Forget politics. Here in the UK, the news story that really means something to any right-thinking English man and woman is that marmalade sales are falling. The reason though, according to most commentators, is that many of us prefer to make our own. I do.
Over the last few years, I’ve been so glad to have come across Jane Grigson’s recipe, which gets me out of the whole business of hacking mounds of tough raw orange peel into marmalade sized chunks. It delivers a tasty sweet and bitter marmalade which beats anything you’ll meet on the grocer’s shelf
Our house, now a temple to magnolia paint and packing cases, is currently innocent of recipe books. Somehow I contrived to find my preserving pan the other day, and make her marmalade, or something jolly like it, from memory. Impressive, huh?
I kg. seville oranges (about 10 fruits)
1 lemon
3.4 litres water
2 kg. granulated sugar, or half granulated, half light muscovado.
Scrub the seville oranges and the lemon, and place in a large pan with the water. Bring to the boil and simmer till the fruit is soft – maybe an hour or so. Allow to cool. Cut the oranges in half, scoop out the flesh and pips and reserve in a large muslin square. Chop the skin as thick or as thin as you chose – it’s so easy now the skin is soft.
Tie the muslin with its contents into a bag, and put it, with the orange peel, remaining water (about a third will have evaporated) and sugar, into a preserving pan. Bring the mixture slowly to the boil, so that the sugar dissolves, then cook rapidly till setting point is reached (I can’t manage without my jam thermometer, but that’s pathetic. Most people seem happy enough to test for the setting point by putting a spoonful of marmalade onto a cold saucer, and seeing if it crinkles as you push your finger through the cooled mixture).
Allow the mixture to sit for about 15 minutes before pouring into sterilised jam jars. Makes 6-7 jars
Nobody could call our nearest town, Lavelanet, a hub of multi-culturalism. But neither is it an Ariegeois ghetto. Of course, as in most French towns, there’s a big Maghrébin presence: inhabitants of the former French colonies of Tunisia, Morocco and Algeria. There are significant numbers of people of Spanish origin: their families probably came over in the Spanish Civil War. Dunno how so many Portuguese got here, but in addition there are Swiss, Belgians, Roumanians, Brazilians, Vietnamese, Chinese, Argentinians, Australians, Germans, Dutch…..ooh, and a few English of course.
Recently, I got to know two local women, Sylvia and Noëlle. Some time ago they, together with another friend Nadia, had come up with the idea of bringing together women from some of these countries to share their cultural heritage, particularly through the medium of cooking. The idea got bigger. Over the last 18 months or so, they’ve developed themselves as an official voluntary group, ‘Association “Découverte Terres Lointaines”‘. They and their ‘benevoles’ (volunteers) have animated cookery workshops in schools, old people’s homes, youth clubs, centres for people with various disabilities. They’ve raised money for these activities by selling foods from all over the world, which they’ve prepared, at local festivals. But why stop at recipes? We all have a culture to share – children’s stories to tell, songs to sing, our daily lives ‘back home’ to compare, and all this too is included in the mix. Recently, I’ve joined in some of their activities.
It’s got a bit more formalized now. There’s a bit of a special focus now on a particular country in any one year. This year it was Quebec (OK, it’s a province, not a country. But it DOES have a very distinctive voice within Canada), and next year it’ll be Algeria.
Nadia makes the dough for her Algerian sweetmeats
Last week was a first though. We were invited to provide an International Buffet at a multi-services training day being laid on by the Mairie. At various points in the days leading up to it, we got together in the kitchen of the Family Centre (CAF), and helped each other cook.
Then Sylvia winds the dough strips into little 'birds nests'....
Nadia showed us how to prepare Algerian grivvech: thinly rolled dough cut into strips and wound into jumbled little nests before being deep fried and doused in honey and sesame seeds. There were Quebecois dishes, guacamole topped toasts, and treats from around the world.
...the deep fried, sticky, delicious result.
Best of all was the unlikely sounding tomato and banana soup from Brazil. Do try it: recipe below.
What could I contribute as an English finger-food? I thought long about this, and came up with Scotch eggs (thanks, Kalba, again). You need to know that here in France, sticky tape, as in England, is known by a trade name. Not ‘Sellotape’, but ‘Scotch’. So Sylvia’s eyes darkened in puzzlement when I suggested these Scotch eggs. ‘Sellotape eggs? What on earth….?’
And what fun it all was. I can and do open recipe books to try out dishes from any and every continent. But it’s not half so exciting as working with women from Algeria, Brazil, Roumania, wherever, as they talk you through the techniques they’ve known for years and years, and stand over you and make you practice and redo things till you jolly well get it right.
I'm NEVER deep-frying 30 Scotch eggs again
Anyway, here are my photos of the preparations for a successful lunch. We could have taken any number of repeat bookings, but for the time being, the organisation will maintain its ‘benevole’ status, and not venture into the hard realities of developing a business.
Brazilian Tomato and banana soup
Soup just cooked and ready to go
Ingredients
I onion
I tbspn rapeseed oil
Large bottle of passata
5 ripe bananas
1.5 l. bouillon
Small carton cream
3 tsp. curry powder
1 tsp. cayenne
Gently cook the onion in the oil. Meanwhile, remove the black central thread which you may never previously have noticed and any seeds from within the peeled bananas, and mash thoroughly. Add the passata to the onion, together with the spices and cook gently . Add the mashed banana and continue cooking. Add cream, reheat gently, and serve
Back in England last week, I picked up the latest Waitrose magazine, always good for a few recipes. And here’s something I found….
Sunken Apricot and Almond Cake
3 medium free-range eggs
180 g. caster sugar
200g. butternut squash, peeled and finely grated.
1 tsp. almond essence (I used a slonk of amaretto instead)
60g.white rice flour
200 g. ground almonds
2 tsp. mixed spice
2 tsp. baking powder
¼ tsp. salt
240g. canned apricot halves, drained, or if you’re lucky enough to have home bottled apricots, as I have, use those.
Icing sugar for dusting.
1. Preheat the oven to 180degrees C/gas mark 4
2. Lightly grease ten 8cm. x 5cm. deep loose-bottomed tart tins with oil. I didn’t have enough, so I made just one 28cm. tart.
3. Whisk the eggs and sugar for 4 minutes till pale and fluffy. Add the butternut squash and almond essence, and whisk briefly to combine.
4. Add the ground almonds, spice, baking powder and salt, mixing until well combined.
5. Pour the mixture into the tin(s) and either place 2 apricot halves in each, or arrange the apricots onto the top of the large tart. Bake in the centre of the oven for 35 minutes, or till cooked.
6. Remove from the oven and gently ease the cake(s) away from the sides of the tin. Allow to stand a few minutes before dusting with icing sugar.
Eat warm, cold, with or without cream, crème fraîche……
Do try it. It might not be the cheapest cake in the world, but it’s certainly good, whether you choose to serve it as a pudding or a tea-time treat.
Well, we DID have it as a tea time treat, so by the time it came to the evening meal, we needed simpler fare.
I don’t know where I first heard this recipe, but I remembered it yesterday because we’d spent an hour or so sorting and shelling our haul of walnuts from all the trees nearby that are shedding nuts faster than anyone can gather them.
A Very Un-Italian Pesto
A handful of walnuts, crushed
A handful of parsley, finely chopped
A cob of parmesan, grated
A clove or so of garlic, crushed
A big glug of olive oil.
Combine the ingredients to a coarse paste, and add to a dish of pasta
October 16th. Officially, chez Malcolm and Margaret, it’s the first day of Preparing-for-Winter. It’s cold, for one thing. Well, 10 degrees, anyway.
Today was the day when I planted spring bulbs in pots and topped them off with the sturdy little pansies I bought at the market yesterday. Then I picked off the flowers, and stuck them in a vase, because I was brought up to do things that way. The plants put their energy into establishing themselves in their new home, rather than into supporting the flowers that are already out. That’s the theory, anyway.
And tonight was the night we lit the wood-burning stove for the first time this season. Its cosy, cheery glow makes us look forward to those dark cold days to come – yes, really.
Then we finished off with a proper winter’s meal: aubergine parmigiana, and a cold-weather salad of leathery-leaved lettuce, rocket and mâche, with a bottle of good red wine.
Who cares if summer’s gone, with all the compensations of those chilly short days to look forward to?
The other day, we had French friends to dinner. They bravely agreed to curry. I thought I ought to check beforehand: the French – round here anyway – are curiously resistant to the fiery charms of the chilli plant, and hot spices generally. They shouldn’t have worried, and neither should we. They cleaned their plates and came back for more.
Having assaulted their palates with unfamiliar flavours, I wanted to make something rich and soothing to round off the meal. And I remembered that, back in England, my friend Barbara had recently treated us to lemon posset. It’s been around a few centuries, and was by no means a new recipe when Samuel Pepys had it for supper back in the 17th century.
At once palate-cleansing and luxurious, it’s so simple to make. And when your guests ask for the recipe, you know you’ve struck gold. Here it is:
Lemon Posset
Serves 4
500 – 600 ml. double or whipping cream (crème fleurette). The quantities aren’t crucial. Use a couple of pots of what’s available.
Up to150g. caster sugar
Juice of 3-4 medium lemons
Pour cream and sugar into a small saucepan. Slowly bring to the boil, stirring constantly to dissolve the sugar. Once boiling cook for a further three minutes, still stirring constantly.
Remove from the heat and pour in half the lemon juice whilst stirring the mixture thoroughly. It should start to thicken instantly. Taste the mixture and if its not quite tart enough for your tastes then put a little more juice in. It should be tangy but still very rich.
Allow the posset to cool for approximately five minutes and then pour into 4 glasses, coffee cups, or any small, pretty containers. The posset will start to visibly thicken as it hits the cool glass or porcelain. Cover and chill in the fridge for at least 3 hours. The posset should be quite firmly set.
Serve with lemon shortbread or other biscuits of your choice, or a fruit coulis.
Just now, as September begins, the vegetable patch is at its most productive. The beans, the cabbages, the tomatoes, the new potatoes…… It’s all so very satisfying…apart from one thing. Courgettes. They never give up.
It’s a far cry from a few weeks ago, when the flamboyant yellow flowers first announced the appearance of just a few of those tiny delicately flavoured green fingers, waiting to be celebrated as the centrepiece of a light summer meal. Exciting times.
Now they’ve become something of a trial. Day after day we courgette-farmers haul dozens of the things back to the kitchen. We comb recipe books and scour the net, seeking yet more inspiration. I think we have to support each other. It’s time for every blogger with a veg. patch or allotment to offer inspiration to us all. Even if you normally write about politics, music or the vagaries of the fashion industry, you and your ideas are needed as a service to the whole courgette-growing-community.
Here’s a recipe to start things off. This dish is good as part of an Indian-style meal, or as a complement to, say, simply grilled meat.
Courgettes cooked in pickling spices: a recipe from Hyderabad.
2 tablespoons oil or ghee
I tablespoon pickling spices
½ tablespoon ground turmeric
½ tablespoon chilli powder
½ tablespoon ground coriander
2 large tomatoes, skinned and chopped
450 g. courgettes, diced
Salt
Chunk of fresh ginger, grated
2 green chillies, finely chopped
½ tablespoon Kashmiri masala
I tablespoon fresh coriander
Heat the oil in a deep pan and temper with the pickling spices. Reduce the heat and add the turmeric, chilli and ground coriander. Sauté for one minute and add the tomatoes. When the mixture has thickened, add the courgettes and season to taste. Cook till the courgettes are soft. Just before the end of cooking time, add the ginger, chillies and Kashmiri masala. Garnish with fresh coriander and serve.
Both the pickling spices and Kashmiri masala can be made in batches and used as required. They’re useful additions to the store cupboard if you enjoy Indian food.
Pickling spices:
1 tablespoon cumin seeds
1 tablespoon black cumin seeds
1 tablespoon kalonji
½ tablespoon mustard seeds
Kashmiri masala
2 tablespoons fennel seeds
1 tablespoon cardamom seeds
6 bay leaves
2 tablespoons mace
Grind to a powder and keep in an airtight container
Actually, though, we’ve just come back from a week in Italy. That’s far more exciting, so…….to be continued in our next
With a house to sell in England, we’re still here in the UK. So let’s make the most of it, particularly at mealtimes. Here’s how.
Apples:
With any luck, Discovery, the very first apples of the season will appear any day now. I love their bright red skin, their crisp white crunchy flesh. They’re hopeless keepers, but for just a very few weeks, their bright fresh flavour presents a real contrast to the departing soft summer fruits.
And when they’re over? Well, there are James Grieves, Laxton Supreme, Laxton Superb, Worcester Pearmain, Lord Lambourne, Cox’s Orange Pippin and so many others to look forward to…if you can find them. And of course Bramley Seedlings too, so wonderful to cook with.
I was brought up to anticipate and celebrate the heady variety of taste, texture and appearance of all our English apples. These days I mourn the uniformity of the standard few varieties that stock the supermarket shelves, year in, year out. Often as not, they’re imported from New Zealand, South Africa, the USA, and France, while our own traditional varieties have become heritage items whose very existence is protected by Reading University’s National Fruit Collection at Brogdale
Blackcurrants:
I KNOW they’re available in France, but when we got back this time, we discovered a small blackcurrant bush had been secretly prospering in a forgotten corner of the garden. And there it was, laden with big dark purple berries, over a kilo of them, just asking to picked and enjoyed
Gooseberries:
Gooseberries, white, red and blackcurrants
Hardly seen in France, I love their crisp sour flesh, and eat them any way I can. Gooseberry fool is best of all: gently stewed fruit folded in with equal portions of good custard and double cream.
Raspberries:
They DO exist in France, but can’t compete with the big, juicy, tasty berries we have here: the best ones come from the garden of our friends Richard and Jonet here in Harrogate (and the best jam too). The rest come from Scotland.
Repeated pleasures:
Back in southern France, broad beans are long over. Here they’re at their best, so I’ve had two goes this year at my almost-favourite vegetable. OK, not a fruit. But very good anyway.
Summer pudding:
Surely the quintessential English pud? Gently cooked quantities of soft summer fruits, spooned into a basin that’s been lined with pappy English sliced bread, left for the flavours to mingle before turning out and serving with cream doesn’t sound too exciting maybe. But it is. Summer in England really isn’t summer until you’ve had your first helping. And as many helpings as you can manage before the season’s over
Summer Pudding
Ingredients
1kg (2lb) mixed berries (use a combination
of raspberries, blackberries, blueberries, redcurrants or blackcurrants)
160g (5½oz) caster sugar
10 thin slices stale white bread, crusts removed
Method
Place the berries, sugar and 60ml (2fl oz) of water in a saucepan. Bring to a gentle simmer on a low heat and cook, stirring to dissolve the sugar, for 3-4 minutes, or until the fruit has softened and produced lots of juice. Set aside to cool.
Pour the juice into a flat dish, reserving the fruit.
Cut one slice of bread into a circle small enough to fit the base of a 1.5l (48 fl oz) pudding basin, and another large enough to fit the top. Cut the remaining slices into triangles. Dip both sides of the smaller circle of bread quickly into the juice and place it in the bottom of the pudding basin. Dip both sides of each triangle of bread into the juice, then line the inside of the basin with the juice-soaked bread, overlapping them slightly to make sure there are no gaps.
Fill the bread-lined basin with berries, drizzle with any remaining juice and top with the larger circle of bread, trimming it to fit if necessary.
Cover the top of the pudding with clingfilm, then place a saucer or small plate that just fits inside the rim of the basin on top. Press the plate in, then weigh it down with a heavy can or two. Place the basin in a shallow dish to catch any juice that might overflow, and refrigerate for at least 12 hours.
To serve, run a thin knife around the inside of the basin and invert the pudding on to a serving plate. Cut into wedges and serve accompanied with plenty of thick cream.
Léonce has a walnut tree outside her house. On the 24th June, she picked just 40 baby walnuts.
Why 24th June? Well, it’s traditionally Midsummer Day, celebrated here by huge pagan bonfires, but named for John the Baptist whose birthday it’s said to be (le Feu de la St. Jean). On this day, summer fruits are at their most perfect, and just asking to be picked. So they say.
And why pick the nuts when they’re still green, the fruit within unformed? It’s to make a Christmas treat – vin de noix. This year, Léonce asked me to come and be part of her select manufacturing team of two.
Spices at the ready
When I arrived at her house, with my demijohn (or bonbonne), red wine and eau de vie, her kitchen table was already crowded with all the other ingredients we needed:
Brown sugar cubes – Oranges – Star Anise – Vanilla – Cinnamon sticks
Cloves – Nutmeg – Peppercorns.
They don't look much like walnuts, do they?
I got the job of cutting the walnuts into four. You need rubber gloves for this. Without them, your fingers would be stained a vivid orangey yellow, like those of a lifelong heavy smoker.
These are the hands that cut the nuts.....
Meanwhile, Léonce sliced oranges, measured and crushed spices, and opened bottles of wine – we needed 4 litres each, and one litre of eau de vie.
Finally we were ready. We pushed the walnut segments into our large jars, followed by chunks of orange, the sugar cubes, and then the spices. All those bottles of wine, all that eau de vie glugged down to mix with everything else, and then all we had to do was cork our bonbonnes, and lug them to a dark cool storage room.
in goes the wine....
We’ll leave them there for 6 weeks for the flavours to blend and develop, then we’ll strain and bottle our concoctions, and leave them again to mature as long as possible. Don’t do as I do. Every time I pass, I uncork the bonbonne and have another quick sniff. Quite wonderful.
You’re not expecting vin de noix from me in your Christmas stocking this year are you? Oh no, sorry, that’s far too soon. It’ll be Christmas 2011 at the earliest. It takes a long time to produce a decent vin de noix.
So here’s the recipe…
Vin de noix
The recipe: french version
40 green walnuts, each chopped into 4
40 brown sugar cubes
1 orange, chopped into chunks, peel and all
4 cloves
1 cinnamon stick
½ tsp. grated nutmeg
½ tsp. black pepper
½ tsp. vanilla essence, or a small vanilla pod
2 star anise, crushed
4 litres of red wine (13 – 14%)
1 litre eau de vie de fruits (40%)
Put the lots into a demi-john and leave for 40 days. Filter and bottle and leave to mature for at least a year. The older the better.
Yesterday, it was the last day of term at Clé des Chants, one of the choirs I belong to. As usual, we finished the year with a shared meal.
In the course of the evening, I was chatting to Bernard and Pierrot, mildly teasing them that as usual, the women had cooked food to bring, while the men had brought the wine. After they’d defended themselves with some vigour, they asked me about English food.
I always find this question quite difficult to respond to, now that we English are more likely to sit down to spaghetti Bolognese, a Chinese-style stir-fry, or a pungent curry, than steak and kidney pudding with two veg. followed by jam roly-poly and custard. So I talked about the English love affair with curry, and said how we liked ’em spicy.
Bernard: ‘Oh, cooked with saffron – that sort of thing’
Me: ‘No – chillies, cumin, turmeric, ginger – that sort of thing’
Bernard: ‘In that case, I had a curry once, chilli con carne I think it was called. Didn’t like it.’
Which is, in one way, surprising. The French colonial heritage means that the warm, rich flavours Morocco, Algeria & Tunisia – tagines and couscous are now a standard and much appreciated part of French cuisine.
Still, you couldn’t call these dishes mouth-burningly hot. Any more than the curries served in this part of France are, to the English palate. ‘Careful! It’s lethal’, you’ll be warned, as a tempting plate is set before you. ‘Erm, thanks. This is a jolly nice stew’ is not the correct response.
PS, and nothing to do with spices at all. If the French have not embraced curries, they have fallen in love with ‘le crumble’, and whole recipe books are devoted to the subject. We were delighted to pass a pâtisserie in Agen the other day, with lots on display. They were helpfully labelled ‘Grumble’.
When we first understood that Laroque is twinned with Melgven in Brittany, we were nonplussed. Surely twinning arrangements are with England, Germany, Spain – or anywhere abroad. What’s the point in twinning with a town in your own country?
Well, quite a lot as it turns out. As part of the twinning arrangements, citizens from Melgven come for a long weekend here in Laroque , while Laroquais have the chance of a few days’ stay there in May. This year, we signed up for the 10 hour mini-bus trip to Finistère
Straight away, we began to see the differences. As we arrived, we were welcomed to enjoy poking round their fundraising ‘Troc et puces’ fair in the Sports hall. The Bretons are a Celtic race, and it shows in their physical appearance. Meanwhile, down here, there’s a long tradition of Spanish immigration, most recently in the Spanish Civil War, and the Second World War, so many locals here are olive-skinned and not very tall. A tannoyed announcement for M. Garcia and M. Sanchez to report to the desk in a public hall somewhere near here would have nearly half the room scurrying to reception.
And then there’s the food. Brittany, like Britain, favours butter, and unlike the rest of France, the salted variety. Out to a meal on Saturday, the lunchtime bread came with pats of butter, something that never happens down south. In the Ariège, cooking’s done in duck fat, and more recently, olive oil. No part of Finistère is very far from the sea, so fish and seafood are an important part of the diet. Down here, duck in all forms is king. But pork, lamb, game, beef are all welcome on the dinner plate. If it moves, eat it.
When we looked round a market in Concarneau on Saturday, we were struck that there was little charcuterie or cheese on sale, and what there was came from elsewhere. It seems as if every other stall in our local Ariègois markets is one selling cheese and charcuterie, much of it from just a few miles away.
Brittany – cider and beer. Southern France – wine. As part of our welcome apéro, we were served kir made with cassis and cider. After sipping it suspiciously, we accepted refills with enthusiasm.
So…what were the highlights?
The welcome. Of course. Some Laroquais have been going on these exchanges for several years, and the warmth of the relationships forged is clear to see.
A change of scene: the countryside. Our host, Albert, took us on several walks, and we were struck with how very British this part of Brittany looks: softly rolling hillsides, woodland and meadows. We traded orchid spotting in the Ariège for enjoying the swathes of bluebell glades in the woods.
A change of scene: the town. We exchanged the shallow-roofed, unpainted or pastel coloured houses of the south for the tall white narrow pitched roofs of Brittany. Down here, we’re used to our towns and villages being shabby. Brittany’s are clean, sparklingly so, with flower boxes, neat gardens, and a general air of pride in the community. And then there are the churches. No clochers-murs in Brittany, but rather complicated steeples instead.
The seaside. Concarneau was at its sparkling best, with breezes tugging at the flags, clouds pluming across the sky, an early pre-season freshness to the narrow streets of the historic quarter. Their fishing museum there shows all too graphically just how very tough the life of the fisherman was – and is. But it’s a picturesque sight for the tourist
Sightseeing: Our first treat was to visit Locronan, a beautifully preserved granite built 16th & 17th century village, with a mighty central church, and a small chapel at the end of a charming walk.
Next was Trévarez, a chateau that might look Gothic, but is in fact a 19th and 20th century construction. Its brickwork gives it the name “château rose”. We spent more time in the gardens though. Apart from a formal area near the house itself, the garden is informal in the style we’re so used to from English stately homes, and glorious at the moment with azaleas and rhododendrons
Celtic music: Friday night was concert night: the chance to listen to an hour or two of traditional Breton music. Malcolm and I particularly enjoyed hearing those favourite Welsh hymns – Land of my Fathers, Cwm Rhondda in Breton– they sounded very different, but just as good
Story telling: Such a treat. Michel Sevellec enchants audiences in Finistère and beyond with his tales drawn from many traditions. On Saturday, as part of a local festival, we joined local children to hear his interpretation of Native American and other stories. Can’t wait for him to come to Laroque in a fortnight!
Crêpes:Everyone knows they make crêpes in Brittany. Lots of us have watched them being turned out on those special round hotplates. I always assumed it was easy-peasy. Until we went to eat crêpes at Albert’s mum’s house and she let me have a go. First, carefully pour the batter with your left hand while equally carefully drawing the batter round the plate with a special wooden spatula – not too fast & not too slow, not too thin & not too thick.
Expert at work
Then flip the delicate creation, so thin you could read a newspaper through it, over onto its other side to finish cooking. It was lucky there were hungry dogs to eat all my cast-offs. Lucky for us too perhaps: we’d still be eating them now. Malcolm and I thought 6 crêpes each ought to have been enough for anybody. Our hostess disagreed.
So….we discovered in Brittany an area very different from our own in languages, customs and appearance, and had a chance to be more than simply tourists. We now have new friends in Melgven but also in Laroque as a direct result of this weekend. A good experience.
Pont Aven: I didn’t even mention this lovely little town, did I?
From Pyrenees to Pennines 
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