Cake and eat it too

The new oven has arrived.

John Lewis told me it would arrive and be installed between 2 and 9pm which it was and which originally sounded reasonable enough until you take into consideration that we’re 4 hours in already, neither of the two previous oven sockets are working and my children’s annual School Cake Sale is tomorrow.

Unless I intend to replicate Kate Reddy’s smashed mince pies, I am going to be under the cosh even to roll out a bit of shortbread before 10pm.

Not least because, for me, there is always a little stress attached to baking without the absence of a working oven to add excitement to the equation.  Given the hours that I spend in the kitchen, peeling, slicing, stirring, blending etc. one might assume that I would be fairly pragmatic when it came to cakes and pastries.

Sadly, the antithesis is true – if only I could create moist sponges and lighthearted patisserie with the abandon of my casseroles and paellas, but inexperience is led further into peril by my kitchen nemesis, The Recipe Which Must Be Adhered To Precisely.

Of the 53 cookbooks that are in my possession, I have only ever followed whole recipes from two, both of which are for cakes and biscuits.  With everything else, I flick through the pages, determine which ingredients I have in stock – usually most of them – the light of alacrity comes on et voilà, pinny tied, a bit of chopping and flash of heat or a low simmer and I have provided yet another Dish of The Day.

Notwithstanding the groaning baking cupboard, rammed-jammed with glycerine, rosewater, endless 70%+ cocoa cooking chocolate, six types of flour and every permutation of sugars and syrups from lightest icing to blackest, goo-iest molasses, I only bake about once every three months.

My light touch with pies and pasties, unbelievably swollen soufflés, perfect cheesy parmiers and spicy samosas means nothing when approaching the sponge cake.

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty

It’s only the sweet version of your pasty.

Despite painstakingly mixing sugar and butter, flour and eggs with scientific precision, my confidence and cake-esteem never rises sufficiently that the finished product will be something that I will actually want to eat.  I stand nervous by the oven door, forehead hot from the oven glass, trying to peek inside and see what’s cooking.  Would that I ever had the courage to open the oven door and check what sorcery I have performed.  Will all be golden and ready for the wire cooling tray?  Or will it sink in the middle or crack from side to side, burnt to a crisp at the edges, viscose still at its centre?

Tea time, for me, is clotted cream scones in Cornwall and Devon, full board 5-star hotel holidays or weekend overnight visits to friends.  The art of afternoon tea faded quickly during the children’s younger years when the clock lost 12 hours a day on sleeps and mushed up meals and there was hardly any space between naps and feeds, changing nappies and watching Baby Einstein DVDs.  Afternoon eating was little puffy things made from organic corn and rice, flavoured with tomato or carrot powder or dry little teething rusks, like Hansel’s fake bony finger with which he tricked the wicked witch.  The occasional cake was a fat slice at a coffee bar or toddler gathering and the sight of bits of cake, made doughy in little fists or broken up into prams and furniture, made me gag.

I think this break from cakes has also dampened my appetite for them.  I used to revel in the indulgence of a proper tea, little crustless sandwich fingers served on tiered trays, with enticing arrays of creamy, chocolatey eclairs and buttercream butterfly cakes to be washed down with long stems of champagne.  But, once my two-year old helped himself to the bubbles and I was forced to disguise my Moet in a mug, the allure of tea at The Lanesborough or similar fell softly away.


Latter years have introduced sponge fashions.  Whole bakeries set up just to satisfy everyone’s cravings for cranberry and white chocolate oatbran muffins or bitesize red velvet cupcakes with gorgeously swirling, whipped toppings, 10cm high, calling “EAT ME”.  I could have a dozen in front of me and yet ignore them whilst the rustle of a bag of Lightly Salted Kettles Crisps being moved in a cupboard two floors down lures me to the rocky shore of late night snacking.

Maybe, it is my lack of desire for cakes and biscuits which affects my ability.  My love of roasts and pies and stews and curries has seen years of perfection for my own benefit, if not for anyone else’s, so, it is little wonder, I suppose, that if I am not fussed about eating cakes and spend hardly any time baking them, that I should not be any good at it.

In the meantime, I have Betty Crocker and Dr Oetker to support me, as well as a little help from Kate Reddy’s guide to authenticating your home baking.  And when occasion calls for baking wares beyond cookies and tarts, there are talented alchemists like Chiswick Cupcakes and Hummingbird Bakery to dazzle my guests at tea whilst I put the kettle on.

Palmiers

It is worth keeping some ready-rolled all-butter puff pastry in the fridge for these. You can use any make at all, don’t worry too much about quality, but make sure it is the butter version as the bog-standard one is too oily and bland.  They are a fantastic standby if a friend drops by, one drink turns into a bottle and you need a little something to mop up the alcohol.

This is a cheese and onion recipe but you can easily replace anything except the pastry and the egg wash – different cheeses, ham, chorizo, chopped olives or for sweet ones you can use jam or pureed fruit or merely sprinkle the whole thing with vanilla caster sugar and/or some cinnamon.

Butter
Splash of olive oil
An onion or some shallots finely diced
Fresh thyme leaves
Pepper
Sheet ready-roll all-butter puff pastry
An egg
Grated gruyere, parmesan, cheddar

Lightly fry the onions or shallots in a little butter and a tiny, tiny splash of olive oil (to stop the butter burning) until they are soft but not too coloured – during the cooking process, add a grind of pepper and some thyme leaves.

Carefully unroll the pastry and brush the top with some of the egg.  Sprinkle over the onions/shallots evenly across the pastry and then the cheese or cheeses.

Face the rectangle of pastry towards you so that the longer edge is nearest.  Imagine (or if that is too tricky, make a tiny mark) along the middle of the rectangle.  Start rolling the long side in towards the middle until you get to your imaginary friend, sorry, line.  Turn the pastry round and do the same on the other long side, so that both sides of the pastry now meet in the middle and you are basically looking at a figure 8 at each end with two fat rolls facing you.

Use the rest of the egg to glaze the top outside and then put the whole thing into the fridge for 10 minutes.  Turn on the oven to 200°C/400°F/gas mark 6.

Remove the roll from the fridge and then cut 1cm slices across the rolls so that you have about 20 figure 8-ish slices which you should arrange on a baking sheet.  Bake for 10 minutes or until there is a little colour.  Cool until warm and tuck in.

Swimwear Review (Or A Review Of My Swimwear)

So I've been keeping a low profile desperately trying to lose the odd pound/inch whilst we’re all still under wraps in our polo necks and big winter coats.  I've walked West London in the Masai Barefoot Technology trainers, swallowed copious amounts of acidophilus and psyllium husks (the coward's method of colonic irrigation), hauled my body through burpees in the snow at bootcamp this week, all in an effort to counteract my addiction to anything made with pork or cream.

My self-esteem, such that it is, I only want to be normal. Ordinary. The person you glimpse as she passes you on the beach and makes you think, Hey, I Like That Chick's Beach Bag, not, Man, Look At Those Stretch Marks/Cellulite/Caesarean Scar - okay, not that kind of beach. I'm only at the beginning of my resurrection from the ashes, not trying to give Elizabeth Hurley a run for her money.

I'm uncertain which crest of the wave I was riding when I ventured on the Figleaves website to look for mail order swimwear.  I made a New Year’s Resolution some years ago to replace the maternity swimwear which has seen me through 9 years of motherhood, but each summer I look at my body and then at the swimsuit and somehow the two merge into the shallow end again.  So, I braced myself and ordered roughly £700 worth of tactel with not a sarong in sight, so confident was I of my new MBT Body.

Not one bra from 32F to 36F via 34s C, D and E is strategically sufficient to cover my modesty. What's that all about? Am I Katie Price all of a sudden? Location!  Location!  Location!  I find that once I've scooped up my breasts from midriff and under armpits and stuffed them into the cups provided, my bosom did not so much dissipate after breastfeeding but simply relocate.

When faced with my generous chest, the bikini top transforms itself into a QUADini so that there's now a breast inside each of the cups and then a bonus other, on each side, sitting comfortably on top.  Not unlike jellyfish mating.  A No Go there then.

Okay, so what's the story with the tankini?  Is the answer in the question?  Why would anyone who had a gorgeous, i.e. SLIM WITH TITS, figure cover it up with a tankini?  And who in their marketing right mind would name this lycra top for Fat Birds anything where the sum of its parts still included the word TANK?

And, yes, of course, since it is no longer fashionable to look like Barbara Windsor in Carry On Nurses, I am forced to keep this sympathetic item in order to protect fellow sunworshippers from my more than ample bosom and pot belly.  Whilst governments attempt to reconcile the various border countries across the Middle East, I shall be mediating local quandaries between the top half of my swimwear and my bikini bottoms each time I arise from the sun lounger.

Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more.

To the Miracle Suit, as recommended by Trinny & Susannah - the tag claims LOSE TEN POUNDS IN TEN SECONDS !!!!! And sure enough, because the sizing is so screwed up, a UK size 12 is miraculously transformed mid-atlantic into a size 8. Oh, the joy of scrolling the drop down menu to click on an 8. But I've disillusioned myself once again: I thought that by giving up breastfeeding I could reclaim what's mine and remedy the war damage imposed by earlier conflicts.  Alas, it appears my body is still my children's, if not as a feeding zone then as a softplay area:  for £120 I do look okay, but there is always a B side and when I prise off this sartorial option I have tramlines all over my torso so deep that my kids could run their scalextrics around it all half-term.

The good news, of course, is that all this exercise has given me a new positive outlook – on the bright side, such is the parlous state of our finances that the time has come the Walrus said to cut back on the hideous amount of wine we guzzle.  This ensures fewer insulin producing calories and goes a little way to ameliorating the Farmyard Animals Diet which got me into trouble in the first place.

Anyway, as a guy called Will once said summer’s lease hath all too short a date, so for the very few days of swimsuit wearing weather we actually get in the UK and the dearth of foreign holidays we can afford, I have, of course, kept my longstanding maternity number on standby to see me through another year.

Pork and Cream (and Cider with Rosie apples)

Long slow cooked pork belly is delicious and all very well, but sometimes you only have a short time between mail ordering and picking up children from school so here is a quick one pan meal.

An onion halved and finely sliced

Garlic

A pork tenderloin

Thyme

Sage

Peel and sliced apples

¼pt cider

Cream

Paprika

Salt and pepper

Warm the oven to 150°C/300°F/Gas mark 2.

Heat some olive oil in a pan.  Fry the sliced onion until they soften for about 10 minutes on low.  Whilst the onion is frying, slice the tenderloin into medallions about 1½cm thick. Slice the apples into approx 1” thick slices.  When the onions are soft and slightly coloured, add the garlic, chopped or crushed or whatever is easier, then add the apple slices and fry off gently for about 10 minutes until they colour too.  Add the thyme and sage if you have them – less for dried herbs – fry gently for about 1 minute then empty everything into a dish which can sit in the warm oven.  Turn off the oven or turn it down lower.

Heat some more olive oil in the same pan, and add the pork tenderloin slices.  Fry for 3 minutes of each side and then add a knob of butter and shake the pork around with the butter – when the butter melts, add the cider.  Bring to the boil quickly and turn down.  Add all of the stuff out of the oven and then add a splash or two of cream.  Season with a generous pinch of salt and some pepper.  Bring the heat up for a couple of minutes and then sprinkle over some paprika.  Turn off the heat and let sit for a few minutes before serving.

A Job Application

I watched 10 minutes of a documentary about the right time to have a baby, the 10-minute gist of which appeared to be that either you become pregnant between the ages of 12 and 17 with no partner support and thus become a drain on the big spend or somehow you selfishly make it through to the beginning of your 30s with your cervix intact (apparently pursuing high-flying roles or money-making-satisfying careers) but leave it too late to conceive thus denying the population a healthy number of middle class babies to look after us in our old age.  I went to bed without discovering whether any of my single girlfriends had been interviewed who said What Fucking Career, Once He Proposes I’m Out Of Here? but I guess this programme wasn't aimed at this singular demographic.

Since these women are not to be easily convinced by either becoming a drain on the public finances as a Teenage Mum Shock nor the detrimental effect of the dearth of civil servants and medical staff to look after them in their pension years as they’ve left childbearing until their mid 30s, a more holistic approach might prevail by appealing to their vanity.

It occurred to me that three birds with one stone could be had with A Job For Debs!  I could visit first schools, as part of their sex education syllabus, and then commercial offices, as part of the water cooler conventions.  I would stand on a pedestal for half an hour, naked for examination, whilst a PowerPoint presentation, or whatever audio visual technology is up to these days, plays out behind me.

Either Teenagers Thinking of Taking an Early Plunge Into Motherhood or Women Thinking of Leaving It Too Too Late could see for themselves the ravages of my body after two babies: the caesarean scar / the stretch marks / the sad feckers which used to be my bosom / the bags under my eyes, my backside, my hips, my knees for christ's sake / the sad nutrient depleted skin / the tramlines ingrained in my shoulders and chest from wearing either a maternity or nursing bra non-stop for four years. And if they were really lucky, someone could make me laugh/ sneeze/ cough without warning and watch me pee myself….

In the background, perhaps with a soundtrack of Young Hearts Run Free, my day playing out : kids screaming at me, dog whining, my osteo's bill, my husband's sad surfeit of condoms, whining, breakfast, lunch, teatime, bathtime, bedtime, my wardrobe full of pretty shoes too short and too narrow, never to be worn again except by my daughter or someone from e-bay, a bed full of outfits tried on with hope and discarded with acceptance. Knackered, knackered, knackered.

Perhaps this might frighten the Teenagers into potentially plaguing their bodies so early on and the Late Leavers knowing that after late onset childbirth Mother Nature puts all her power into child rearing and none of it into restoring elasticity to your skin, your genitals and your pelvic floor.

That should do it.  A walking Public Information Broadcast for teenage chicks and old broiler hens.

Dear Sir, I hope you think I am suitable to put forward for this popular role, but if you need any further information on any points in my application, I look forward to hearing from you....

Chicken with 40 cloves of garlic

Easy-peasy lemon squeezy recipe which rather bizarrely hardly tastes of garlic.  Instead, you get a creamy, gooey load of garlic to squeeze out on whatever other vegetables, salad or carbs you are serving this with.

You will need to cook this in a deep casserole dish for optimum effect but improvise with what you have.

Whole medium to large chicken

Quite a lot of garlic -unpeeled

Some stalks of celery cut to about 5” long

An onion

Olive Oil

Thyme, Rosemary, Sage

Salt and black pepper

Some white wine if you want

Pre-heat the oven to about 180°C/350°F/Gas mark 4.  Mix a spoon of olive oil with a generous pinch of salt and some ground pepper.  Wipe inside the cavity with a bit of salt and then use your hands to smother the whole bird with the oil/salt/pepper mix.  Inside the cavity put some stalks of celery, about 5 unpeeled cloves of garlic, half of your herbs and the onion cut in half.

In the bottom of the casserole dish pour a tablespoon of olive oil.  Scatter the rest of the unpeeled garlic cloves and the rest of the stalks of celery. Now lay the bird on top and push the rest of the herbs around it.

Cover with a lid and roast gently in the oven for 1¼ hrs.  If you want to add wine – add this after the chicken has been in for about 1 hour.  Remove the lid and let colour gently for about 15 mins.  Test the chicken to see if it is cooked by poking a sharp knife or skewer into the crease between the leg and the breast – if there is blood in the juices, this baby needs more time.

Remove the chicken from the casserole or put on a warmed dish or wooden carving platter.  Cover with foil and a teatowel to keep warm.

Remove the cloves of garlic from the oil and juices in the pan.  You can either serve these separately or squeeze out some of the soft garlic back into your juices to pour onto your meat.  Feel free to add more wine or cream with perhaps some tarragon to the juices and leave on a simmer to make a sauce if you want something richer.