What a name! That's the 60s for you. They're just cornflake cakes. By popular demand, from the Woman's Own Cookery Book, 1968: makes 12 small (kiddie size) or 6 adult size. (I tend to double the quantities).
7 tablespoons corn flakes (that's 34g if you have electronic scales)
1 tablespoon icing sugar or caster sugar
1oz vegetable fat or shortening (I use Pure or Sainsbury's 'Free From' marge to keep them vegan)
1 level tablespoon cocoa powder
1 tablespoon golden syrup (heat the spoon to keep it from sticking)
2 tablespoons dessicated coconut or 1 tablespoon grated orange peel
Melt the fat and syrup slowly in a saucepan; do not boil.
Add the cocoa, remove from heat and stir in the sugar.
With a metal spoon, quickly fold in the cornflakes and coconut/orange peel until well-coated.
Spoon onto a greased baking sheet (I use paper cake - not muffin - cases) and cool.
I seem to remember them coming out of the fridge hard, but recently they've been quite squidgey still. Possibly this is because I'm slap-happy with the syrup - they have been tooth-achingly sweet. To counter the sweetness, though, I'm tempted to halve the sugar; I think they need the stickiness of the syrup to bond.
Yummy.
Showing posts with label baking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baking. Show all posts
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Saturday, 14 February 2009
Walthamstow lunch recommendation and gardening therapy
We had a fantastic valentine's day lunch at our favourite place in Walthie, the Portuguese tapas cafe the Windmill: Portuguese (salt) cod cream, baked goat's cheese, piri piri prawns - yummy. We forgot the patatas bravas, but with bread and really good olives that was plenty - so we didn't really need a pastel de nata and a slice of their supremely good apple and cinnamon cake (for which I daren't ask for the recipe have fruitlessly searched t'internet) that we had with coffee anyway. That lot came to £30 with a tip, which is a lot for lunch but reasonable (ooh, it included a beer, too) since we were there for almost two hours and they're so accommodating - nay, welcoming - of tiddlers. Also, I'm particularly happy to splash on their tapas of a weekend because I sometimes take other mothers there for their bargain weekday lunch - £3.50 for a dish and rice - when we take up time and large tables and often only drink tap water, so they're really only making any money out the repeat business.
Anyway, I truly recommend it, and it's a real asset to this part of town.
Afterwards, we came home via the park, and because it was such a lovely day, we went straight into our little urban garden to plant the bulbs we bought on the cheap before christmas - reduced because they were almost overdue planting back then. Terry dug around in the bed in the back looking for stones to use for drainage in the the two aluminium window boxes that came from dad's, which revealed, among the cat shit, an awful lot of pruning and tidying to do. So we pulled out all the dead stuff and got rid of the fallen leaves, and pulled up the hundreds of weeds (there's a particular plant that's everywhere, red stem and lots of shoots. Luckily the rootball is small and shallow, so it's easy to pull out, but it's all over the bed), and hacked back the pyrocanthas and the other tree-bush and the winter-flowering jasmine, and then I attacked next door's ivy, which has completely, unassailably, covered the fence we share, and finally got back to planting up the bulbs. We had heaps of tulips and daffodils and croci, so I have the two window boxes and 4 or 5 tubs. Most of the bulbs looked like they were still good, though half the daffs had rotted down to blackness in their papery casings, so hopefully we'll get a little spring colour, even if it is a bit late and half-hearted.
Clearing one corner of the bed, I pulled and pulled, then jumped back as something moved. What I could see looked gross, it could almost have been cat turd, but there was something sticking out, so it really looked like a slug with legs - and then I realised it was a little toad. Poor little thing stayed as still as still could be, so I asked Terry what to do and he suggested I just cover it with some of the leaves. I did, and we left it. It was still there half an hour later when we were back over that side with weightier implements to attack the tree with; hopefully not paralysed with fear....
A little robin was about too. Considering the amount of cat poo in the garden, we manage to attract quite a few birds. I've seen blue tits and robins and sparrows and a jay among the ubiquitous woodpidgeons and squirrels. The robin was really fearless. He sat on the back fence for a while, only a couple of feet from us, and we tried to show Babs, but I'm not sure she clocked him. A little while later, as soon as my back was turned, he was off the tree and onto the beds, where I'd clearly revealed some worms, and he looked happy. We moved the bird feeder and put up another, so hopefully we'll see a few more birds in the next few weeks.
It was so nice being in the garden; I haven't really been out there since the summer. The endorphins got me so fired up I swept up in the back and then swept out the front, and I'm still a bit buzzy two hours later. There may be hope for our allotment dreams yet.
Anyway, I truly recommend it, and it's a real asset to this part of town.
Afterwards, we came home via the park, and because it was such a lovely day, we went straight into our little urban garden to plant the bulbs we bought on the cheap before christmas - reduced because they were almost overdue planting back then. Terry dug around in the bed in the back looking for stones to use for drainage in the the two aluminium window boxes that came from dad's, which revealed, among the cat shit, an awful lot of pruning and tidying to do. So we pulled out all the dead stuff and got rid of the fallen leaves, and pulled up the hundreds of weeds (there's a particular plant that's everywhere, red stem and lots of shoots. Luckily the rootball is small and shallow, so it's easy to pull out, but it's all over the bed), and hacked back the pyrocanthas and the other tree-bush and the winter-flowering jasmine, and then I attacked next door's ivy, which has completely, unassailably, covered the fence we share, and finally got back to planting up the bulbs. We had heaps of tulips and daffodils and croci, so I have the two window boxes and 4 or 5 tubs. Most of the bulbs looked like they were still good, though half the daffs had rotted down to blackness in their papery casings, so hopefully we'll get a little spring colour, even if it is a bit late and half-hearted.
Clearing one corner of the bed, I pulled and pulled, then jumped back as something moved. What I could see looked gross, it could almost have been cat turd, but there was something sticking out, so it really looked like a slug with legs - and then I realised it was a little toad. Poor little thing stayed as still as still could be, so I asked Terry what to do and he suggested I just cover it with some of the leaves. I did, and we left it. It was still there half an hour later when we were back over that side with weightier implements to attack the tree with; hopefully not paralysed with fear....
A little robin was about too. Considering the amount of cat poo in the garden, we manage to attract quite a few birds. I've seen blue tits and robins and sparrows and a jay among the ubiquitous woodpidgeons and squirrels. The robin was really fearless. He sat on the back fence for a while, only a couple of feet from us, and we tried to show Babs, but I'm not sure she clocked him. A little while later, as soon as my back was turned, he was off the tree and onto the beds, where I'd clearly revealed some worms, and he looked happy. We moved the bird feeder and put up another, so hopefully we'll see a few more birds in the next few weeks.
It was so nice being in the garden; I haven't really been out there since the summer. The endorphins got me so fired up I swept up in the back and then swept out the front, and I'm still a bit buzzy two hours later. There may be hope for our allotment dreams yet.
Thursday, 29 January 2009
January drinkies - roll call
Waitrose Food Illustrated lied. I may have to take it up with the editor. January 09's Lancashire Cheese Straws were alleged to take 10 minutes' preparation and 10 minutes' cooking. Lie. A single egg yolk was deemed sufficient to bind 200g flour, 100g butter and 100g cheese. Another lie. With the rolling and breaking and moistening and re-rolling, 17 cheese straws somehow took 40 minutes to prepare and almost 15 minutes to cook. I was planning to make a second batch, but I abandoned that idea as the dough crumbled for a second time and all my edges feathered. Still, they looked ok, they tasted reasonable (a bit dry; short, maybe. I don't really know what that means), and they all got eaten. Along with:
Feta filo parcels. Fresh filo better than frozen - frozen a little floury. Easy to make but a bit on the dull side. Currently seeking new filling ideas. Comments, please.
Spanish tortilla. Served in cubes, which surprised the half-Span guest. Thanks, Rebato's. Nod to Marina for the prep tips. (Marina's (Spanish) way? Nothing like the Good Housekeeping way. No turmeric, for starters. Yes, she was as confused by that as I was.).
My staple salsa. Too chunky for crisps; best eaten with a spoon.
My staple guacamole. So long since I catered, I almost forgot how to make it. Fortunately had bought lemons... I belatedly remembered the lime. Not sure I actually tasted the guac. Boo.
Tyrell's ready salted hand-cooked crisps. Never tasted.
Sainsbury's 'mozzarella cheese straws' - mozzarella in their 'Signature' (TM) crumb. Awful. Oozed on heating, tasteless and rubbery mozz.
Sainsbury's 'garlic and cheese bites. Still in the freezer.
Crostini with pesto and roasted tomatoes. Yummy, easy, but the ciabatta not toasted enough.
Chocolate sandwich cake, with raspberry jam. I'm so over the jam filling. Back to buttercream for me.
Chocolate cornflake cakes. From the Woman's Own Cookery Book, 1968. Quadrupled the quantity; made 24 bigguns. Delish. Steve asked how old I am, 12? Killjoy. (He's from Manchester. Says it all.)
Dates stuffed with marzipan (resembling hot dogs) like my mum used to. They look so anachronistic, I was quite embarrassed. But people liked them, clearly didn't remember them from the 70s and it meant Flesh had a little more to eat than the plain ciabatta that was otherwise the only thing I had bothered to concoct for a vegan.
Not a bad spread, I think, but the table was in the corner, and people sat rather than milled, so it was hard to nibble without someone constantly offering plates around. Always happy to fulfil a stereotype, our American friend, S, ignored everyone else's reserve and the lack of plates and napkins and asked for a napkin so she could carry more back to her place on the sofa.
I stupidly didn't buy any soft drinks, but had invited a clutch of drivers and a room full of parents of under-ones, so I forced booze onto most of them, or they made do with water.
Next time, I will ditch the ready mades, find more stuff I can make the day before (5 hours in the morning was not long enough), remembere the soft drinks and I might try these cheese straws instead.
Feta filo parcels. Fresh filo better than frozen - frozen a little floury. Easy to make but a bit on the dull side. Currently seeking new filling ideas. Comments, please.
Spanish tortilla. Served in cubes, which surprised the half-Span guest. Thanks, Rebato's. Nod to Marina for the prep tips. (Marina's (Spanish) way? Nothing like the Good Housekeeping way. No turmeric, for starters. Yes, she was as confused by that as I was.).
My staple salsa. Too chunky for crisps; best eaten with a spoon.
My staple guacamole. So long since I catered, I almost forgot how to make it. Fortunately had bought lemons... I belatedly remembered the lime. Not sure I actually tasted the guac. Boo.
Tyrell's ready salted hand-cooked crisps. Never tasted.
Sainsbury's 'mozzarella cheese straws' - mozzarella in their 'Signature' (TM) crumb. Awful. Oozed on heating, tasteless and rubbery mozz.
Sainsbury's 'garlic and cheese bites. Still in the freezer.
Crostini with pesto and roasted tomatoes. Yummy, easy, but the ciabatta not toasted enough.
Chocolate sandwich cake, with raspberry jam. I'm so over the jam filling. Back to buttercream for me.
Chocolate cornflake cakes. From the Woman's Own Cookery Book, 1968. Quadrupled the quantity; made 24 bigguns. Delish. Steve asked how old I am, 12? Killjoy. (He's from Manchester. Says it all.)
Dates stuffed with marzipan (resembling hot dogs) like my mum used to. They look so anachronistic, I was quite embarrassed. But people liked them, clearly didn't remember them from the 70s and it meant Flesh had a little more to eat than the plain ciabatta that was otherwise the only thing I had bothered to concoct for a vegan.
Not a bad spread, I think, but the table was in the corner, and people sat rather than milled, so it was hard to nibble without someone constantly offering plates around. Always happy to fulfil a stereotype, our American friend, S, ignored everyone else's reserve and the lack of plates and napkins and asked for a napkin so she could carry more back to her place on the sofa.
I stupidly didn't buy any soft drinks, but had invited a clutch of drivers and a room full of parents of under-ones, so I forced booze onto most of them, or they made do with water.
Next time, I will ditch the ready mades, find more stuff I can make the day before (5 hours in the morning was not long enough), remembere the soft drinks and I might try these cheese straws instead.
Friday, 2 January 2009
Christmas Crocker
Well, Christmas passed without major incident. Flesh and M and little Weaver came for dinner and vegan mince pies on the 20th, in a nice boozy evening that involved Christmas bubbles and ended with us taking a hundred photos and me, Flesh and R practising photo faces with varying degrees of ineptitude.
On the 21st, Terry's sister and her family came over an hour earlier than expected, as we were finishing lunch and trying to coax 'just a little more, please' into Babs. They were invited 'after lunch', but when I asked if they'd eaten (stupid, stupid me) R said no and threw me into panic, since we had nothing in. They ignored the mince pies I put in front of them as we all had tea, and I finally cornered Terry in the kitchen and hissed at him to address the lunch situation. Thank god, we had bread in because F&M had stayed over and so Terry had been out for bread for breakfast. Sister agreed to sandwiches but for someone so direct was bizarrely vague about what she wanted, then laboriously picked out all the cheese in her cheese sarnie; niece didn't like any of the options I ran through, so sister told us she'd be happy with bread and butter. Well, sorry, but no-one comes to my house and has only b&b and water. Fortunately she does eat tuna and sweetcorn, so we rustled up a sarnie for her too and while they ate 3pm lunch I tried not to feel uncomfortable about our apparent rubbish hospitality. Babs handled all the passing and the prodding very well but was very happy to go off for an afternoon nap. Although the conversation was fluent (sister is very talkative, unlike father), it was still a taxing afternoon and I was very relieved when they left.
On Christmas eve we took the baby to be weighed, because I was convinced she'd been eating better and must surely have put on more in these three weeks than the pitiful 100 grams in the fortnight before. Well, my mistake: no weight gain whatsoever. So our 10 minute pop was an hour long visit, as they made us see yet another health visitor to tell me something different from the health visitor before. (Conclusion: lack of continuity means lack of tailored and meaningful advice. No single health professional has a real grasp of our habits, routine, or my efforts to get more food into the baby; since they don't read each others' entries in my hand-held notes they don't even get to build up a picture that way. They recommend vitamins almost every time I visit, as though lack of weight gain equals lack of nutrients. She'll eat broccoli for breakfast, for Christ's sake, and she eats better than we do.) To be fair, we did get some reasonable tips: give water when she wakes up at night to reduce the reward and feed her from our plates so she'll eat more, but they did nothing to stop me worrying, in fact they probably made me worry more.
Mummy arrived in the afternoon with fish pie for supper. After a smoked salmon and bagel breakfast we opened pressies on Christmas day until Babs was overwhelmed enough for us to decide to hold stuff back for boxing day, and then we cooked. Terry pulled off a yummy and seriously meaty meat-free stuffed cabbage with mushrooms and chestnuts. I wished I hadn't decided lunch would be at tea-time and was a bit stroppy by the time we sat down at 5 o'clock when I should have been on the sofa for two hours already; the same old bloody red wine/onion gravy was a bit disappointing given it was a special occasion and the potatoes were just a touch too floury to be brilliantly crisp roasties. But, in our usually meat-free household, we had fantastic pigs in blankets - Waitrose perfectly seasoned and traceable pork chipolatas wrapped in their similarly traceable streaky bacon - and Crocker-tastic stuffing balls: seasoned pork sausagemeat combined with the fantastically packaged Kraft (R) Stove Top Stuffing Mix from - where else? - me dad's house! Feeel the quality.
On Boxing day mum and I spent the morning making feta filo parcels (surprisingly easy), vegan sausage rolls and hot spiced nuts, then we all went to join Flesh and M and their families at their house, which meant more pass the baby and yet more confusion for poor Babs. She did a very good job of holding it together while being thrown around by over-enthusiastic wannabe grandparents and had a nap with her new alligator on Flesh's bed.
Meanwhile we got to try the infamous vegan cheesecake, which was good but very sharp; M's dad made me laugh and laugh as usual (makes me feel like a young child and he's the funny uncle); M's granny was good value as only deaf and slightly batty old folk can be; and we got to make off with some decent leftovers for supper. Perfect.
So that was baby's first Christmas. Hopefully next year we'll get Terry's dad as well as my mum, and maybe uncle monkey & mj might make it too. That way it won't pass without incident, I'll get to revert to tradition and cry on Christmas day, and we'll get some decent - turkey - gravy.
On the 21st, Terry's sister and her family came over an hour earlier than expected, as we were finishing lunch and trying to coax 'just a little more, please' into Babs. They were invited 'after lunch', but when I asked if they'd eaten (stupid, stupid me) R said no and threw me into panic, since we had nothing in. They ignored the mince pies I put in front of them as we all had tea, and I finally cornered Terry in the kitchen and hissed at him to address the lunch situation. Thank god, we had bread in because F&M had stayed over and so Terry had been out for bread for breakfast. Sister agreed to sandwiches but for someone so direct was bizarrely vague about what she wanted, then laboriously picked out all the cheese in her cheese sarnie; niece didn't like any of the options I ran through, so sister told us she'd be happy with bread and butter. Well, sorry, but no-one comes to my house and has only b&b and water. Fortunately she does eat tuna and sweetcorn, so we rustled up a sarnie for her too and while they ate 3pm lunch I tried not to feel uncomfortable about our apparent rubbish hospitality. Babs handled all the passing and the prodding very well but was very happy to go off for an afternoon nap. Although the conversation was fluent (sister is very talkative, unlike father), it was still a taxing afternoon and I was very relieved when they left.
On Christmas eve we took the baby to be weighed, because I was convinced she'd been eating better and must surely have put on more in these three weeks than the pitiful 100 grams in the fortnight before. Well, my mistake: no weight gain whatsoever. So our 10 minute pop was an hour long visit, as they made us see yet another health visitor to tell me something different from the health visitor before. (Conclusion: lack of continuity means lack of tailored and meaningful advice. No single health professional has a real grasp of our habits, routine, or my efforts to get more food into the baby; since they don't read each others' entries in my hand-held notes they don't even get to build up a picture that way. They recommend vitamins almost every time I visit, as though lack of weight gain equals lack of nutrients. She'll eat broccoli for breakfast, for Christ's sake, and she eats better than we do.) To be fair, we did get some reasonable tips: give water when she wakes up at night to reduce the reward and feed her from our plates so she'll eat more, but they did nothing to stop me worrying, in fact they probably made me worry more.
Mummy arrived in the afternoon with fish pie for supper. After a smoked salmon and bagel breakfast we opened pressies on Christmas day until Babs was overwhelmed enough for us to decide to hold stuff back for boxing day, and then we cooked. Terry pulled off a yummy and seriously meaty meat-free stuffed cabbage with mushrooms and chestnuts. I wished I hadn't decided lunch would be at tea-time and was a bit stroppy by the time we sat down at 5 o'clock when I should have been on the sofa for two hours already; the same old bloody red wine/onion gravy was a bit disappointing given it was a special occasion and the potatoes were just a touch too floury to be brilliantly crisp roasties. But, in our usually meat-free household, we had fantastic pigs in blankets - Waitrose perfectly seasoned and traceable pork chipolatas wrapped in their similarly traceable streaky bacon - and Crocker-tastic stuffing balls: seasoned pork sausagemeat combined with the fantastically packaged Kraft (R) Stove Top Stuffing Mix from - where else? - me dad's house! Feeel the quality.
On Boxing day mum and I spent the morning making feta filo parcels (surprisingly easy), vegan sausage rolls and hot spiced nuts, then we all went to join Flesh and M and their families at their house, which meant more pass the baby and yet more confusion for poor Babs. She did a very good job of holding it together while being thrown around by over-enthusiastic wannabe grandparents and had a nap with her new alligator on Flesh's bed.
Meanwhile we got to try the infamous vegan cheesecake, which was good but very sharp; M's dad made me laugh and laugh as usual (makes me feel like a young child and he's the funny uncle); M's granny was good value as only deaf and slightly batty old folk can be; and we got to make off with some decent leftovers for supper. Perfect.
So that was baby's first Christmas. Hopefully next year we'll get Terry's dad as well as my mum, and maybe uncle monkey & mj might make it too. That way it won't pass without incident, I'll get to revert to tradition and cry on Christmas day, and we'll get some decent - turkey - gravy.
Saturday, 13 December 2008
'Coals to Newcastle' or 'Crocker to Conneticut'
So the great BC backlog continues. Though not for much longer. The cupboard is almost bare:
<Sniff>
As documented earlier, my brother came over from the US in November. In his honour, and partly in recognition of the fact I swiped all the Crocker with no mention to mother or brother, I whipped up the Yellow Cake.
(Yes, Crocker-naive British readers, it really is called Yellow Cake. It's not Victoria Sponge. Its a sweet sponge-type cake which is yellow. There is also White Cake.... Which is also not Victoria Sponge. And Angel Cake, which is probably similar to White Cake, and similar - but different - to the Angel Cake we used to get just occasionally from M&S back when it was still called Marks and Spencer).
The best way with Yellow Cake is always Brown Frosting. (Oh go on then, 'Chocolate' Frosting. But a pitiful 8.5% cocoa powder. I just checked). Oh, gosh, it really is yummy. Anyway, my tins are too small (established previously with the carrot cake) so I made some cupcakes too, and when Flesh and Papanomicron turned up for supper I foisted one upon Pap and presented the whole cake as dessert. Which was lush.
<Sniff>
As documented earlier, my brother came over from the US in November. In his honour, and partly in recognition of the fact I swiped all the Crocker with no mention to mother or brother, I whipped up the Yellow Cake.
(Yes, Crocker-naive British readers, it really is called Yellow Cake. It's not Victoria Sponge. Its a sweet sponge-type cake which is yellow. There is also White Cake.... Which is also not Victoria Sponge. And Angel Cake, which is probably similar to White Cake, and similar - but different - to the Angel Cake we used to get just occasionally from M&S back when it was still called Marks and Spencer).
The best way with Yellow Cake is always Brown Frosting. (Oh go on then, 'Chocolate' Frosting. But a pitiful 8.5% cocoa powder. I just checked). Oh, gosh, it really is yummy. Anyway, my tins are too small (established previously with the carrot cake) so I made some cupcakes too, and when Flesh and Papanomicron turned up for supper I foisted one upon Pap and presented the whole cake as dessert. Which was
Saturday, 11 October 2008
It's hard to make coffee sponge cake with espresso
Really, I'm going to have to invest in some instant coffee. Instant!
On Wednesday, I went the wrong way (thanks, TomTom) to see F and 9-week cutie, with a bunch of spare baby clothes (thanks, in.spite) and a flat sponge. I partially failed in my mission, which was to take some of the clothes Babs has grown out of and her two/too small sleeping bags, though I made up for it with some extras that she didn't want and some that she did, and we pledged as I left to add to the glamour in our lives by going together to Brent Cross some time soon.
As previously documented ("I don't really like chocolate"), F lives in a house is under renovation, with only a semi-functioning kitchen. Since she also has a tiny baby, and I'd invited myself over for mid-afternoon, I thought I'd better take a cake. And of course I like baking, and it makes me feel a little bit heroic that I can fit it in - though really that's more due to Babs being a good baby than to me being a good housewife/mother.
My mum's rule of thumb for sponge cakes scales up from 4oz of everything and 2 eggs, and because we were short on eggs I went for that size, even though the Good Housekeeping Cookery Book ('The cook's classic companion') showed a victoria sponge at 6oz, and I didn't bother to measure the cake tins. The cakes were consequently a little on the thin side, and no amount of raspberry jam and dredged icing sugar could disguise it*. The cake was pretty yummy, and our oven gives good top-crunch (for a day), but it tasted kind of dense, and straight-talking F didn't feel the need to refute it when I apologetically said so.
Terry was all, 'Oh! Cake?' when he found out it wasn't for keeping, so I promised to make him a chocolate cake the following night. He negotiated hard, and his coffee cake has duly made today, Saturday - 'When there's time to eat it.'Unfortunately on Saturday there is less time to make it, even with two pairs of hands. On Thursday evening I could have whipped one up while supper was cooking, today it went in the oven at 2pm, when I dashed up for a shower, having: put away the washing up, breastfed the baby, put away yesterday's washing, made breakfast for T and me, done two further loads of washing up, ditto two of laundry, watched Saturday Kitchen in bed with T while Babs slept for 60 minutes, poached fish for the baby's lunch, defrosted carrot for the baby's lunch, breastfed the baby following her 3 teaspoons of lunch, made tea for T, made lunch for T and me, made espresso for the cake and spilt nascent cake mixture on the floor while rescuing espresso from hob.
To be fair, Terry helped with the espresso, but even though we put even less water than he first put, it still wasn't strong enough. Sure, it was strong enough to be absolutely foul when I tasted it, but the baked cake has just a whiff of coffee to it, and the frosting - rendered so loose as to dribble down the sides of the cake** - likewise. So I ripped off a tip from my mum, from the coffee drizzle cake she made back in the days when I was too young to have a palate that could take coffee, and drizzled the remaining few tablespoons of coffee over the lower cake, into its open, porous bottom (now top). Then on with the frosting, and on with the top. I refrained from dredging icing sugar on the basis that the damn frosting (yup, Betty Crocker) was sweet enough, so it's not as pretty as it could be.
Fortunately, once I was done with flavouring and drizzling and frosting, it was time for afternoon tea. T's comment? 'All this needs is some icing sugar on top...'.
In my mind? If he'd only followed through with his promise - central to his negotiations - that he'd bring me a handful of instant coffee portions from the cutting room, left over from the shoot....
*Dammit. Not the professional outcome to whichI aspire.
** Ditto! Dammit!
On Wednesday, I went the wrong way (thanks, TomTom) to see F and 9-week cutie, with a bunch of spare baby clothes (thanks, in.spite) and a flat sponge. I partially failed in my mission, which was to take some of the clothes Babs has grown out of and her two/too small sleeping bags, though I made up for it with some extras that she didn't want and some that she did, and we pledged as I left to add to the glamour in our lives by going together to Brent Cross some time soon.
As previously documented ("I don't really like chocolate"), F lives in a house is under renovation, with only a semi-functioning kitchen. Since she also has a tiny baby, and I'd invited myself over for mid-afternoon, I thought I'd better take a cake. And of course I like baking, and it
My mum's rule of thumb for sponge cakes scales up from 4oz of everything and 2 eggs, and because we were short on eggs I went for that size, even though the Good Housekeeping Cookery Book ('The cook's classic companion') showed a victoria sponge at 6oz, and I didn't bother to measure the cake tins. The cakes were consequently a little on the thin side, and no amount of raspberry jam and dredged icing sugar could disguise it*. The cake was pretty yummy, and our oven gives good top-crunch (for a day), but it tasted kind of dense, and straight-talking F didn't feel the need to refute it when I apologetically said so.
Terry was all, 'Oh! Cake?' when he found out it wasn't for keeping, so I promised to make him a chocolate cake the following night. He negotiated hard, and his coffee cake has duly made today, Saturday - 'When there's time to eat it.'Unfortunately on Saturday there is less time to make it, even with two pairs of hands. On Thursday evening I could have whipped one up while supper was cooking, today it went in the oven at 2pm, when I dashed up for a shower, having: put away the washing up, breastfed the baby, put away yesterday's washing, made breakfast for T and me, done two further loads of washing up, ditto two of laundry, watched Saturday Kitchen in bed with T while Babs slept for 60 minutes, poached fish for the baby's lunch, defrosted carrot for the baby's lunch, breastfed the baby following her 3 teaspoons of lunch, made tea for T, made lunch for T and me, made espresso for the cake and spilt nascent cake mixture on the floor while rescuing espresso from hob.
To be fair, Terry helped with the espresso, but even though we put even less water than he first put, it still wasn't strong enough. Sure, it was strong enough to be absolutely foul when I tasted it, but the baked cake has just a whiff of coffee to it, and the frosting - rendered so loose as to dribble down the sides of the cake** - likewise. So I ripped off a tip from my mum, from the coffee drizzle cake she made back in the days when I was too young to have a palate that could take coffee, and drizzled the remaining few tablespoons of coffee over the lower cake, into its open, porous bottom (now top). Then on with the frosting, and on with the top. I refrained from dredging icing sugar on the basis that the damn frosting (yup, Betty Crocker) was sweet enough, so it's not as pretty as it could be.
Fortunately, once I was done with flavouring and drizzling and frosting, it was time for afternoon tea. T's comment? 'All this needs is some icing sugar on top...'.
In my mind? If he'd only followed through with his promise - central to his negotiations - that he'd bring me a handful of instant coffee portions from the cutting room, left over from the shoot....
*Dammit. Not the professional outcome to whichI aspire.
** Ditto! Dammit!
Thursday, 25 September 2008
Pound cake
There's one package in the BC backlog that intrigues me. It catches my eye every time I open the larder cupboard and ritually glance up (possibly to check they're still there). It's smaller than the others, and the package photo doesn't involve frosting. It's a loaf shape, but it's just plain. No marbling, no chips, no fruit. Plain. And in a smaller package. Pound cake. What is pound cake? There's not a scrap of a clue on the box. It's intrigued me for weeks.
So, with the carrot cake eaten (thanks here to Becky, who helped out on Monday*), this morning I overcame my prejudice against non-flavoured foodstuffs (cf 'vanilla' ice cream, madeira cake, shortbread) and I made it.
The dogmatic precision of Betty Crocker instructions is scary. Baking is too precise for my brother, who likes to cook but does not bake, because you can't ad lib with baking [paraphrase], and Betty Crocker's exhortations that I beat on a low speed 30 seconds [sic] scares me into counting.
She makes me an obedient little apprentice. There were sincere warnings on the package that if my loaf tin were smaller than 9"x5" I should use two loaf pans, or batter will overflow [sic]. So with a 9"x4.5" tin, I exercised due caution and made 3 cup-cakes.
30 seconds on low, followed by 3 minutes on medium turned it from yellow to pale, pale cream, and made it really, really thick. 48 minutes at 170C (fan) - an (whisper it) approximation based on the 350F instructed.
And you know, it turned out fine. More yellow than I expected, more dense than I expected - though kind of light with it - and pretty tasty for a plain cake.
I'm still not sure what pound cake is.
"So...?" I asked Terry. "Umm.... It's quite hard isn't it?"
Wikipedia says it's a decadent cake, made with a pound of flour, sugar, butter - yikes - and is a staple of the South. On my second cupcake in two days (this truly is a dieter's - not a decadent - cake), I nailed it: it tastes, looks and has the texture of those sponge cakes and sponge fingers that my mum reserved solely for trifle. Decadent.
* "So is this real carrot?" Heh heh heh.
So, with the carrot cake eaten (thanks here to Becky, who helped out on Monday*), this morning I overcame my prejudice against non-flavoured foodstuffs (cf 'vanilla' ice cream, madeira cake, shortbread) and I made it.
The dogmatic precision of Betty Crocker instructions is scary. Baking is too precise for my brother, who likes to cook but does not bake, because you can't ad lib with baking [paraphrase], and Betty Crocker's exhortations that I beat on a low speed 30 seconds [sic] scares me into counting.
She makes me an obedient little apprentice. There were sincere warnings on the package that if my loaf tin were smaller than 9"x5" I should use two loaf pans, or batter will overflow [sic]. So with a 9"x4.5" tin, I exercised due caution and made 3 cup-cakes.
30 seconds on low, followed by 3 minutes on medium turned it from yellow to pale, pale cream, and made it really, really thick. 48 minutes at 170C (fan) - an (whisper it) approximation based on the 350F instructed.
And you know, it turned out fine. More yellow than I expected, more dense than I expected - though kind of light with it - and pretty tasty for a plain cake.
I'm still not sure what pound cake is.
"So...?" I asked Terry. "Umm.... It's quite hard isn't it?"
Wikipedia says it's a decadent cake, made with a pound of flour, sugar, butter - yikes - and is a staple of the South. On my second cupcake in two days (this truly is a dieter's - not a decadent - cake), I nailed it: it tastes, looks and has the texture of those sponge cakes and sponge fingers that my mum reserved solely for trifle. Decadent.
* "So is this real carrot?" Heh heh heh.
BC backlog saves the day!
In another example of our collective domestic ineptitude, when my old friend Megan* called on Saturday to invite herself over, we had nothing in.
But of course, though we have gotten through BC brownies, BC oatmeal cookies, Eagle Brand Turtle Temptations and Pilsbury brownies, there were - really, thank heavens - still a few BC boxes to get through.
Terry, who loves cooking, doesn't really do baking, so it took some cajoling to get him to make the carrot cake while I attended to something inevitably involving tidying or childcare. We used the most reliably non-stick cake tins,** which, it turned out, were a tad too small, so we had two beautifully mushrooming cakes to sandwich. Fortunately, my completist father also supplied the BC cream cheese frosting, so when I went up the road to fetch Megan, I charged Terry with sandwiching and frosting the cakes. As a novice, he queried the best way to sandwich, and asked me if he should slice the top off one to make it a flatter bottom layer. I said yes, and left him to it.
The cake was delish, and we got through it:
But rookie error: you up-end the bottom cake when you glue them together with frosting. We had a frosted mushroom atop a frosted mushroom.
*We met aged 15 on a local coach trip to see The Cure at Wembley. I think we probably see one another twice a year at best, with virtually no chit chat in between.
**Tellingly, the most reliably non-stick cake tins belonged to my grandmother, who died in 1999.
But of course, though we have gotten through BC brownies, BC oatmeal cookies, Eagle Brand Turtle Temptations and Pilsbury brownies, there were - really, thank heavens - still a few BC boxes to get through.
Terry, who loves cooking, doesn't really do baking, so it took some cajoling to get him to make the carrot cake while I attended to something inevitably involving tidying or childcare. We used the most reliably non-stick cake tins,** which, it turned out, were a tad too small, so we had two beautifully mushrooming cakes to sandwich. Fortunately, my completist father also supplied the BC cream cheese frosting, so when I went up the road to fetch Megan, I charged Terry with sandwiching and frosting the cakes. As a novice, he queried the best way to sandwich, and asked me if he should slice the top off one to make it a flatter bottom layer. I said yes, and left him to it.
The cake was delish, and we got through it:
But rookie error: you up-end the bottom cake when you glue them together with frosting. We had a frosted mushroom atop a frosted mushroom.
*We met aged 15 on a local coach trip to see The Cure at Wembley. I think we probably see one another twice a year at best, with virtually no chit chat in between.
**Tellingly, the most reliably non-stick cake tins belonged to my grandmother, who died in 1999.
Monday, 15 September 2008
"I don't really like chocolate"
I started this post 10 days ago with a title and a blank page. Really, I was too gobsmacked to come up with a comment. I still am, I suppose, it's just that I want the quote plopped down in the blogosphere for posterity.
Flesh's friend F, who has just recently had a little baby boy, needed to conquer some fears and so came to mine for lunch. [Fears were of driving alone, the North Circular, just generally going out with a tiny yet utterly dependent companion, alone. Not lunch. Or my house.]
It was a pretty rubbish lunch, since the fridge was bare and the baby slept so well all morning I didn't have chance to go to the shop. True, I often consider nipping to the shop while she's asleep in the cot, and I regularly debate with myself whether or not I could ask littlest B next door to stop with her for 15 minutes, but as always, I did neither. I did, however, fret - though I consoled myself that lunch might be crap, but at least there was cake - then turned to Waitrose for inspiration.
Waitrose.com has a super recipe database, with a reasonable search engine. Terry had suggested soup, we had some tomatoes in the fridge, I found a Tuscan Tomato and Bean Soup recipe, so I made that. With no celery, and a couple of leftovers in the fridge to chuck in (I substituted half an aubergine! Ha!), it wasn't a faithful attempt, but the liquid/solid ratio was about right, so I was disappointed (truthfully? A bit embarrassed) that it turned out like weird stew. Walthamstow Tomato and Bean Stew, perhaps.
Still, F (who is pretty slight) powered through it, and surprised me (she's very polite/proper) by accepting seconds. I (not very polite/trouble being proper) articulated my surprise and the poor thing said she's suddenly, after 4 weeks of breastfeeding, discovered a huge appetite. She was so preoccupied with over-running house renovation at the end of her pregnancy that she lost weight, and has been preoccupied with his weight since he was born, and suddenly her body's shouted at her to wake up and damn well feed it. So she is. So I was v v pleased I had cake in. And extra specially pleased I could offer Pilsbury brownies at that.
And then she said it: "I don't really like chocolate". I nearly fell off my chair.
She got a piece of old parkin and a 2 day old jam tart.
Flesh's friend F, who has just recently had a little baby boy, needed to conquer some fears and so came to mine for lunch. [Fears were of driving alone, the North Circular, just generally going out with a tiny yet utterly dependent companion, alone. Not lunch. Or my house.]
It was a pretty rubbish lunch, since the fridge was bare and the baby slept so well all morning I didn't have chance to go to the shop. True, I often consider nipping to the shop while she's asleep in the cot, and I regularly debate with myself whether or not I could ask littlest B next door to stop with her for 15 minutes, but as always, I did neither. I did, however, fret - though I consoled myself that lunch might be crap, but at least there was cake - then turned to Waitrose for inspiration.
Waitrose.com has a super recipe database, with a reasonable search engine. Terry had suggested soup, we had some tomatoes in the fridge, I found a Tuscan Tomato and Bean Soup recipe, so I made that. With no celery, and a couple of leftovers in the fridge to chuck in (I substituted half an aubergine! Ha!), it wasn't a faithful attempt, but the liquid/solid ratio was about right, so I was disappointed (truthfully? A bit embarrassed) that it turned out like weird stew. Walthamstow Tomato and Bean Stew, perhaps.
Still, F (who is pretty slight) powered through it, and surprised me (she's very polite/proper) by accepting seconds. I (not very polite/trouble being proper) articulated my surprise and the poor thing said she's suddenly, after 4 weeks of breastfeeding, discovered a huge appetite. She was so preoccupied with over-running house renovation at the end of her pregnancy that she lost weight, and has been preoccupied with his weight since he was born, and suddenly her body's shouted at her to wake up and damn well feed it. So she is. So I was v v pleased I had cake in. And extra specially pleased I could offer Pilsbury brownies at that.
And then she said it: "I don't really like chocolate". I nearly fell off my chair.
She got a piece of old parkin and a 2 day old jam tart.
Sunday, 31 August 2008
BBQ roll-call
Late evening, and I've just finished supper of lunch leftovers of my almost favourite kind.*
Our first barbecue in the new house - the first I've hosted for several years, and the only one I've been to in the last two summers - was almost rained off, but valiantly Matt and Terry supervised the coals, and then the sausages and veg-kebobs, and brought the party outside while I hovered and stressed and wished we'd just stuck everything in the oven or managed to buy a garden table of an appropriate size (and height**).
Flesh and M managed to arrive while I was unshowered and still in my jim-jams, and babysat and washed up (irrespectively); everyone else was an hour later than I thought.
The rest is a bit of a blur, so the food, the food:
The best thing - there are sausages left over for tomorrow. A rarely sanctioned treat in our pescetarian household.
* Christmas always wins.
** There's a reason ours was reduced to clear - it came up to my mid-thigh.
Our first barbecue in the new house - the first I've hosted for several years, and the only one I've been to in the last two summers - was almost rained off, but valiantly Matt and Terry supervised the coals, and then the sausages and veg-kebobs, and brought the party outside while I hovered and stressed and wished we'd just stuck everything in the oven or managed to buy a garden table of an appropriate size (and height**).
Flesh and M managed to arrive while I was unshowered and still in my jim-jams, and babysat and washed up (irrespectively); everyone else was an hour later than I thought.
The rest is a bit of a blur, so the food, the food:
- Tabbouleh (tomatoes and herbs from our garden)
- Cous cous (with turmeric, chili, bay, rosemary and oregano. May not have worked - lots left; I have yet to taste)
- Hummous (never tastes like bought, whatever I do. Nigel Slater says 6 (six!) dessert spoons of tahini, but I can't bear the bitterness of more than one)
- Salt and Cracked Black Pepper Kettle Chips (my absolute catering mainstay. Any excuse, really.)
- Mixed salad (tomatoes from the garden, as well as cherry tomatoes on the vine from the off-licence - £1.30 for 2 huge long trusses)
- Potato salad (chives from the garden)
- Waitrose really super sausages - pork &: sweet chilli, smoked pepper, leek & chive and garlic
- Vegan marjoram and sage sausages
- Aubergine, pepper & mushroom kebabs
The best thing - there are sausages left over for tomorrow. A rarely sanctioned treat in our pescetarian household.
* Christmas always wins.
** There's a reason ours was reduced to clear - it came up to my mid-thigh.
Saturday, 30 August 2008
The great Betty Crocker backlog, 2008
When my dad died in the middle of the summer, we went to his new-ish house for the first time, to see what we would need to start dealing with. After we looked for paperwork and valuables we checked out the fridge for stuff needing immediate attention. Lots of stuff (paperwork and perishables) we couldn't quite make decisions on, so doors were closed, drawers re-drawn, boxes shut and decisions deferred.
Being a bit on the nosy side, I opened lots of cupboard doors and assessed my dad's recent (post-divorce) lifestyle. So much was so typically dad, from brands and types of foodstuffs to the sheer volume of stuff, and the scant regard for sell-by dates.
There was a huge great drawer full of baking stuff, lots of it opened and half-used and out of date, where he'd clearly had a real flurry of baking last year and not touched in the last 10-12 months.
And then I found the bounty. High up in a cupboard in the corner, boxes and boxes of Betty Crocker. Cake mixes, brownie mix, cookie mix and Bisquik. And all the requisite frosting too. Oh yes, my provincial English daddy loved his trashy American branded bakery! There was a Pilsbury brownie mix and Eagle Brand Turtle Temptations to boot. (Now, they are such a gosh-darned novelty they deserve a link: http://www.eaglebrandkits.com/products.asp). Of course, 2/3 of them were out of date, and the rest were within an inch of it, but I took each and every one and stuffed them in the boot of our car.
And now, the great Betty Crocker bake-off commences. This week, in a snatched moment while Babs was sleeping (mixes really do have the time advantage), were made 18 quite delicious oatmeal raisin cookies. Here are the 12 that remain:
Thank you, daddy.
Being a bit on the nosy side, I opened lots of cupboard doors and assessed my dad's recent (post-divorce) lifestyle. So much was so typically dad, from brands and types of foodstuffs to the sheer volume of stuff, and the scant regard for sell-by dates.
There was a huge great drawer full of baking stuff, lots of it opened and half-used and out of date, where he'd clearly had a real flurry of baking last year and not touched in the last 10-12 months.
And then I found the bounty. High up in a cupboard in the corner, boxes and boxes of Betty Crocker. Cake mixes, brownie mix, cookie mix and Bisquik. And all the requisite frosting too. Oh yes, my provincial English daddy loved his trashy American branded bakery! There was a Pilsbury brownie mix and Eagle Brand Turtle Temptations to boot. (Now, they are such a gosh-darned novelty they deserve a link: http://www.eaglebrandkits.com/products.asp). Of course, 2/3 of them were out of date, and the rest were within an inch of it, but I took each and every one and stuffed them in the boot of our car.
And now, the great Betty Crocker bake-off commences. This week, in a snatched moment while Babs was sleeping (mixes really do have the time advantage), were made 18 quite delicious oatmeal raisin cookies. Here are the 12 that remain:
Thank you, daddy.
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