Category Archives: Recipes…

Madeleines…

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One of my favourite restaurants in the world is just here in London and has been for the past twenty years. St Johns of St Johns Road, just by the Smithfields Meat Market in the very heart of London. Famed for its traditional british food and its nose to tail style eating, there the most obscure bits of meat are served up as oh-so-very-tasty delicacies. The food is fabulous. The decor is simple, urban and trendy. And the waiters are inevitably both friendly and enthusiastic. But the best bit – and I accept that it is unconventional to take this point of view – is the puddings. Now, don’t get me wrong – I love thinly sliced, braised oxe heart with lightly whipped horseradish sauce or deep fried tripe with homemade ketchup as much as the next person – in fact, probably more than the next person. It makes for a sensational meal and my stomach rumbles longingly at the mere recollection of it. But the puddings at St Johns are just so very exquisite, that each and every time – no matter how much I resist the prospect – they steal the limelight from those meaty main courses. Toffee pudding like you’ve never tasted it before, ginger ice cream with just the right amount of fresh ginger, eccles cakes so rich and sweet that you would walk for miles just for a single bite, and queen of all puddings…madeleines, piping hot just out of the oven. Heavenly.

My obsession with freshly baked goods – and with these madeleines in particular – is such that, realistically, it was just a matter of time before I attempted to recreate this delicacy at home. Indeed I regret that it has taken me so long, as I was surprised by how easy these little sponges are to make. The trick it seems is to invest in a silicone madeleine tray – no need to grease it, no need to worry that the cakes might stick to the tin, and with mere tap of the hand you can pop them out while they’re still hot. To eat instantly. Once you have acquired the essential – and it really is essential – silicone baking tray everything else simply falls into place with joyful ease: the batter is straightforward to make, and is best made in advance so that it has a little time to sit in the fridge – all you need to do is dollop the mixture into the tray and place in the oven for fifteen minutes. Et voila`. Watch as these little cakes rise and rise and rise. They are so light and fluffy that each mouthful feels like biting into air. Air that tastes of creamy butter with a smidgen of honey. Utterly sublime.

I used the recipe from the St John cookbook. I made no changes because – frankly  - it is so close to perfect that I couldn’t imagine any modification possibly improving upon it. Its simplicity and its delicacy are both inimitable and incomparable. However, I also made a zabaglione cream – a mixture of egg yolks, sugar and marsala beaten over heat until a warm, light and airy custard forms – to serve alongside my madeleines. This was a master touch. Warm madeleines dipped in warm zabaglione. Utterly sublime. Perfect for breakfast, tea or pudding. Perfect at any time of the day. So very more-ish. And so very tasty. I don’t think that I’ll ever eat anything else again.

To make madeleines…

Both a silicone madeleine tray and an electric (ideally freestanding) mixer are essential here. Once you have these, the rest is – quite literally – a piece of cake. Makes 18-24 small madeleines.

  • 135g butter
  • 2 tbsp runny honey
  • 3 eggs
  • 110g caster sugar
  • 15g brown sugar
  • 135g self-raising flour, sifted

Place the butter and the honey in a small saucepan and melt, leaving to simmer until golden brown. Remove from the heat and leave to cool. Whisk the eggs, and sugar together for 10 minutes or so until the mixture has tripled in volume and leaves a trail on the surface for a few seconds when the whisk is lifted. basically, the longer you whisk the eggs for, the lighter the madeleines will be. Fold the flour and melted butter through the egg mixture until you have a smooth batter and leave to rest in the fridge for 2-3 hours. When you are ready to eat the madeleines, preaheat the oven to 190 degreees. Place a desertspoon of batter into each mould and bake for 12-15 minutes until they have risen and are golden brown. To check if they are fully cooked, insert a metal skewer – if it comes out clean, then they are done.

To make zabaglione cream…

This couldn’t be simpler and is divine with most deserts.

  • 6 egg yolks
  • 150g caster sugar
  • 150ml marsala

Combine the ingredients in a heatproof bowl, and place over a saucepan of boiling water. Whisk  constantly over the heat until a custard begins to form. All done.

Seville Orange Marmalade with a Hint of Ginger….

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Seville orange season is coming to an end. And so when – with great alacrity – I recently managed to locate a generous quantity of these bitter Spanish oranges from a fruit market, I simply couldn’t let the opportunity to make marmalade pass me by. To miss out on this wonderful preserve would, indeed, be nothing less than a true tragedy. Seville oranges, you see – those wonderfully tart yet vibrantly flavourful oranges shipped over from the depths of Spain – have a very short season, roughly from late December until mid February. Which of course just makes them all the more delectable. In a wonderful twist of fate, they preserve exquisitely. Nothing makes perfect, Paddington Bear worthy marmalade like a Seville orange: just bitter enough so as not to be too sweet – very important – and with a glossy, clear texture, where sweeter oranges would be too cloudy.

I had never attempted to make marmalade before – although I have made a number of other jams and preserves in the past – and I was pleasantly surprised, by how simple the process is. Granted there is a small amount of organisation involved: the oranges need to sliced and soaked overnight, and the pips need to be separated from the fruit and wrapped in a muslin bag. Fiddly, but  not difficult. And then there’s the boiling of the fruit for a couple of hours. But beyond this, making marmalade seems to involve little more than chopping up fruit and mixing it in a pot with large quantities of sugar. Yet the rewards are so ample: there is no true pleasure quite like dousing your morning toast with lashings of butter and homemade marmalade. Not only does it taste truly, truly divine . So divine, in fact, that you will inevitably find yourself increasing your morning intake of toast just to satisfy cravings for this homemade delicacy. Be warned. But people will hail you far and wide as a domestic divinity. How could they not?

The recipe which I used for my marmalade is adapted from The National Trust’s book of ‘Jams, Preserves and Edible Gifts’. I adopted their recipe for basic Seville marmalade, lessening the sugar content quite substantially – although, as you can see, it is still ample – so as to produce a more bitter jam, and adding a touch of heat with some crystallised ginger. Ginger and Seville oranges are two flavours which work notoriously well together: the bitterness of the one serves to compliment the punchy warmth of the other. Sublime. So, as you spread lashings of this delightful marmalade on your toast in the mornings – and eventually give in to the urge to just eat it by the spoonful – you will find yourself nicely surprised by little pockets of spice which just brighten up the day. The finer your chop the ginger, the less powerful and the more evenly distributed its flavour will be. But I like it chunky. Kind of like the Russian Roulette of the breakfast spread world.

To make Seville orange marmalade with a hint of ginger…

Makes enough for 4 medium to large jam jars. Keep it all for the ultimate indulgence. Or give some away to friends who will then love you forever. Your choice.

  • 900g Seville oranges
  • 1 sweet orange
  • 1 lemon
  • 2.4l water
  • 1.4kg caster sugar
  • 300g crystallised ginger, finely chopped

Cut all the fruits in half, remove the pips and then place them to one side. Slice the fruit finely so that you’re left with thin half moon shaped slices; place in a large bowl and cover with 1.8l of the water. Then place the pips in a separate bowl and cover with the remaining water. Cover both bowls with clean cloths and leave to stand over night. When you’re ready to make your marmalade, first sterilise your jars by putting them through a hot cycle in the dishwasher. Place the fruit slices and their water in a large saucepan and bring to boil. Leave to simmer for 1.5 – 2 hours or until the peel is tender and the water is greatly reduced. Next strain the pips – adding their water to the saucepan of simmering fruit – and tie them in a piece of muslin cloth; add the parcel of pips, chopped ginger and the sugar to the saucepan. Keep on a simmer and wait until the sugar has warmed (and dissolved) before bringing to the boil. This is important, as otherwise – if you boil the sugar before it has dissolved – it will crytallise later in the preserve and leave you with lumpy marmalade. Now, bring the mixture to the boil and boil rapidly for 5 – 10 minutes, stirring frequently to stop it sticking to the bottom. After it has boiled for 10 minutes or so, check periodically to see if it has set. I do this by placing a scarce teaspoon of marmalade on a chilled plate (I put a plate in the freezer 10-15 minutes before this point): drizzle the liquid on to the plate, leave for a minute or so and then poke at it with your finger; if the jam wrinkles then it has set. When ready, turn off the heat, scrape any scum off the top and allow the marmalade to sit for ten minutes or so. Finally, spoon the marmalade into your sterilised jars, being careful not to touch the inside of the jars or their lids.

Blood Orange and Fennel Salad…

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I love the simple flavours of this salad. The acidity of the oranges. The sweetness of the fennel. And – above all – how divinely colourful it looks. It is in fact my favourite salad of the moment. So simple to make – merely a question of combining some thinly sliced blood orange with fennel and dressing with a drizzle of olive oil. I don’t even peel the oranges, as I think that the bitter peel and pith give the salad an extra punch of flavour. But if you wanted to – if you were riddled with guilt by this dish’s sheer ease of preparation – you could take the time to peel each of the four oranges. Hardly a massive culinary feat.

The combination of citrus and fennel is just perfect for this time of year, when spring is nearly upon us but not quite there yet. When the days still have a wintery chill to them, but the sun shines bright and the first few daffodils are sprouting in the park. Bored of winter’s heavy foods – those warming soups and stodgy puddings – as our bodies cry out for spring and summer. Yet the wintery flavour of the blood oranges in this delicate salad pays a seasonal homage to the fact that it is still February – albeit the end of February.

Light but with flavoursome body, this salad is ideal to serve for both a simple lunch or a more elaborate dinner – either on its own as a delicate starter, or alongside your main course. Perhaps with a roast chicken, or duck of some sort – oranges work so very beautifully with duck. Delicious. Better still – serve it with fish. It makes for the absolute perfect accompaniment to fish. We eat it alongside lightly roasted sardines. And nothing else. We don’t need anything else. This salad just doesn’t need for anything else. It makes for a heavenly and complete meal.

To make blood orange and fennel salad…

Serves 4-6 people as a side dish.

  • 4 bulbs of fennel
  • 4 blood oranges
  • small bunch of parsley
  • olive oil for dressing
  • pinch of salt

Slice the fennel as thinly as you can. Cut the oranges in half, then thinly slice them – keeping one half of one orange whole and to one side for later – so that you’re left with thin half moon shaped slices. Combine the orange and fennel slices in a bowl and drizzle with oil; add a pinch of salt and squeeze the remaining half of an orange over them. Then mix up the fennel and orange slices with your hands so that they’re all evenly dressed. Place the salad on a large round dish and sprinkle with roughly chopped parsley. Serve as is. You’ll want for little else.

International Dog Biscuit Day…

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Today – Thursday 23rd February – is International Dog Biscuit Appreciation Day. Seriously. An actual holiday – although unfortunately, not as yet a Bank Holiday – celebrated the world over. Who knew? It is hard to establish how and when this festive event came into being, but here we are and today we celebrate it. Think of it as the Pancake Day of the canine world. A day when you indulge in an abundance of that delicious something, usually reserved for special occasions. We indulge in crepes – perhaps topped with sugar and lemon, perhaps topped with a drizzle of warm chocolate sauce – our little canine companions indulge in dog biscuits.

There is no need to sit for dog biscuits on International Dog Biscuit Appreciation Day. There is no need to perform tricks on this wonderous day. There is no limit on the number of dog biscuits one might consume. Even the tiniest of dogs get to eat like labradors on this special day: it is one of those glorious eat-until-you-feel-slightly-sick-and-then-eat-a-little-more-just-because-you-can days. As I said, much like Pancake Day. My little dog, Coco, is quivering with excitement at the mere prospect. She barely slept a wink last night. Her tiny eyes wide open and every ounce of her minute little being crying out ‘International Dog Biscuit Appreciation Day is so nearly upon us’. Although she actually voiced this sentiment as ‘Woof. Woof woof woof.’.

Of course Coco would prefer an International Small Cubes of Cheese Day, or an International Little Slivers of Roast Beef Day – or, indeed, better still – International Dollops of Peanut Butter Day (her absolute favourite). But the world is not a perfect place, we work with what we are given and dog biscuits it is. So today, in honour of this celebrated holiday, I am making my own dog biscuits, as – I can but assume – like all baked goods, they taste better when home made. I plan on following this recipe, and then shaping them into tiny little bones. And hearts. So very darling. I couldn’t resist. And perhaps I will even add a dash of peanut butter. I am sure that Coco will appreciate the extra effort.

Will you be treating your pooch today? After all, International Dog Biscuit Day only comes once a year.

Fritelle – Venetian doughnuts with raisins and pine nuts…

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In Venice the day after Epiphany, January 7th, marks the official start of Carneval – that twelfth century festival, which still today celebrates indulgence in the build up towards the start of Lent. Inspired. Exotic costumes roam the darkened alleyways, masked balls abound in candle-lit palazzi over the canals, and everyone takes to the streets in an explosion of colourful confetti and prosecco. At once surreal and wonderful.

A genuine and legitimate blow-out. Decadent, ostentatious and crowded. Best of all are the traditional sweets: ‘galani’ – wafer thin squares of deep fried sweet pastry dipped in icing sugar – and ‘castagnole’ – tiny little balls of chestnut flour, also deep fried and dipped in sugar – are just some of my favourite choices, among the wide range of street food for sale across the city at this time. But above all, amongst Carneval food, the ‘fritella’ reigns supreme. The ultimate decadence. Often served with a generous dollop of custard or chocolate cream, or better still with boozy zabaglione. ’Fritelle’ are effectively mini doughnuts, although in calling them such, I fear that something is lost in translation. Because they are so much more than simply mini doughnuts. Little balls of light, fluffy dough fried and dipped in sugar, rippled with grappa-soaked raisins, candied peel, and pine nuts. Utterly sublime. In so many ways. Each bite – so lightly scented with alcohol and sweet fruits – will melt in your mouth. It is with supreme confidence, that I declare you not to have lived – until you have at least tasted a ‘fritella’.

Make them today – just follow this simple recipe. And eat them while they’re still piping hot. By the dozen. With a crumbly coating of sugar. Have them in addition to your traditional Shrove Tuesday pancakes, if you must. Die a divine death by sugar. Why not? Lent – and the diet – start tomorrow, after all.

To make ‘fritelle’…

Makes roughly 14-16 small ‘fritelle’, but do not hesitate to double the recipe if you’re feeding a crowd. These are hideously more-ish.

  • 125ml grappa
  • 100g raisins
  • 50g candied peel
  • 50g pine nuts
  • 125ml milk
  • 250g bread flour
  • 1 1/2 tsp instant yeast
  • 1/4 tsp salt
  • 25 sugar for the ‘fritelle’  and a further 100g for dusting
  • 1 egg
  • sunflower oil for deep frying

Place the raisins and candied peel in a small bowl and cover with grappa, then set to one side to soak. This will give the raisins a wonderful flavour, as well as a lovely plump texture. Warm the butter and milk together in a small saucepan, and take off the heat as soon as the butter starts to melt. Combine the flour, yeast, salt and sugar in a mixing bowl; then beat the egg into the warmed milk, and add to the dry ingredients, mixing with a wooden spoon until well combined. Knead the dough until it reaches a silky consistency. Use a freestanding mixer with a dough hook here if you have one, if not just do it by hand. It should take roughly 10 minutes. Roll your dough into a ball, place in a clean mixing bowl and cover with clingfilm before setting somewhere warm to prove until it has doubled in size (roughly 1-2 hours). When the dough has risen, punch it down, add the raisins and pine nuts, and knead a little more. Then cut the dough into little balls (roughly 4cm in diameter), place on a baking tray and set once again to one side to rise for a further hour. When you’re ready to cook your ‘fritelle’ heat the sunflower oil in a saucepan – make sure that the oil isn’t too hot, as this will burn the outside of the ‘fritelle’ and leave the inside uncooked. If you have a sugar thermometer, try to keep the oil between 140 and 160 degrees (just take the pan off the heat for a few moments, if it’s getting too hot). If you don’t own a sugar thermometer, it might be worth investing in one (they’re not expensive and come in very useful) or otherwise, just keep an eye on the oil – basically you don’t want it to boil. This part sounds much trickier than it actually is – don’t be daunted and give it a try, within your first few doughnuts you will have got the hang of it. Place the little balls of dough into the hot oil (about 4-5 at a time depending on the size of your pan) and cook for 4-6 minutes, periodically rotating them so that they cook evenly (I used a pair of chopsticks to do this, and it worked a treat!). The difficult bit is knowing when they’re cooked through: they shouldn’t take more than six minutes, and when they’re browned on the outside they’re probably done. But the only way to know for certain is to break one open and try it. Tragic but necessary. Once cooked, place on some kitchen towel to soak up any excess oil, then roll in sugar. Eat as is or serve with a drizzle of zabaglione as the ultimate pudding.

Honey roasted fig and stilton salad…

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As part of my quest to eat my way through an entire truckle of Stilton this month – genuinely, I kid you not – I put together this salad of figs, blue cheese, watercress with a smattering of honey. I came upon the idea of combining rich blue cheese with figs, as a result of a suggestion from the lovely Emilia of Wine and Butter, one of my favourite foodie blogs. And what a great idea it is.

Initially the real challenge was to locate figs amidst snowy London. It seemed that I couldn’t find them for love nor money. So when I spotted some for sale at our local organic supermarket, I simply couldn’t pass up the opportunity to give this intriguing flavour combination a try.

While overjoyed to have located the figs, my expectations as to their flavour – given that they are currently very much out of season in Europe – were nonetheless limited. And so, I decided to lightly roast them with a drizzle of honey, hoping to intensify their delicate flavour. The result was pleasing: dark fleshy figs swimming in sweet honeyed juices. A delicacy in themselves, I kept a couple to one side to enjoy with a dollop of creamy greek yogurt for my breakfast. Each bite was like a little burst of summer.

But I digress – they were also most delicious in the salad. A colourful and light dish which makes for a great starter to any meal. I simply combined the figs – which you could very easily cook in advance – with a mixture of rocket and watercress leaves, before crumbling over an abundance of Stilton and drizzling with balsamic vinegar and a touch of olive oil. Utterly delightful.

Thanks, Em – that was a great tip! I will definitely be making this dish again. Very soon. Very, very soon.

To make a honey roasted fig and stilton salad…

I made a large salad, enough for 6 people as a starter, and served it on a long thin dish. You could just as easily plate it in individual portions if you prefer. The ingredients below are a rough guide of what I used, but you can play around with the proportions as you like.

  • 50g wild rocket
  • 50g watercress
  • 9 fresh figs
  • 4 tbsps honey
  • 150g stilton
  • drizzle of balsamic vinegar and olive oil, to dress the salad

Preheat the oven to 180 degrees. Slice the figs in half and place them on a baking tray, flesh side up. Drizzle with the honey and the place them in the oven for 15-20 minutes, or until they have darkened in colour and swelled a little in size. When you are ready to serve the salad, simply scatter the green leaves on a plate, place the figs on top, then top liberally with crumbled stilton. Finally drizzle with balsamic vinegar and olive oil. Utterly, utterly delightful.