Winter Skies, Kitchen Aglow

I have an usual love affair for European baked goods. Unusual because I have never really experienced any freshly made...no German spice cookies, no Hungarian cakes, no Austrian or Croatian pastries, no Scandinavian baking at all...you get the point. Really, the only European baked goods I've had are the few I've made after watching Ingmar Bergman, Susanne Bier and Lars von Trier films or after reading about traditional baked offerings for Christmas, St Lucia's Day and St Martin's Day. It seems that I love the idea of heavenly-scented baked goods against a wintry landscape, which speaks directly to the comfort food orientation of my blog.

I have, however, been consistent in my curiosity, for the baked goods I covet and dream of making are always made with spices and are often served with gorgeous jams or preserves. To be served such food in an authentic environment would be sublime, but in the meantime, I will try to realise the fantasy in baby steps. I do not have the confidence to make linzertorte or strudel, but the odd cake or cookie recipe is enough to satisfy my cravings.

Sometimes my curiosity is peaked by what I first think are anomalies, such as using cardamom in cookie or cake batters, which, as it turns out, is commonplace in Scandinavia. Today's post is very simple, and it relies heavily on my preferred nuts: almonds. (Baking with nuts is another of my proclivities.) I have often thought of almonds as belonging to areas with warm climates, so it surprised me that this variation on butter cake would appear in a Swede's repertoire - actually, it is a popular cake made throughout Scandinavia. And that there is a reference to Tosca in the title of the cake, I cannot help but be intrigued...

Mjuk Toscakaka
(from Tamasin Day-Lewis' The Art of the Tart)

For the cake:

2/3 cup unsalted butter
1/2 cup sugar
2 eggs, lightly beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 1/4 cups all purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
5 tablespoons water

For the topping:

1/4 cup ground or slivered almonds
4 tablespoons butter
5 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon all purpose flour
1 tablespoon milk

1) Preheat oven 180 C/350 F.
2) Cream butter and sugar together until the mixture is smooth in texture and pale in colour.
3) Beat in the eggs little by little.
4) Stir in the vanilla extract.
5) Sift in the flour and baking powder, then beat it in well.
6) Add water, then beat until smooth.
7) Pour the mixture into a prepared baking dish, such as a tart pan.
8) Ensure that the top is smooth before putting on the middle rack in the oven.
9) Bake for 30 minutes.
10) Remove pan from oven, then turn heat up to 200 C/400 F.
11) For the top of the cake, put all ingredients together in a saucepan until combined and heated through.
12) When the mixture reaches boiling point, pour it over the cake in one layer.
13) Continue to bake in the oven until the top has browned. Be careful not to let it burn.

This cake can be served hot or cold, with or without cream. The caramel and almond topping is fragrant, sweet and nutty, giving complexity to the simple, buttery sponge beneath. As for the connection to opera, I cannot quite tell, but it seems there is a cultural tradition of naming cakes after figures in the high arts. Using slivered almonds is traditional, but coarsely grinding them, as I have here, does not appear to affect the overall quality of the cake. Like most baked goods that contain nuts, a slice of this fragrant cake is perfect with coffee.

Labels: Afternoon Tea, almond cake, Almonds, Cake, Swedish, Tamasin Day-Lewis

If it weren't for my basic biblical and Islamic knowledge, I would have assumed that the Queen of Sheba was a notoriously haughty woman who did as she pleased, a non-fictional, pre-Common Era Duchess of Langeais. This impression stems from the colloquialism in the title of this post (but for the French name for the queen). In fact, I recall a few childhood moments witnessing my mother's frustration as women cut in front of her in queues or acted superior to her when they were the ones behind the counter. Out of an offending woman's earshot, my mother would mutter under her breath, "Who does she think she is? The Queen of Sheba?"

The Queen of Sheba is recorded to have travelled from the areas of contemporary Eritrea and Ethiopia to Jerusalem as a monarch conducting international affairs. She was impressed by King Solomon's wisdom, to whom she presented many questions and riddles, and submitted to monotheism.

What the gâteau, reine de Saba, has to do with the Queen of Sheba, I do not know. I have thus far not been able to find a connection between the two and have thus invented it: 1) The cake contains almonds, which are part of the regular diet in Ethiopia; 2) The cake is rich, and the Queen of Sheba is recorded as being a very wealthy monarch, having gifted a load of gold to King Solomon.

Reine de Saba with Glaçage au chocolat
(from Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle and Simone Beck's Mastering the Art of French Cooking)

For the cake:

120g/4 oz chocolate (I used 68%)
2 tablespoons espresso (or rum)
113g/4 oz unsalted butter
2/3 cup and 1 tablespoon granulated sugar, divided use
3 eggs, divided into yolks and whites
pinch of salt
1/3 cup finely ground almonds
1/4 teaspoon bitter almond extract
1/2 cup flour (cake flour is also good), scooped, levelled and sifted

1) Pre-heat oven to 180 C/350 F.
2) Butter and flour a cake tin (I used a 23cm/9" springform pan).
3) Create a double-boiler and set chocolate and espresso on top, letting the chocolate melt while you prepare the rest of the ingredients.
4) Cream the butter and 2/3 cup of sugar until pale and fluffy.
5) Beat in the egg yolks.
6) In a separate bowl, such as a clean stainless steel bowl, beat the egg whites with a pinch of salt until soft peaks are formed.
7) Sprinkle one tablespoon of sugar on the soft peaks and beat until you have stiff peaks.
8) Blend the melted chocolate into the creamed mixture.
9) Stir in almonds and almond extract.
10) Stir in 1/4 of the beaten egg whites to lighten the density, then gently fold in the remaining egg whites 1/3 at a time, interspersed with additions of flour by the third.
11) Pour batter into prepared cake pan and bake on the middle shelf in your oven for approximately 25 minutes.
12) The cake is ready when it has puffed slightly and 6cm/2.5" around the circumference are set (a toothpick test in this section should be clean, and it should be oily if poked into the centre of the cake).

For the icing:

60g/2 oz chocolate (again, I used 68%)
2 tablespoons espresso
56g/4 tablespoons unsalted butter

1) Melt chocolate with espresso in a double-boiler.
2) When perfectly smooth, remove from heat and beat in butter one tablespoon at a time.
3) A spreading consistency needs to be achieved. As the icing is cooling, you can beat over a bowl of ice until spreading consistency is reached.

Decorating the cake with almonds tells your quests that there almonds are present in the cake. As I mentioned around this time last year, almond flour adds depth of flavour and imparts a moist result. Reine de Saba is rich beyond belief; it is both dense and creamy.

I don't who she thinks she is, but reine de Saba is welcome to turn up any time an easy-to-make and rich cake is desired.

Labels: Afternoon Tea, Chocolate Cake, French, Julia Child, Reine de Saba cake

I had intended on beginning this post with a note on using food a safe mechanism for escapism, but upon taking photos, I realised this was not to be. I have run out of the necessary batteries for my camera. I will rectify the situation this week, but it means that today's photos are taken with an aparatus whose results are uninspiring at the best of times: the web cam. So, I find myself beginning the post with an apologia for the visuals.

Now, that the depressing stuff is out of the way, and perhaps more of a reason to transport oneself, though in this instance it would be preferable to have the real-life escape instead of a sensory or virtual one, allow me to point out what is probably evident to regular readers: I use food to escape. This is not to say that I do not appreciate living in the moment, I do, but it often transpires that I use food to create moment, to impart an energy. When creating a menu, what is often the great fun is creating a link between the courses, to have each dish speak to those preceding or following it. It is a great learning opportunity to understand the possibilities of many an ingredient. In fact, when I create a menu, I sometimes have just one ingredient in mind, and I like to see what I can do with it - of course, I am aware of overkill and make sure it is not the star of every single dish, for that gets tired. And most people don't care that much anyway; they just want to be fed.

When I want to escape, I head for my bookcase of cookery books, which functions as a stone-front fireplace would in the coldest, snowiest of Winters. This weekend looks like Winter, but, thankfully, it isn't yet unbearably cold. It is in this subtropical storm that I get the best of both worlds: moderate temperatures and grey, wet skies. While not quite willing to swap polos for turtlenecks, I am showcasing two of a myriad of ways with one of my favorite Summer foods: yoghurt. (Of course yoghurt can be made year-round; I just tend to crave it in the Summer more than any other time of the year.)

With my dabbling into Middle Eastern cookery, I have found yoghurt to be a kitchen staple. Often it is used as a marinade, a dipping sauce, or as a thirst-quencher. While not nearly as familiar with the myriad of Indian cuisines as I am with those of the Middle East, I am becoming increasingly inquisitive about the food preparations of this vast subcontinent, the world's largest producer of spices. A perfect way to counter heat with its cooling effect on the palate is raita, an Indian condiment. It accompanies spicy Indian dishes, grilled meat, and it also makes a great dip for pita or naan chipes.

To this dip, feel free to add as much mint or cucumber as you prefer. You could also add onion and garlic, or you can swap out the mint for coriander. Instead of dusting it off with a little chilli powder, I added a sprinkling of my favourite spice, sumac, which has a citrus-spike that pairs well with cumin.

Cucumber and Mint Raita
(Closely adapted from Anjum Anand's Indian Food Made Easy)

1 cucumber, about 12 1/2cm/5" in length
1 1/2 tablespoons mint, chiffonade
300g/10 fl.oz nautral/plain yoghurt
3/4 teaspoon cumin seeds, toasted and ground
a pinch of sumac

1) Peel the cucumber and grate it coarsely.
2) Squeeze the excess moisture out of the grated cucumber. (I did this by wrapping the jade-coloured strands in kitchen paper.)
3) Place the grated cucumber into a bowl with the mint and gently mix together.
4) Fold in the yoghurt.
5) Fold in the cumin.
6) Sprinkle sumac on top.

For a mildly sweet hit for afternoon tea, I am partial to moist cakes made with yoghurt. What I love most about them is that the cake itself can be made simply, allowing for the chosen syrup to be the great carrier of flavour, which means that no matter what your mood on the day, the cake-making part is a no-brainer. The only thing to bear in mind is that Greek yoghurt is a little thicker than most and has a slight tang, which I prefer, so it is something to be mindful of when deciding what syrup to make. If you do not prefer a tangy yoghurt, then choose plain/natural instead of Greek or Greek-style yoghurts. The other great thing about this particular cake is that it alleviates one of the creaming of butter and sugar, which is often necessary for baked goods. It is something I don't particularly enjoy doing even though I understand the necessity of it. Also, the less eggs there are to break, the better. I've made hundreds of cakes and muffins, and there is nothing I hate more than breaking eggs...it is always such a task for me (and yes, I've read up on various methods to break eggs easily and cleanly).

The syrup is taken from a Diana Henry recipe. It is rather ingenius because it means one can leave out the brandy from the cake base - it seems to be a common ingredient in Greek yoghurt cakes. The addition to reduced coffee, though, does not leave a brandy-flavoured syrup, but simulates that of walnuts in liquor, which is what some Turks use in their yoghurt cakes. In this way, you get the ultimate blend of both Greek and Turkish approaches to yoghurt cakes (as opposed to the Italian and Middle Eastern ones that also often use semolina, which I didn't think I had on hand, but I did - only I found out too late).

Greek Yoghurt Cake with Coffee and Brandy Syrup

For the cake:
1 cup Greek yoghurt
2 eggs
1 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 cup vegetable oil
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon icing sugar

1) Line and grease a 25cm/10" springform pan.
2) Preheat oven to 180 C/350 F.
3) Gently combine yoghurt, eggs, sugar, vanilla extract and vegetable oil in a bowl.
4) In a separate bowl, sift together the flour and baking powder.
5) Slowly add the dry ingredients to the wet, ensuring the batter is smooth.
6) Bake for 35-45 minutes, until a skewer or toothpick pierced into the centre of the cake comes out clean.
7) Allow the cake to rest for 10 minutes before taking it out of the pan and resting it on a plate.
8) While it is still warm, pierce the cake with a toothpick and pour the syrup over.
9) Once the syrup has seeped into the cake, dust the cake with icing sugar.

For the syrup:
(Closely adapted from Diana Henry's Crazy Water, Pickled Lemons: Enchanting Dishes from the Middle East, Mediterranean and North Africa)

1 cup (8 oz) espresso
1/2 cup raw sugar
2 tablespoons brandy

1) Boil the hot espresso and sugar together.
2) Reduce liquid by half.
3) Remove from heat and add brandy.
4) Allow to cool before pouring over the cake.

I appreciate that the top of the cake is not too much to look at, which is why the dusting of icing sugar is a good idea, but the flavours and texture are wonderful. This cake is dense but light-tasting at the same time. Your unintiated guests will wonder what the ingredients are, for the syrup is incredibly complex and the underscoring tang from the yoghurt makes for excitement on the palate.

Labels: Afternoon Tea, Anjum Anand, Diana Henry, Greek, Greek yoghurt, Indian, Yoghurt

It is Thanksgiving in the United States of America, my second home. My angelheart Eric returned to LA yesterday after a heavenly 8-day sojourn in New Zealand, which was far too short. Although terribly depressed, as anyone is when apart from his or her most loved one, I am thankful that he was able to come over and spend some time with me, for it may not be months now until we next see each other.

As is typical in a state of sadness, I felt the need to bake. I also wanted to contribute something to the Thanksgiving table. Of course, we don't have cans of pumpkin purée lining our supermarket shelves in New Zealand - at least, not typically - and butternut squash is not in season, so I couldn't make any purée for myself. I headed to the market for other American favourites in the Autumn: pears and pecan nuts.

I first had pecans by way of the infamous Southern delight: pecan pie. Pandoro Panetteria in Parnell (on the inner-city fringe of Auckland) used to make a nutty and sweet pecan pie. I adored its custard filling made with both brown and white sugar. I say this in past tense because I haven't had one for years and don't know if they still make it. I should stop by. It is criminal that I never had one in all of my years (and Thanksgivings) in the USA - or, at least, I didn't have one that I remember.

I do like pecans a great deal, though. I love their oval shape and the ridges cracked into their maple-to-deep brown skin. Pecans are rich in flavour, particularly of butter, which is perfectly heightened with any recipe that involves melted or brown butter. Storing them isn't terribly difficult. According to the National Center for Home Food Preservation, shelled pecans should be refrigerated or frozen. They need to be kept away from air and light as they have a high oil content; exposure to heat will quickly make the pecan's natural oil go rancid.

Thanksgiving is a time of year that is associated with all things richly hued. This is the season in which I never seem to tire of the clichés that are presented in store fronts or on magazine covers, where everything is brown, orange and burnt red. Deep in a sepia haze, one can be forgiven for wondering what it's like to see "normal" again. Of course, I don't find it suffocating or overwhelming because I don't have the cultural associations that go along with it, whether it be dealing with the emotions caused by family hysteria or by a post-colonial reality. But bring it on: roasted squash, braised mustard greens, carrot puree, fennel gratin, roast turkey (first brined then stuffed with citrus), toffee apples, maple ice cream, brown butter sauce, dark cups of coffee, pumpkin pie, and, of course, all the nuts of the fall: hazelnuts, chestnuts, and pecans...

Pear Crisp
(Adapted from the Brown-Sugar Apple Cake recipe in Martha Stewart Living, October 2006)

95 1/2g (3 1/3oz) butter, melted
2 medium pears (I used Bosc), approximately 2/3 kg (1 1/2lb)
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
2/3 cup brown sugar, any colour depending on desired depth of flavour
2/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 egg, lightly beaten
2/3 cup pecans, toasted and coarsely chopped

1) Preheat oven to 180 C (350 F).
2) Butter a loaf pan. Mine measures 22 x 13cm (8 1/2 x 5").
3) Peel, core and cut pears into 1cm (> 1/3" but < 1/2") slices. You can dice them, if you prefer a neater presentation when the crisp is inverted after the initial cooling period once baked.
4) Add sliced pears to a medium bowl and toss them with the cinnamon, nutmeg and granulated sugar.
5) Spread the spicy pear slices on the bottom of the loaf pan.
6) In a large bowl, whisk together the brown sugar, flour and salt.
7) Add the egg and butter and whisk until just combined.
8) Stir in the pecans.
9) Pour batter over the spicy pear slices.
10) Bake until the top is a maple brown and a skewer comes out clean, approximately 35 minutes. I checked after 25 minutes and poured out any excess butter that was bubbling on top.
11) Let cool slightly on a rack.
12) Use a knife around the edges of the loaf pan to loosen and invert.
13) Cut into squares or cut across into slices.

The base is chewy and redolent of the butteriness imparted by the pecans, the toasted pieces of which full each mouthful with warmth. The soft slices of pear are spicy in the most comforting of ways - What would Thanksgiving be without spices?

To my angelheart Eric and all my wonderful American friends:
Happy Thanksgiving!

Labels: Afternoon Tea, Crisp, Holidays, Martha Stewart, Pear, Thanksgiving

I thought that I was like most people, which is to say: I thought that I was a chocolate-lover. This year has taught me that I don't especially care for it in all forms, mostly because I don't think it is always accented enough. My angelheart Eric will tell you that I scoff chocolate biscuits (cookies) if they're around, and he'd be right. But that is only because they are in the pantry, from which I have taken many a biscuit. It's not a chocolate addiction, but a habit of snacking when I need a break from trying to read and write my thesis.

In its least overworked form, which is to say melted with cream and formed into a truffle, chocolate can satisfy me. But I think that my favourite use of chocolate is in a cake or pudding. I love it to be rich in chocolate goodness and never diluted of flavour. Too many flavourings are a bad thing in my books when it comes to cooking with chocolate - and though I am sad to say it, I don't often go in for fancy truffles that incoporate every ingredient under the sun (I might however be attempted to try some of Vosges' delights, following the review by Garrett of Vanilla Garlic). I find that even a small amount of freshly ground coffee heightens the flavour of the chocolate. And I am a sucker for pairing brandy with chocolate. (I'm sure, by now, you have seen that brandy is my preferred plonk with which to bake and cook.)

You can melt chocolate on a stovetop or in a microwave. If you are going to use your stovetop, a double-boiler will need to be constructed out of a saucepan and a non-reactive bowl. Bring water in the saucepan to a boil then turn down to simmer. Place a bowl over the saucepan, into which is placed the chocolate. The bottom of the bowl should never touch the water. Chocolate melts at 30 C/95 F but burns, splits and cannot be used if it reaches or surpasses a temperature of 50 C/120 F.

Dense Chocolate Cake
(Adapted from Nigella Lawson's How To Be A Domestic Goddess)

225g/1 cup unsalted butter, softened
1 2/3 cups brown sugar
2 large eggs, beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
120g bittersweet (70%) chocolate, melted
1 tablespoon coffee, freshly ground
1 1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
1 cup boiling water
1 tablespoon brandy

1) Preheat oven to 190 C/375 F.
2) Butter and line your baking vessel. A 23 x 13cm/9 x 5" loaf pan is ideal. I used a 24cm/9" springform cake pan. I have one loaf pan, which is half the dimensions, and I didn't not want to halve the recipe for fear of seeming miserly. I couldn't think quickly enough as to what I would do with the remainder of the batter, save for eating it (I'm not above eating raw egg and flour - goodness only knows how often I ate the biscuit dough when mum wasn't looking), hence the springform pan. Place baking vessel on a lined baking sheet in case there is a bit of spillage.
3) Cream the butter and sugar until fluffy.
4) Beat eggs in well.
5) Fold in the melted and slightly cooled chocolate until blended, but do not overbeat because there is still more folding to come.
6) Combine coffee, flour and bicarbonate of soda.
7) Add flour and bicarb mix by the spoonful to the chocolate mix alternately with a spoonful of boiling water. This takes a while to do, folding with each addition, but it only requires patience, not technical prowess.
8) Stir in the brandy.
9) The batter will have the appearance of swamp mud - that is to say, it will look quite liquid.
10) Pour into prepared baking vessel.
11) Bake for 30 minutes, then turn the temperature down to 163 C/325 F to bake for a further 15 minutes.
12) The loaf will not pass a skewer test, for it is meant to be quite damp in the centre, but the outside should look done.
13) Cool completely on a rack before opening the springform pan or turning it out, if in a loaf pan.

If using a loaf pan, the cake will sink in the middle because it is damp in the centre. The photo to the left should give you an indication of that. However, the top is fairly crisp, adding a textural contrast to the interior. As much as I love brandy, any more would have been overkill; one tablespoon is enough for the cake to be slightly boozy, making it acceptable to eat before cocktail hour.

Labels: Afternoon Tea, Cake, Chocolate, Chocolate Cake, Coffee, Nigella Lawson

The first time I ever used cardamom was for Hamam Mahshi bil Burghul, an Egyptian preparation of stuffed small birds that requires marinading in spices (principally, cardamom and cinnamon but also a bit of allspice), onion and a combination of oil and lemon juice. I was first surprised by the inclusion of cinnamon since I had only ever had it in desserts, but I got over that when I first smelled cardamom. I did not know what to expect of it because I had had no known experience with the pods (I say 'known' because it has probably appeared in its ground incarnation in many curries I have eaten in Indian restaurants). I was soon entranced during the process of pulling the seeds from their pods and of grinding them, a process which releases an aromatic transformation at every step.

I am a fan of spices and herbs decidedly and judiciously used to either give flavour to or augment the flavours of protein. However, for the longest time I have wanted to put a niggling question to bed: Why do Scandinavians use cardamom in their breads, cakes and pastries? Understanding that my worldview is affected both by my upbringing and education, I did not ever pass judgment on this baking norm, but I could not but help think it an intriguing thing to do. But the Vikings and the Scandinavians, centuries on, could not be wrong. Clearly, there was something in this application to be learned.

When buying cardamom pods, look for tight ones with papery husks the lightest of olive greens (though in Europe and the North America they are sometimes bleached). You may want to bear in mind the green cardamom is more commonly used for Scandinavian baking, as opposed to black cardamom, which is closely related and is used in African cookery. Once removed from their husky capsules, the dark pellets immediately smell of ginger, which is no surprise given they are from the same family. Once ground, the specklings are redolent of Eucalyptus. And while this might not sound appetising, another transformation occurs once heated.

The usage of freshly ground cardamom is imperative in order to get the lingering lemon flavours of the cardamom that imbue baked goods upon the introduction of heat. Pre-ground cardamom will leave too little trace, potentially nullifying its addition in the first place. And since it is one of the most expensive spices in the world (third to saffron and vanilla), it is not something you should want to waste.

A pretty tube pan is suggested for this cake, ostensibly to give it some presence, for this is, at the end of the day, a plain cake - at least only in terms of appearance. I used a bundt pan, not having a tube pan on hand. If you do not have a cake pan with a hole in the middle, do not lose sleep over it. I would use a loaf pan instead, which is what I did for Toasted Ginger Cake.

Cardamom Cream Cake
(from Beatrice Ojakangas' Scandinavian Feasts)

2 cups flour, sifted
1 cup sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon cardamom, freshly ground
1 pinch salt
3 eggs, at room temperature
1 1/2 cups/12 fl. oz heavy/double cream
icing sugar, optional

1) Preheat oven to 180 C/350 F.
2) Butter and flour a 24cm/9" cake pan.
3) Combine flour, sugar, baking power and cardamom in a bowl.
4) Using an electric mixer, blend in the eggs on low speed.
5) Add cream and beat on high speed, scraping down the sides of the bowl to ensure the mixture is incorporated. Look for the texture of softly whipped cream.
6) Turn the batter into the prepared pan.
7) Bake until done, approximately 50-60 minutes. A toothpick/skewer test is a good way to assess this.
8) Cool in the pan for 5 minutes before inverting onto a rack.
9) To dress up the cake, lightly dust with icing sugar before serving.

The cake has a dense centre, which I suppose is attributed to the fact that there is no creaming required to make it. The crumb is quite closed, dense, as opposed to the open crumb of sponges and some pound cakes. The texture is yielding in the mouth on account of using so much cream.

It occurred to me while eating this cake that citrus fruit is not widely grown in Scandinavia, so including cardamom as an ingredient allows one to get a mild yet uplifting citrus hit, which is what some of us crave for from time to time.

Labels: Afternoon Tea, Beatrice Ojakangas, Cake, Cardamom, Pound Cake

One year has passed since I first started this blog. What originally began as an exercise in both relaxtion and avoidance became a serious hobby and a marker of my evolution in the kitchen. Although this year started off well, the move back to New Zealand saw fewer forays into the kitchen. My interest, however, never dulled. Always amongst the works of theoretical investigation I am doing for my Master's thesis are a mix of single-subject (usually dense, often referred to as "scholarly") and favourite cookery books (the two are not mutually exclusive, of course). If I don't have the time to cook, I am often thinking of cooking during any future moment of "free" time.

Cooking has become an integral part of my life, an outlet through which I assert and explore my identity. It is a way of expressing facets of my personality as it is a way to share, enquire, and comfort. While my exploration is still nascent, I have come to understand how my palate works, what excites me (for now, as I understand that the palate lives and is constantly changing), and some of the principles of cookery. I am emboldened by the realisation that this is a life-long discovery.

Because writing is a component of this blog, it, too, is an exploration, principally of style, tone and focus. Perhaps it is the social scientist in me that values empiricism expressed through contextualisation, but I am as much inspired by the written words of cookery book authors as I am by singular recipes. My own writing is neither erudite nor fully-formed, but it is enhanced and driven to be more precise by those writers who best marry fact, history and other observations of social phenomena through the expression of carefully chosen recipes. I hope to one day match their enthusiasm and knowledge, a desire I didn't know existed in me before I started this blog. If you're interested to know, my favourite posts of the year, limited to only three, are: Egyptian Feast, my first Weekend Cookbook Challenge for which I made Cornish Hens stuffed with Bulgur, Raisins and Pine Nuts, Okra with Garlic and Ginger, and Almond Fingers; Thanksgiving, for which I made Roasted Root Vegetables with Honey, Balsamic Vinegar and Goat Cheese and Pumpkin Pie and Candied Pepitas served with Dried Fig and Coffee Ice Cream; and Feijoa Curd.

On this anniversary of my first year as a food blogger, I am happy to share a recipe that was passed on to me by my darling friend and mentor in politics, the intellectually-ferocious and generous Anita, who, in turn, was taught this recipe at the side of her German grandfather. Not only is this perfect for afternoon tea on any day in Summer or Autumn, but it is a wink to my first post for which I used a plum hybrid: Dapple-Dandy Pluot Tart.

Pflaumenkuchen is translated to "plum cake" in English, yet the base for this particular recipe, a doughnut-like sponge, requires yeast and the result is more reminiscent of bread. Tart plums are best for this, to offset and add interest to the sweet base, but which is further enhanced at the end with a dusting of sugar and cinnamon. I decided not to use damsons because, if childhood memory serves me right, the pits require a lot of time to extricate. Also, I didn't see any at the market, perhaps because they come out in the late Fall. I decided on red-skinned, orange-fleshed Pipestone plums. Also, if your baking tray (sheet pan) is not of the same dimensions, a bigger one will only yield a thinner base, which is what you may prefer - just make sure you have enough plums.

Pflaumenkuchen

4 cups all-purpose flour, sifted, plus more for kneading
1 oz/30g fresh yeast or 1/3oz/10g active dried yeast
8 tablespoons sugar, divided use
1 cup milk
1/3 cup/75g unsalted butter, melted
1 egg
1 pinch salt
3 pounds/1.3kg medium-sized plums
1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

1) Put the flour into a large bowl and create a well in the centre.
2) Crumble fresh yeast or active dried yeast that has been stirred into 1/2 cup of tepid water into the well and stir into the flour, pulling from the sides of the well, with 1 tablepoon of sugar and the milk. Though the ingredients should come together, the resultant mixture should look quite wet.
3) Cover and let rise in a warm place for 20 minutes.
4) Mix in 3 tablespoons sugar, melted butter, egg and salt.
5) Knead with floured hands until the dough is pulling away from the side of the bowl. I almost used an extra cup of flour until I got a dough that was smooth. The kneading process took about 10 minutes.
6) Cover and let rise in a warm place until doubled in size, approximately 25 minutes.
7) Prepare the plums by cutting them lengthwise and pitting. With a paring knife you can smooth out the groove in which the pit sat, but I like to see the indentations it leaves behind. Cut each plum half so that they open up like a book, that is to say, make a hinge.
8) Grease a baking tray, about 11 3/4" by 15" (30cm by 38cm).
9) Preheat oven to 425F/ 220C.
10) Remove yeast dough from bowl, knead once or twice, and roll out on a baking tray with a floured rolling pin.
11) Place plums on dough in close rows, pressing slightly into the dough.
12) Let rise for 15 minutes.
13) Bake for 20-25 minutes until slightly golden on top and juices are running from the plums.
14) Mix 4 tablespoons of sugar and cinnamon and use as much of this mixture as you prefer to sprinle over the still-hot pflaumenkuchen.

I love the pink stain left behind by the red skin of the plums, and I love the rich and round flavour of baked plums. As mentioned above, the dough is doughnut-like, spongey and sweet, but not cloyingly so. Cinnamon and baked plums are a match made in heaven. This is perfection on its own but enhanced with the bitter caramel edges of an espresso.

Post script See Pille's plum cake, Lihtne Ploomikook, using Emma Leppermann plums.

Labels: Afternoon Tea, Bread, Cake, German, Plums

I remember when I first started to really pay attention as I read recipes for baking. I like chocolate as much as the next person, but pies and cakes that use fruit always get my heart racing - especially stone fruit. I would always sit bolt upright as I read the many marvellous ways to do more with fruit than eat it directly from a tree - not that that isn't heaven itself. I had not given much thought to flour, an important cake ingredient, until, I read that one could turn almonds into a flour. Since then, I have not looked back, often substituting a third of the flour in any cake recipe with the same amount of ground almonds.

For some time now I have told myself to make use of the abundance of almonds, one of California's largest agricultural exports. This is not only because they are brilliantly nutty, but their ubiquity makes them affordable (in New Zealand they can be prohibitively expensive, especially since I love them so much). I am a sucker for almonds, whether they be chopped and scattered over a sweet syrup as a finishing touch for baklava, infused in scalded milk before being added to a custard and chilled for ice cream, or used in their slithered form, incorporated in a tagine.

When I saw Molly's recipe for Almond Torte with Sugared Apricots over at Orangette, my mind was made up - now is the time to make use of those ubiquitous almonds and turn them into a frangipane. In the loosest terms, frangipane is any cream or batter made with almonds; in stricter terms, it is an almond cream filling for tarts and pastries. For a cake batter, almonds all but guarantee a dry but light texture and always add a nutty complexity.

Plum Frangipane Cake

For the ingredients and method, please see Molly's recipe.

If you have almonds, you need one third cup of them ground. This can easily be done in a food processor within seconds. If you're using a mini blitzing machine, like a Magic Bullet, be sure to keep an eye on the almonds as they may clump up. If you see this happen, stop blitzing - they are ground enough already. If you do not have almonds, substitute with 1/3 cup flour, but I suggest you give it a try, especially if you haven't before, for the texture is toothier, adding some gusto and substance to stand up to your chosen stone fruit. Also, I love to see the flecks of almond dotting the batter, much like sun-kissed freckles on a Summer face.

I veered from Molly's path just a bit. I don't particularly like apricots, so I went with plums, which had been picked from the divine poetess Suzanne's tree. I greased my vessel, a 9.5"/24cm oval stoneware platter, whereas Molly recommends an ungreased 9"/23cm springform pan. I wasn't sure of the logic behind ungreasing, but I was sure of the fact that I wanted nothing to stay behind in my pink Le Creuset stoneware dish. I used one egg and 1/4 cup full fat milk instead of 2 eggs. Into the batter also went 1 teaspoon of bitter almond extract, which, with this small quantity, has the taste of marzipan more than one of bitterness.

Although it was the middle of the day and potentially too la dolce vita, I served the cake with homemade vanilla bean and brandy ice cream. The combination of plums and almonds seem to bring out the Italinate desires within me. Elegant Marcello Mastroianni and charming Giorgio Locatelli, I am not, but this cake helps me live out my delusions of having an Italian afternoon tea.

Labels: Afternoon Tea, Almonds, Cake, Plums

I know it seems like I have an incorrigible sweet tooth at the moment, but the truth of the matter is that I have just had one roast after another for dinner, and other than my amateur lamb inquiries, I am not going to bore you on what makes a good roast. There are quite a few perspectives on roasting, say, a perfect chicken: high temperature for the first 20 minutes, then lower for 12-15 minutes per 500g/1 lb; breast-side down until the last 20 minutes; breast up at all times and baste the bird every 20 minutes; brine for 24 hours first, then roast on the highest heat for a short period of time...I have tried them all, found what works for me, and have nothing further to add to the discourse on this most erudite of home economics subjects.

I can, however, suggest what to do if you have 350g of feijoa curd that you want to use because you cannot face starting the day with yet more toast slathered with this divinely tropical curd (life is so hard). My good friend Freya at Writing at the Kitchen Table suggested that I make an alternative to lemon meringue pie, and while this is indeed a grand idea, I felt the need today to make something for afternoon tea (what's new, eh?).

Feijoa Meringue Tarts

For the sweet shortcrust pastry (ALL ingredients should be fridge-cold to start):
225g/8oz flour
salt
113g/4oz unsalted butter, cut into cubes
50g/2oz sugar (caster or icing)
2-3 tablespoons milk (or water)

350g feijoa curd, or thereabouts (recipe)

For the meringue:
3 egg whites
110g/4oz cup sugar

To make the pastry:
1) Sift the flour with a pinch of salt.
2) Rub the butter into the flour and salt with your finger tips.
3) Once your have sand-like granules, mix in the sugar.
4) Gently work one tablespoon of milk into the crumbs. Add another tablespoon if not entirely cohering. You should only need two tablespoons of liquid, but, if the stars aren't aligned and the kitchen is too hot, add one more tablespoon.
5) Form into a ball and wrap in clingfilm.
6) Put in the fridge to relax for at least 30 minutes.
7) Allow the dough to come to room temperature before rolling it out.
8) Lightly flour your surface, rolling pin and hands.
9) Roll out your dough to either fit up to a 25cm/10" tart pan (for a proper and big tart) or to a size large enough to cut rounds that fit into a prepared (that is to say, greased and floured) 12-muffin tray, as I did. Leftovers from trimming the holders are to be brought together and rolled out again, so that each of the 12 holders is lined with pastry dough.
10) Put the muffin tray in the fridge while you prepare the meringue.

To make the meringue:
1) Whisk whites until stiff.
2) Add 1/3 of the sugar and whisk until stiff again.
3) Fold in another 1/3 of the sugar.
4) Reserve 1/3 of sugar for the final assembly of the meringue tarts.

To assemble:
1) Preheat oven to 180 C/350 F.
2) Spoon feijoa curd into each muffin holder. Only put in enough to fill up half of each holder because the pastry shrinks significantly as it bakes.
3) Plop 2-3 tablespoons of meringue on top of the feijoa curd.
4) With the last remaining 1/3 of sugar from the meringue ingredients, sprinkle a little over the top of each cloud of meringue.
5) Bake for 12 - 15 minutes until the pastry is flaky and golden and the meringue topping is gorgeously bronze.

The irony of the intention behind making these tarts is that the resultant product compels me to make more feijoa curd. Being over one week old, the banana-like aroma of the curd has disappeared, making way for a mellow pineapple scent. Encased in buttery, flaky goodness, these one-per-person delights are perfect with a strong and slightly bitter espresso.

Labels: Afternoon Tea, Feijoa, Tart

Somewhere along the way, Nigella Lawson's fairy cakes have become the benchmark to which we in the food blogging community compare our cupcakes. Most of us have made La Lawson's version. I'm convinced the cover of her How To Be a Domestic Goddess is responsible - a solitary vanilla cupcake upon which sits a delicate candied flower, probably a blogger's definition of a pretty baked good.

For the longest time, and years before now, my breakfast consisted of a blueberry muffin and a long black (a double espresso with extra hot water). I have not found any authoritative take on the difference between a muffin and a cupcake. My copy of Martha Stewart's Baking Handbook is in the US, and this would probably serve as the most definitive text on the subject I own. The internet hasn't been much help. And, being of English extraction, there is no entry in the Larousse tomes. In all the recipes I have had a squiz at, there is no marked ratio of flour to butter that distinguishes them, both can call on rising agents, nuts, and fruit. So, why is it that when we see them, we know the difference? I come to the quick conclusion that cupcakes are cute little cakes that are smaller than the size of your palm (unless you're a baby or have really tiny palms) whereas muffins are stockier little cakes about the size of your palm and possibly bigger - especially if those "markets" specialising in selling bulk items have anything to say about it.

Though I no longer get breakfast on the go, or at least I have not done so for years, I have reinstituted afternoon tea, an important and necessary part of my day. This is when I have a small slice of cake or, now, a sweet cupcake to get me through often braindead hours of 3-5pm.

The following recipe makes 12 cupcakes. If you do not have self-rising cake flour, sift together 3/4 cup of all purpose flour, 1 teaspoon of baking powder and 1/8 teaspoon of salt.

Fairy Cakes
(from Nigella Lawson's How To Be a Domestic Goddess)

1/2 cup unsalted butter, softened
7 tablespoons sugar
2 eggs
3/4 cup self-rising cake flour
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
2-3 tablespoons milk

1) Preheat the oven to 200 C/400 F and line a 12-cup muffin pan with paper baking cups.
2) Cream the butter and sugar.
3) Gently beat in the vanilla.
4) Gently beat in the eggs on at a time and in between each add a tablespoon of flour.
5) Fold in the rest of the flour.
6) Add the milk by the tablespoon to bring to a soft constitution, suitable for dropping into the muffin cups.
7) Pour the mixture into each of the 12 muffin cups, filling them up equally, usually about halfway.
8) Bake for 15-20 minutes, by which stage the cupcakes should be cooked and golden on top. To see if the cupcakes are done, insert a toothpick through the top of a cupcake to the middle, and if it comes out clean, remove the muffin pan from the oven.
9) Allow cupcakes to cool on a wire rack as soon as you can manage to remove the baking cups from the muffin tray.

Cream Cheese Icing
(Adapted from Nigella Lawson's How To Be a Domestic Goddess)

1/2 cup cream cheese
1 2/3 cups icing sugar
1-2 teaspoons orange juice

1) Beat the cream cheese and icing sugar together until smooth and soft.
2) Mix in 1 teaspoon of orange juice and taste. If you want more juice, feel free to add another teaspoon, as I did.

To assemble: Smear the icing on the cupcakes with a butter knife. I typically do without adornments, but abandon yourself to the impulses of decorating if you so desire.

I know you are sick of the webcam photos, but there are only 5 more weeks until I am reunited with my baby (my angelheart Eric has custody of our digital camera). If I got too close to the cupcake, the texture was even blurrier than it is in this photo. I tried. The cupcakes are tasty, with a hint of vanilla. The icing has a slight tang, offsetting the mild sweetness in the cupcake. I might add a vanilla bean and grapefruit juice next time.

Labels: Afternoon Tea, Cake, cupcakes, Fairy cakes, Nigella Lawson

I really cannot believe how long it has been since I last posted a blog entry. I meant to cook up a storm whilst in the US visiting my angelheart Eric, but I was either too busy with him, with friends, or with my nose in the books. Now, I have returned and have suitably re-settled in. I am still without a digital camera but have resolved to possess my own one when I go back to the US from July - September. In the meantime, please do not be too harsh on the pics taken with my webcam - not that I am known for my "photography".

Suddenly returning to Winter Skies, Kitchen Aglow has meant that I have not personally stocked up the pantry or freezer. I cannot just peek into the pantry for arborio rice, feel my way around the vials on the over-the-sink shelf for fennel seeds, or look above the fridge or in the freezer for chicken stock, canned or homemade. No, I am making do with mum and dad's kitchen staples for this return from exile. There has been no usual pre-planning; this is me cooking on-the-fly. Sort of.

Though I own and have thoroughly read Nigel Slater's Appetite,I am not really feeling ambitious enough to create a dish, and while the guidelines he establishes are disseminated in a way that any old kitchen clutz - myself certainly included - can feel secure in following his lead, I really need to familiarize myself with "mum's kitchen". I previously wrestled with the stove and finding all the tools when working on the recipes for the Cookbook Spotlight (reviewed here) and knew that I was not comfortable in that space, for it was not home - yet. So, I have decided to cook something I am really comfortable with to test how the oven performs.

I chose to stay on the Nigel Slater track because, as everyone should know by now, he makes unpretentious and usually uncomplicated dishes that are lovingly described in his rich descriptions, usually leaving the reader's mouth agape and saliva bursting through the dam. Mr. Slater's The Kitchen Diaries (really, a book to keep on the nightstand and within grasp in the kitchen year-long) is one my most beloved cookery books, not only for the wit and charm enveloped in his prose, or only for the rustic presentation of the food, but also for its seasonal offerings. Since it is Autumn in New Zealand, I look to the fruit bowl and immediately seize the two remaining glorious apples.

The only adjustments I make to this English Apple Cake are: to use half the juice of an orange instead of a lemon because I feel orange works better with cinnamon (a change due to preference, but you can be your own judge), to use two apples instead of three because they were the only ones remaining (a change due to necessity, but if you have three eating apples, then use them), and to use raw sugar instead of demerara sugar because my mum never has demerara sugar in the pantry (another change due to necessity). I was intrigued by this recipe not only because I was relieved to (almost) have everything on hand, but because of the addition of fresh breadcrumbs scattered over the apples before baking the cake. Breadcrumbs, really? Why? It is all in the result...

English Apple Cake
(from Nigel Slater's The Kitchen Diaries)

130g/4oz butter
130g/ 1/2 cup unrefined caster sugar
2 - 3 eating apples
juice of 1/2 an orange or lemon
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
2 tablespoons raw or demerara sugar
2 large eggs
130g/ 1/2 cup flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
3 tablespoons fresh white breadcrumbs
a little extra sugar

1) Set oven to 180 C/ 350 F.
2) Line the base of a 24cm/9" cake tin (Mr. Slater uses a square one; I use a round one), and either butter and flour it or line it with parchment paper (including the sides).
3) Cream butter and caster sugar together until light in color and fluffy in texture.
4) Cut apples into small chunks, removing the cores one by one and dropping the chunks into a small bowl with the juice of half an orange or lemon.
5) Toss the apple chunks with the citrus juice, cinnamon and raw or demerara sugar.
6) Break the eggs, beat them with a fork, and gradually add them to the creamed butter and caster sugar.
7) Sift the flour and baking powder together and slowly fold into the mixture.
8) Scrape into the cake tin and put the spiced apple chunks on top (excluding the reserved juice) before scattering over the breadcrumbs and additional raw or demerara sugar (I scattered over one teaspoon of raw sugar).
9) Bake for 55 minutes to one hour. The cake should be ready not only when you can smell it but when it is pulling away from the sides (using a toothpick will yield some sticky bits, for this is meant to be a moist cake).

The breadcrumbs did not soak up the moisture as I thought they would but developed a coconut-like toastiness, which was a surprising and delicious partner to the thin, moist apple cake. The amount of cinnamon used is light enough to make this a perfect coffee cake to have for afternoon tea. And just so you know - yes, the oven seems to be perfectly calibrated, and I now know where all the spices, baking utensils, and bowls are kept.

Labels: Afternoon Tea, Apple, Cake, Nigel Slater

Ever since I first read Nigel Slater's The Kitchen Diaries I have wanted to make his Double Ginger Cake, which features in the entry for 9 January. It was raining the day Mr. Slater made it; I was preparing for what was to be the end of the latest hot blast of Santa Ana Winds and the onset of a climatic depression. All I wanted to do after reading the 9 January entry was to eat ginger cake, drink coffee, and curl up under the dusky orange glow of my favorite reading lamp with a good book. Finally, I can realize that unambitious dream - or is it indeed ambitious to plan for idle moments in these times of breakneck speed and instant gratification?

This cake, though easy to make, requires patience because Mr. Slater recommends waiting one to two days for the cake to mature. This will allow for the ginger to send out its zing and mellow with the molasses. The recipe does call for items that are not commonly found in the U.S., or at least the places in Southern California that I frequent: stem ginger (preserved ginger in syrup) and golden syrup, both of which can be ordered online, as I did for the ginger syrup. I have Blackstrap molasses, so I used that instead of golden syrup and then used light muscovado sugar when Mr. Slater uses the dark variety. I figured it would all come out in the wash, so to speak. And it did.

Double Ginger Cake
(from Nigel Slater's The Kitchen Diaries)

9oz (250g) self-raising/all-purpose flour
2 level teaspoons ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 level teapspoon baking soda (bicarbonate of soda)
1 pinch salt
7oz (200g) golden syrup (blackstrap molasses)
2 tablespoons syrup from stem ginger jar
4.5oz (125g) butter
3 lumps stem ginger in syrup, finely diced
2 heaped tablespoons sultanas (I prefer raisins)
4.5oz (125g) dark muscovado sugar
2 large eggs
8oz and 2 tablespoons (240ml) milk

1) Preheat oven to 350 F (180 C).
2) Sift flour with ground spices, baking soda, and salt.
3) Put butter, golden syrup and stem ginger syrup into a small saucepan and warm over a low heat.
4) Place diced stem ginger into pan, stir, then add sultanas and sugar.
5) Let the mixture bubble gently, stirring occasionally to prevent fruit from sticking to the bottom of the saucepan.
6) Break eggs into a separate bowl, pour in milk, and beat gently to combine.
7) Remove butter and sugar mixture from heat and pour into the bowl of dry ingredients, stirring firmly and smoothly.
8) Mix in the egg and milk mixture until all ingredients are combined - sloppy but with no trace of flour.
9) Scoop mixture into lined cake tin (Mr. Slater uses one that measures 8"/20-22cm) and bake for 35-40 minutes.
10) When cake passes the skewer test and unless you are serving it warm, let the double ginger cake cool, then tip it out onto greaseproof paper. Wrap it up in foil, and then leave to mature for 1-2 days.

Instead of using the size tin Mr. Slater recommends, I used a 9.5" LeCreuset stoneware oval baking dish. Judge yourself for the volume. I was not concerned because there was not a high quantity of raising agents, so I knew that the cake would slowly rise, semi-set, then rise again, and as the cake expanded ever so slowly, there was little danger of overflowing the chosen baking vessel.

This cake is now my second made specifically for the purpose of fulfilling my afternoon tea (or coffee in my case) cravings. The cake came out just as Mr. Slater describes, mildly crisp on the top, but dense and moist elsewhere. The rich color of the cake, gorgeously sumptuous dark brown exterior and almost cacao red in the center, alone beckons, but it really is the gorgeous aromas that the cake releases as its baking that really set my heart racing. Heady aromas and gut-filling substance are what Winter baking and cooking is all about for me, even if it is just for afternoon tea.

This will have to be it for just over one week because my angelheart Eric and I are off to Paris. Aside from the standard sight-seeing (it will be Eric's first time), I will be checking out the food...I will no doubt come back suitably recharged...and with a couple more cookery books!

Labels: Afternoon Tea, Cake, Ginger, Nigel Slater

Before the divine poetess Suzanne headed for Paris, she left my angelheart Eric and I with a few items she was afraid would "go off" while abroad. One of these items was buttermilk. I had never used it before but knew about its tanginess. Most buttermilk in the U.S. is of the cultured variety, whereby lactic acid is added to non-fat or low-fat milk, though there are some products in which the lactic acid has been added to whole milk, yielding a much creamier consistency.

 I had never heard of buttermilk before moving to the U.S., so I didn't know what to do with it. Upon its receipt, I recalled an episode of Barefoot Contessa in which Ina Garten marinated chicken pieces in buttermilk before lightly frying and oven-baking them. My angelheart Eric loves fried chicken, though he eats it infrequently, and he suggested we try it this healthier way. I pulled out Ina Garten's Barefoot Contessa Family Style and promptly set about making the chicken. The only adjustment I made was to the dredging flour to which, in addition to salt, I added Sichuan peppercorns and cumin. The quantities of the recipe serve 2-3.

Oven-Fried Chicken
(from Ina Garten's Barefoot Contessa Family Style)
1 chicken (1.5 pounds/almost 3/4 kg), or your favorite chicken pieces
1/2 quart buttermilk
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon kosher salt
1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper (we didn't use this on account of the Sichuan peppercorns)
2 tablespoons Sichuan peppercorns, ground
1 tablespoon cumin, lightly toasted then ground
vegetable oil

1) Place chicken pieces in a large bowl and pour buttermilk over them.
2) Cover with cling film and refrigerate overnight.
3) Preheat oven to 350 F (180 C).
4) Combine flour, salt, pepper, or Sichuan pepper and cumin in a bowl; this is the dredging flour.
5) Take chicken out of buttermilk and coat each piece in the dredging flour and put aside.
6) Pour oil into a large heavy-bottomed pot (to avoid the splashing of oil over stove top) to a depth of one inch. Heat up to 360 F (185 C).
7) In batches, place pieces of chicken in the oil and fry for about three minutes on each side.
8) Place chicken on a metal baking rack set on a baking sheet, or place chicken on very lightly oiled aluminum lined baking sheet (but the chicken pieces will not turn out as crispy).
9) When all the chicken is fried, bake for 30-40 minutes, until the chicken is no longer pink inside.

In my humble opinion, if you do not add any herbs or spices to the dredging flour, then the chicken is pretty nondescript. The Sichuan peppercorns are quite lemony, and the cumin echoes that really well but on a lower, sort of background note, like a soothing double bass. They are great partners in crime for the dredging flour, giving the final product a little bite and a lot of soul.

The second recipe comes out a desire to enact a late-dawning realization: that I need a sweet hit in the late afternoon with my coffee. In my childhood this was known as afternoon tea. When I'd return home from a hard day at school (from primary right through to high school), there would be a homemade slice of cake or a cookie waiting for me. Once I was done with high school, I was pretty much done with afternoon tea - I was a grown up after all, or so I thought (but that's another story). In the last year or so I have noticed that I start craving for, what I thought was, something to eat at around 3pm. So, I'd just gorge myself on anything I could find: apples, bread, dried figs, walnuts...Sometimes the craving would be satisfied, sometimes it wouldn't. I slowly realized that it is a slice cake or a cookie, a hit of sweetness in a couple of bites, that satisfies the afternoon craving.

Now, back to the story at hand, I have heard of buttermilk being used in baking. For example, it is popularly used in pancake batter in Solvang, the former Danish town that acts as a gateway to Southern California's wine country. Whilst leafing through the (too?) many cookery books in my possession, I came across an interesting recipe in Tamasin Day-Lewis' Tamasin's Kitchen Bible. She, in turn, takes the recipe from Sally Clarke's repertoire. The only change I made was the substitution of pecans for walnuts, which I always seem to have on hand.

Sally Clarke's Buttermilk, Cinnamon and Pecan Cake
(from Tamasin Day-Lewis' Tamasin's Kitchen Bible)

8oz (225g) flour
salt
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
5oz (140g) sugar
5oz (140g) light muscovado sugar
2oz (55g) pecans (or walnuts in my case), chopped
5 fluid oz (150ml) vegetable oil
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda (bicarbonate of soda)
1 small egg
8 fluid oz (240ml) buttermilk

1) Heat oven to 325 F (170 C).
2) Mix flour with salt, cinammon, sugars, walnuts (pecans), and oil.
3) Mix in a separate bowl the baking powder, baking soda, egg, and buttermilk.
4) Add the buttermilk mixture to the flour mixture and combine until smooth.
5) Pour cake mix into a greased and lined tin and bake for approximately 40 minutes.
6) Test with a skewer, and if skewer is clean, then cool on a rack.

I love watching the cake deflate as it is cooling on a rack. For me, this very moist cake has satisfied the sweet late-afternoon cravings, but do not understand this to mean it is tooth-achingly sweet, for it is not. I love the crunch of the walnuts, the mild spice of the cinnamon, but most of all the moistness that the combination of buttermilk and vegetable oil imparts.

Labels: Afternoon Tea, buttermilk, Cake, Chicken, Ina Garten, Tamasin Day-Lewis