over the molten butter. Season to taste.

duck egg asparagus

gull’s egg

gulls egg 1

Since they are available only for a few weeks in early summer, and because they may be gathered only by a handful of licensed collectors, gulls’ eggs are truly precious gifts from the Kent shoreline. With their deep orange yolks, and rich, slightly fishy flavour, they should be cooked carefully and minimally, with nothing more than a pinch of celery salt to accompany them on serving.

gulls egg 3