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.