Salty ice-cream, sunshine and three strip Technicolour.

I have mentioned before that since moving to Ireland, I am more aware than ever of the seasons, the changing shift of the weather and its impact on the food we eat, the lifestyle we lead and of course the prevailing quota of petulance amongst Dubliners, amid which I include myself. When the sun is shining, I really believe there is nowhere on Earth like Dublin. It is like living in a movie filmed in three-strip Technicolor: bare legs emerge from months of opaque tight wearing, the evenings stretch into a fantasy of beer gardens, lemony chicken charred on the BBQ served with hoppy pale ales and birds stop only short of cheerfully flitting in through open windows to assist with bed making, floor sweeping and general household upkeep.

For the first 20 or so years of my life, I passed little heed of the weather, simply because in Perth it was generally warm and sunny, interrupted occasionally by a milder day where pots of soup, stews and casseroles were made, only to be consigned to the back of the freezer for later consumption and invariably discarded once the warm weather returned and the precious freezer real estate was required for such essentials as frozen glasses and popsicles. Now living in Dublin, I have a new-found gratitude for clear blue skies. We have been blessed with the summer so far this year and while there have been a number of deluges drizzly days this past week, they serve only to highlight how great an Irish Summer is when it actually performs properly. No light without darkness and all that. On a more indulgent note, the colder weather has also given me an excuse to gorge myself on our new slow-roasted pork belly at Mulligans and get one last wear out of my unsightly but ‘just-the-right-side-of-ironic-for-2010’ chartreuse coloured tights.

My summer so far has been characterised by three things, all of which have made my heart exceedingly happy: the first is the seemingly never ending ritual of upholstering, sourcing suppliers and refurbishing L. Mulligan Grocer, (regrettably absent of avian assistance, cheerful or otherwise). The process is slow, meandering and personal, we have so many aspirations for the place, so many plans we are trying to get to, some which seem frustratingly just out of reach at the moment but the process, while painstaking is a lovely journey. I need to learn patience, which was never my virtue.

The second is the quiet, creeping revolution that is happening beneath Ireland’s recession-weary surface. More people than ever are getting involved in projects, events, collaborations that are creative, quirky and passion-driven: Beoir, Chaos Thaoghaire, Doctor Sketchy’s, The Anti-room, Streetfeast, Imen’s locavore dinners and Sedition Industries to name a few. Despite the gloom, the never-ending dour predictions Henny Penny-like that the sky shall fall, there is an overt energy, an attitude that things can be better, different. There is room now for people to do things they love, and that excite them. I am proud of what is happening, proud to be part of it.

Thirdly, ‘Summer 2010: ‘neen’s Best Summer Ever’ has been fueled mostly by Murphy’s ice-cream, now that two shops have opened in Dublin. I defy anyone to taste their sea-salt icecream without a wistful sigh of happiness. It is the taste of nostalgia, a holiday, the sea side, of melting soft-serve washed away by the ocean. The shops are lovely spaces: bright, airy and distinctively Irish. Since they opened three weeks ago I have treated their Temple Bar store as a regular asylum stopover on my thrice daily trips between my office and the pub, most of the time for a ‘sample’ of their sea-salt ice-cream, the small spoonful being just enough to sate my longing. Thinking about this, tomorrow I am going in to the shop to pay for an ice-cream in lieu of all the samples patiently doled out by the lovely Murphers and Murphettes. It threatens to dethrone chocolate chip mint, which cameos in the Eels song 'Spunky' as my all time winning ice-cream flavour. Some time ago the eponymous Kieran Murphy, who boils down Dingle sea water himself to make the heavenly ice-cream was kind enough to twit me advice as I struggled to make ice-cream without a machine. The result is below, delicately minty, stippled with dark chocolate and capable of inciting wistful sighs of its own.

Chocolate Chip Mint Ice-cream

Inspired by Kieran Murphy and Darina Allen.

4 large egg yolks

½ cup caster sugar

1 cup of water

½ cup of mint leaves

750 mL (3 cups) cream

Equipment

Heavy bottomed saucepan

Metal spoon

Thermometer

Hand whisk

Large bowl for preparation

Large, freezer proof bowl for freezing

Slightly bruise the mint leaves. 

Leave to steep in the cream overnight in the fridge. 

Beat the egg yolks until light and fluffy. (I use the whites for bulking out omelettes). Combine the sugar with the water in a the saucepan.

Stir over heat until the sugar is completely dissolved, then remove the spoon and boil the syrup until it reaches 223–235°F: it will look thick and syrupy, and when a metal spoon is dipped in, the last drops of syrup will form thin threads.

Pour this boiling syrup in a steady stream onto the egg yolks, beating all the time by hand. 

Continue to beat the mixture until it becomes a thick, creamy white mousse.

Fold the softly whipped cream into the mousse, using no more than 40 or so strokes to combine then pour into a bowl, cover, and freeze.

Freeze for two hours, and then gently stir through the chocolate. Return to freezer to set.

This is best served when removed from the freezer 20 minutes or so before serving.

We may fail, but we must sail.

(Title Borrowed from Trevor at the Twisted Pepper via Colin from 3FE)

For those of you who follow my incessant twittering, you will know that the tumbleweed-ey nature of 9 Bean Row of late is because I am involved in a new venture, a ‘eating and drinking emporium’ in Stoneybatter, called L. Mulligan. Grocer. although for the time being we are mostly a drinking emporium, with pickled onions, wasabi peas and the imminent arrival of pork pies being offered to sustain the beer drinking masses. I am so lucky to have two business partners who are also determined in their ambition to create a place that is local, which honours Irish food and Irish drink and which is willing to take risks to do slightly odd-ball things.

The last number of weeks getting the pub ready have been a frenzied, helter-skelter tangle of upholstery fabric, ceiling emulsion and floor varnish. We have each agonised over the minutiae of the décor, wanting to restore the dilapidated pub to the grand old dame it once was. We have eaten almost every meal off the back of the wallpaper cutting table and spent hours talking about what it is we wished to create, all the while sanding, scrubbing and disposing of vintage soft drinks (apparently 2003 was a great year for Fanta). The pub was not in great shape when we got to it, underneath the layers of grime the walls were a lurid red, the upholstery was torn and unsightly, and the floors had taken on a lustre of grey where the dirt that had been walked into the floorboards.

So many quotes we received from tradesmen were insanely expensive (seemingly the pub refurb industry is immune from the recession) that we decided we could do a lot of it ourselves. Upholstering tacks were bought, books were consulted, a belt sander was hired and our tireless obliging friends were co-opted in to help. There were times of pure frustration, of despair and where we all questioned our sanity, at 1am sanding bar stools and pulling staples out of the cushions with a butter knife, but for the most part, getting the pub ready to open was a period of joy. Every person who set foot inside Mulligan’s before it was open must have looked around at the squalor, widened their eyes and wondered how it was ever going to be ready, but despite this, put their reservations aside, picked up a paintbrush and cheerfully got on with it. We are all eternally indebted to these people, their contribution was more than the sum of their physical toil, it was the energy they brought to the place, and their belief in us, that we would open, we would sail, that brought us to the point we are at. Most of all, for myself I am glad I was there, I am glad I gave it everything, I am glad I have developed fledgling upholstery skills, that Michael could now have a second career as a floor varnisher, that Colin has newly acquired carpentry experience and that Mark, (my amazingly good-natured brother in law without who the pub would not have opened) is now Dublin 7's resident expert on hanging wallpaper, because it wouldn’t have felt ours not to (plus if it all goes wrong, we will at least have a fighting chance of ‘gettin’ the start’).

T

One of our productive helpers, the eponymous L. Mulligan. (Larry)

There are a great many things not done, works in progress, snags that I can see lurking from the corner of my eye, but these will be fixed with time, the important thing is that we are open. And we are. On Thursday 1 July, at 4.22-ish, having spent the first official 22 minutes of opening rushing around wiping counters and sweeping floors, while people waited patiently outside we opened the doors to the public. I had remarked over and over that it would be odd having other people present in the pub, people who aren’t there because we are paying them to remove the unsightly pool table or poker machines or friends who had generously donated their time to work for nothing, but it wasn’t like that at all. The energy of that first evening was amazing, it was hopeful and forgiving, people were excited for us, and about the pub. There was a lovely mix of people who lived locally, beer and whiskey aficionados and people we knew who had come down to support us. For all of us, I think the memory of Thursday evening will sustain us through the coming weeks, as we wrangle the back half of the pub into some semblance of order, sort out proper processes and continue to interview chefs. Personally I am going to try and write more here and on our Mulligan’s blog, I miss it, I have so many lovely recipes from when I was in Australia four weeks ago, and inspired by Taste of Dublin three weeks ago, but for now, I have wasabi peas to order and pork pies to source, so I leave you with a pickled onion recipe.

Pickled onions
This is the cold method, in which the onions take longer to mature, but I think is more mellow and flavoursome than the warm method, and retains the crispiness of the onion.

Equipment
Large Saucepan
Large dinner plate, or similar that fits just inside the saucepan
2 large kilner jars or similar
One kilo of pickling onions (silverskins are great) or shallots
150 grams of salt
100 grams sugar
1 litre of water
1 litre vinegar
½ teaspoon of each coriander seeds, mustard seeds, pink peppercorns and chilli flakes

1. Make a brine by boiling salt and sugar in the water, until all has dissolved. Leave to completely cool before using.


4. Boil the vinegar and spices together in a pan for 10 minutes.
5. Leave to cool completely.
6. Pack onions into clean, sterilized jars and cover with cold spiced vinegar.
7. Cover and label with contents and date.
8. Leave for two months before using.

Orange(e)tte(e)s: Common heritage(e) of all mankind.

A speck of brown sugar has lodged itself behind the ‘e’ key of my keyboard. Try as I might, I have been unable to lure it out, it seems to have nestled in snugly, likely only to emerge some point in the future having irritated itself into bivalve like pearlescence. The upshot of this intrusion is that in my indignant insistence on typing an ‘e’, I have taken to inadvertently typing any words containing the letter with a double ‘e’, or even on occasion a triple ‘e’, imparting a Flemish characteristic to my writing. I think these errant vowels are my laptop’s way of easing itself back into life post-‘long trip home’ through Flanders last month, more of an accent the computer has affected than a series of typographical errors. It reminds me of the first time Mr 9BR and I played Scrabble, in Antwerp, on a Dutch set, the extra vowels resulting in blatant cheating and a couple of dubious triple word scores that Tolkien would be proud of. I offer my computer’s newly acquired speech affectation as an excuse for a lack of posting, though truthfully the scarcity has more to do with my ongoing affair with assignments on ‘sovereignty in space’ and ‘the convention on the peaceful use of the moon and other celestial bodies’. I was back in Leiden again last week, studying, working, drinking the occasional nut brown beer and sleeping very little, though fortunately avoided the scourge of the ash a second time.

On my recent cross-continental retreat from Flanders, in between veraciously reading space law treaties while waiting in queue at ticket desks, I managed to visit my favourite chocolateir. I love the location as much as the shop itself- just off a cobbled street in Brussels in a galleried walkway arced by lustred art-deco windows which dapple the light across diplomats and tourists enjoying gaufre and coffee in the sun. I cut a not altogether graceful figure, hauling my bag up three flights of stairs at the train station and gymnastically dodging postcard sellers, caricature artists and a hoard of Spanish tourists led by a disgruntled looking guide propelling aloft a lurid orange flag. Limbs flaying wildly, I descended on the bewildered looking shop assistant, hastily purchased four chocolates before sprinting back to the train station in a feat which may have modestly broken the land speed record.



I discovered the store on my first ever visit to Belgium, when overwhelmed with the choice of chocolates: row after row of perfectly formed truffles and brightly hued bon bons, tiny liqueur infused replicas of the Manekin Pis and elegant discs of plain chocolate, I decided instead to taste the same chocolate at each shop. The vague intention was to find the best of the variety. The subject of the side by side tasting was a cerisette, the chocolate with the whole cherry and kirsch inside, one of the single greatest sources of joy in my life to this day. Sometimes in the middle of a meeting about the leasing of an aircraft, or a lecture on space insurance I drift into a reverie of wistful sighs and longing glances just thinking of cherry brandy spilling out of a dark chocolate shell. I decided on my recent visit though to branch out to the orangette, a tangy rind of candied orange peel enveloped in dark chocolate. The perfect orangette has just the right amount of tartness balanced by a levelling sweetness, beautifully translucent beneath a dense coating of bitter dark chocolate. I ate them on a train, one by one, their marmalade sweetness soothing my harried state and I forgot for a moment where I was, the cursed ash and the thirty hour trip ahead.



These really are so easy to make, but require patience as the boiling in sugar syrup, and drying on a rack takes some time.

4 oranges (or lemons) unwaxed (this is very important)
1 cup of caster sugar
3.5 cups of water

150g dark chocolate

Equipment
Rack
Greasproof tray or baking paper
Holy spoon
Tongs
Sharp knife
Saucepan
Heatproof bowl or double boiler

Instructions
Scrub the oranges.
Using a sharp knife, cut each orange in half and remove the pulp. Some people juice the oranges first, but as I used the rest of the orange in an orange and chocolate cake, I did not do this. I like to leave quite a bit of pith on mine, but this is a matter of preference. If you do not leave much in the way of pith on the peel, you might reduce the number of blanchings required to one slightly longer boil.
Cut the peel into slivers, about 1cm thick each.
In plenty of boiling water, blanch the peels three times for about ten minutes, changing the water each time.
Drain and in a saucepan combine the water and sugar, bringing to the boil.
Add peels and allow to continue to simmer over medium heat until the peels are translucent. This took me about 45 minutes, but may vary.
Using a holy spoon and tongs, remove each sliver of peel from the sugar syrup and place on a rack over baking paper (to catch any drips). You could drain the liquid prior to this step, but I was keen to use the left over syrup to make a boozy cordial.
Leave peels to dry. This took two days in my case, but again may vary.
Once dry, temper some chocolate and dip the end of each orangette into the chocolate to coat. Leave to set on a greaseproof tray. Eat or store in a airtight jar.

Matching beer:
Hoegaarden Forbidden Fruit

The Long Way Home and Delicious Pork

In a feat that made the Odyssey look a summer day trip to the countryside, I am finally home. My  whinging commentary on the arduous journey was documented for posterity on Twitter via Amsterdam, Brussels, Lille, London, Cardiff, Fishguard and Rosslare. It was an adventure of highs and lows, of disgruntled Dutch rail security guards, won over by my fledgling attempts to speak Dutch and my knowledge of the boutique breweries of Holland, of a trans-Flanders train journey characterised by the intermittent presence of a six year old fellow passenger’s elbow jutting into my ear, and a solitary moment of fury (culminating in a tantrum-like kicking off of my grey patent ballet flat) at not being able to get to Calais despite being at the departure point in excess of forty-five minutes in advance of the train and with the means and will to buy a ticket.

There are far worse places to be stranded than Amsterdam, and I consoled myself with €3 plates of Oude Amsterdammer cheese and cheap Lentebock beers, quaffed in between charting online ever more inventive routes back to Dublin. The journey itself was a once in a lifetime seething awkward stagger in the general direction of home, along with thousands of other bewildered travellers, all heaving their luggage dejectedly through the connections, as if they were not quite sure what they were doing or even what country they were in. I invented little games to amuse myself on the way, including collecting smoked sausages from each city for Mr 9BR, and buying a disposable camera and periodically photographing a small rubber duck that I bought while on an emergency sock/delicate garment/mint tea run, engaged in the various joys of navigating the seven trains, a bus and a ferry-boat back to Dublin. All in all it was not as horrific as I anticipated, there was a great sense of camaraderie amongst the stranded and for the most part, except for one horrendous incident where my laptop converter gave up the ghost, and Dutch rail forbade the purchase of international train tickets in person, it was bearable.

The duck with its various boarding passes. 

I sustained myself through the unexpected journey with a combination of mint tea, prewashed lettuce leaves and goat cheese, making little ham roll ups to eat while crammed into the various transfers with a seat pitch designed for a midget. These along with charming tweets and text messages of encouragement helped get me back to my lovely kitchen, where I was itching to cook and made a slightly more sophisticated version.

I made this, thinking that it would serve as a main, with vegetables on the side, and perhaps potatoes for Mr 9BR, but when done, I found that it lent itself to being served terrine-like, on a bed of leaves, and with a sweet relish. I bought the ham from Fallon and Byrne - their charcuterie counter sells the tail end of various hams, salamis and sausages for the decent price of €10 a kilo, and they will even slice it to order. I got four massive half centimetre thick slices of serrano for €1.39, which were perfect for my grown-up ham roll up recipe.

Ingredients

500 grams pork fillet

100 grams feta or goat’s cheese

50 grams of mixed leaves/herbs such as rocket, spinach, basil and mizuna

Four slices of pancetta or Serrano ham

Two small cloves of garlic, minced

Half teaspoon of powdered tumeric

Salt and Pepper

Relish to serve

Equipment

Meat tenderiser, or a rolling pin

Large chopping board

Cling film

String

Serves 8 as a starter, 3-4 as a main

Directions

Preheat oven to 180 degrees Celsius.

Trim all fat from the pork fillet. This step is very important, as when it is rolled up, any fat will make it very sinewy.

Place pork in the centre of chopping board and top with a sheet of cling film.

With the meat tenderiser or rolling pin, bash the fillet out so that it is flattened to two centimetres thickness.

Remove cling film and season with salt and pepper.

Crumble feta or goat cheese along the entire length of the fillet and then sprinkle leaves on top of the cheese.

Pressing down firmly, roll the pork fillet along the short side, like a Swiss roll using the cling film if needed to keep everything firm and compact.  

Rub the outside of the rolled pork with the turmeric and then layer with the ham in order to encase the pork entirely. Tie up with string to keep everything pressed together firmly while cooking.

Roast covered with foil in the oven for 40 minutes.

Serve sliced on mixed leaves and relish on the side.

A Smoke and a Pancake

I write this from exile, canal side in Amsterdam, displaced by the ‘Great Ash’, trapped on the continent by what I have been told is a plume of filthy smoke hovering over Europe, to the peril of all aircraft engines, though I see no evidence of it in the cornflower blue skies above Holland other than the notable absence of planes. I have now had five flights cancelled on me; all ferries are sold out for the coming days; and the Eurostar is crammed to its Frankish gills. Seemingly the best chance I have of fleeing the Netherlands, failing a balloon rescue Wizard of Oz style, is via Cherbourg, a seventeen hour ferry crossing to Dublin departing Tuesday evening at the earliest. I wouldn’t be surprised to be required to meet a dubious gent in a trilby hat in the cloak of night and exchange a secret password simply to get across the Flemish border. ‘The dimpled ostrich flies by night’. Notwithstanding my otherwise subjugated status as a refugee, all is well, I have to date refrained from reciting maudlin poems of the ‘old country’ and weeping into my gin, though there is time yet.

I have been remiss in posting much lately and volcano eruptions aside the scarcity is due to the imposition of some hideously overdue college papers, and travelling an inordinate amount for work. To add insult to injury, I am slinking back to posting without so much as a recipe to share, though it is with no small amount of irony that I am instead posting about smoked fish. The instructions below are less of a recipe more of a preparation method, but the result is so perfect, so unctuous that once a morsel of the fragrantly smoked salmon passes your lips, all with be forgiven. I promise too to later this week post the recipe for the tiny Swedish pancakes that I made to accompany the fish which is meticulously detailed in a notebook back in the ‘old country’ (sniffle): a tangle of egg beating, sour cream folding and hours of resting time. In the meantime, there is a great version here, but leave out the sugar.

I made this while the solitary rack in my kitchen was otherwise engaged in the process of making candied orange peel, so I improvised with a sushi mat, string and some knot tying (and cussing) that would make a sailor weep with pride. I don’t really recommend the sushi mat method, though it worked there was a moment of pure panic when one piece of string caught fire, and I feared the entire contraption would incinerate. The idea, inspired by the method for tea-smoked duck, is to keep the fish away from the direct heat so that the smouldering tea, rice and sugar suffuse the flesh with the earthy aroma while also gently cooking it. You could also use a disposable tray for this, as the direct heat on the bottom of the roasting tray can leave unsightly scorch marks.

  

Ingredients

200 gram salmon fillet, skin off, room temperature

¼ cup white rice

¼ cup brown sugar
3 tablespoons of black tea (I used Guv’nor’s blend, which I was given when the Pashley was delivered, but any black tea would suit. It would be interesting to see the result of the more fragrant blends)
Crushed rock or sea salt

Equipment

Roasting tray
Tin foil
A rack with ‘legs’ that fits neatly into the roasting tray, or suspends over it

Serves two as a starter or one as a main along with some vegetables or salad.

Line the roasting tray entirely with foil.
Rub one side of the salmon fillet lightly with salt, about half a teaspoon.
At this point you could leave the salmon to for an hour or so, which will have the effect of creating a sort of ‘skin’ once smoked. It is up to you.
Mix sugar, rice and tea together and place in the bottom of the lined tray in an even layer.
Suspend rack over top of the sugar, rice and tea and place salmon in centre of rack, salted side up.
Cover the entire tray with tin foil, this make take several layers, making sure there are no gaps.
Fire up the BBQ or stove top and place on high direct heat for 7-10 minutes, depending on the thickness of the salmon. My salmon was less than 5cm thick and I did 8 minutes.
Remove from heat using oven mitts and take to a well-aerated space for the next (fantastically fun) step.
Remove foil, letting smoke escape in a dramatic fashion and gently remove smoked salmon from the rack.
Either serve immediately or let cool and use as you would regular smoked salmon.

Black Pudding, Wontons and High Praise

They may not look it, but beneath their wontony exterior beats a gutsy Irish heart.

I adore having people over for dinner. I like the way my kitchen seems to be transformed by the presence of other people, how chatter and the sounds of countless bottles opening seem to fill the space, giving life to it, a happy buzz surrounding the process of cooking, the anticipation of sitting down to the table, getting to use my favourite serviettes which I don’t trust myself not to ruin any other time (I don’t seem to mind the idea of them getting ruined at something as joyous as an ‘occasion’, it seems like an honourable way for a serviette to leave this world) and how inevitably some cracked plate or dirty glass ends up on the table, but it doesn’t matter because even the ordinary, the doldrum seems to take on a new hue when the house is full of friends, restored somehow by the laughter of these people who have come to my house to let me feed them. Mostly though I love the planning, I like thinking of what people would like to eat, and how they will react when they eat it. I love making food for people that ‘matches’ them. I think about them a lot before they come over (in a non creepy feathery stroker kind of way of course).

Recently I had one of my all-time favourite reactions to something I made. My lovely brother in law was over for dinner, my eloquent financial wizard brother in law, more reserved than my other lovely brother in law, a science genius who dances as though his legs are disconnected from his torso. I decided to continue my recent fusion experiment, wrenching foods from where they are cosy and plonking them firmly into a style to which they are not accustomed. Sticking with an Asian/Irish theme, I took inspiration from one of my favourite cities in the world, Hong Kong. Hong Kong itself is a fusion of cultures, Chinese and colonial. Traditional dark wood panelled tea-rooms nestle alongside dim sum joints serving tasty morsels from stainless steel carts for breakfast next to which cram streetfood stands spruiking chicken feet stewed in black beans.

A great little place to eat in Hong Kong. Yes, that is a snout in the centre.

With thoughts of a traditional Hong Kong breakfast of dim sum, and a traditional Irish breakfast of black pudding I set to meld the two traditions together, mindful not to compromise the graceful simplicity of dim sum, nor the gutsiness of the black pudding. In my experience Irish men are not very receptive to having their breakfasts frou-froued (you should have seen the reaction at Chez 9 Bean Row when I tried to introduce salad leaves with breakfast) but figuring it was dinner, I thought I was pretty safe. Nevertheless, I decided to tread carefully, not make a big production out of the desecration of the revered breakfast meat. I needn’t have worried. Making dim sum is so methodical, so repetitive that it almost takes on a meditive quality. I was quickly snapped out of my reverie by the realisation that all of the twenty wontons I had made were eaten within seconds of being slapped out onto the serving plate, without even a chance to make it to the table and I had two enthusiastic Irish men jostling to get closer to the pot, waiting for the little parcels to rise to the top of the water, to be fished out by my favourite of kitchen implements, the holey spoon. They were practically devoured direct from the pot, with much chop smacking and craning of necks to see if there were any more lurking at the bottom of the murky water waiting to glide to the top of the water, and be snatched up and greedily eaten. I didn’t get a single one, high praise indeed.

I made some for my breakfast the next day and before Mr 9BR could catch me served with a nice bowl of mixed leaves. There are all sorts of fancy folds you can learn if you have a search online, but I quite like the triangular shape of these ones.

Ingredients

25 Wonton Wrappers (you can buy these frozen from Oriental stores)
100 grams of black pudding, broken into small pieces
A piece of ginger about a third of the size of your thumb, minced
Half a small onion, minced
Two garlic cloves, minced
Tablespoon soy sauce
Half a teaspoon ground white pepper
1 L Stock or water to cook
Soy sauce and wasabi (optional) to serve

Serves 4 (or two if you are Mr 9BR and his brother)

Combine black pudding, ginger, onion, soy sauce, garlic and pepper in stir well to combine.
Lay wonton wrappers out on a clean surface.
Assemble wontons by placing a 3-4cm ball of filling in the corner of each wonton skin.
Fold into a triangle by brushing each edge lightly with water and then pressing edges together.
Close the edges firmly to get the air out.
Bring stock, or water to the boil.
Add a few wontons to the pot and let simmer gently for 2-3 minutes or until they rise to the top of the pot.
Fish out with a slotted spoon and continue until all are cooked. Serve immediately with a drop of wasabi dissolved in soy sauce on the side.

One a penny Two a penny

Hot cross buns, hot cross buns, one a penny, two a penny hot cross buns.

Based on the nursery rhyme, it would appear the Hot Cross Bun market is facing extreme pricing fluctuations. It is an imprudent man who buys one for a penny shortly before the price crashes to two for a penny. Perhaps there was a HCB bubble, or the HCB market was suddenly liberalised, there may even have even been predatory pricing structures at play. Whatever the reason for the fabled crash, such an oscillating price makes shares in an Irish bank look like a safer investment. 

Most likely it is the limited availability driving the verse’s variation in price. Personally I can go a whole year without giving any kind of bun a second thought, but once Good Friday rolls around, I am overcome with a longing for the little golden puffs of breadiness, studded with mixed peel and headily scented with cinnamon. While there are so many lovely versions available commercially, given the season, there is something entirely appropriate about faithfully waiting for the dough to rise though it should take only a matter of hours, rather than three days.

The process of making these Hot Cross Buns, similar to the act of making bread, feels penitent, calming, a little moment of quiet in a weekend of cocoa fuelled exuberance. I have decided this year to go with a non-dried fruit version since the lovely Mr 9BR is dogmatic in his hatred of raisins, but you could substitute the chocolate in the recipe below for currants, sultanas or raisins, in whatever proportion makes you happy. I was tempted to tinker with the flavouring of the bland pasty cross perched atop each little bun, always a little bit of a disappointment but decided that for traditions sake to leave it be. This recipe is very orangey with a lovely subtle aroma of fresh zest. If making your own candied peel, make sure to use unwaxed oranges, so as to avoid unwittingly adding paraffin to the recipe.


Happy Easter.

Ingredients
125 mL (½ cup) milk
2 cloves
Cinnamon stick
50 grams (¼ cup) caster sugar
14 grams (2 tsp) dried yeast

125 mL (½ cup) orange juice
60 grams (4 Tbsp) melted butter
1 egg

4 ¾ cups (600 grams) bread (strong) flour
75 grams dark chocolate chopped quite small, less than 1cm x 1cm
1 cup (150 grams) dried mixed peel, or candied peel
teaspoon grated nutmeg
teaspoon ground cinnamon

Cross Paste
30 grams (¼ cup) Flour
45 mL (3 tablespoons) Water

Glaze
30 mL (2 Tbsp) Orange juice
25 grams (2 Tbsp) Sugar
4 grams (1 tsp) Gelatine

Equipment
Saucepan
Small jug or bowl
Mixing bowl
Baking tray
Piping bag, or sandwich bag
Pastry brush

Makes 16 buns

Line a baking tray with parchment paper. Place the cinnamon stick, cloves and milk in a saucepan over medium heat and heat gently until just before bubbling. Remove from heat and leave to cool for 20 minutes or so. Remove cloves and cinnamon from the milk.

Combine warmish milk and caster in a jug or bowl and sprinkle the yeast over the top. Place in a warm non draughty place for ten minutes or until the mixture froths up. Add juice, egg and melted butter to the mixture and stir to combine.

In a bowl combine all remaining dry bun ingredients and stir. I have long given up sifting flour, and instead place it into the bowl first and give it a thorough whisking. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry and bring together. The dough will be quite shaggy.

Turn out onto a lightly floured surface and knead for about ten minutes until the dough is elastic and smooth. Place dough into a lightly oiled bowl and leave in that same warm non draughty place to have a little rest for itself for about two hours or until doubled in size.

After two hours turn dough out onto floured surface and give it a good punch in the centre. ‘Knock it back’ by gently kneading for about three minutes. Divide dough into 16 pieces (Make them even by halving the dough, then halving each piece again, and then again and then one last time) and place on tray in a grid about three centimetres apart.

Leave the tray back in that non-draughty place for 30 minutes or until the buns have risen a couple of centimetres.

In the meantime, mix up the cross paste in a bowl and put into a piping bag with a medium tip, alternatively, place into a sandwich bag and diagonally snip a couple of centimentres off the corner.

Pipe a line horizontally and vertically across the rows of buns to make the cross.

Place in oven at 180 degrees celcius for 30 minutes then remove and turn out onto a rack to cool.

Combine sugar, gelatine and juice over heat until sugar is dissolved and bubbles appear then leave to cool until slightly thick. Brush the top of each cooled bun liberally with the glaze.

Serve with plenty of butter.

Beetroot and Cumin Soup and Internationally Signficant Hair

I have big hair. It is not what Caitlin Moran would describe as ‘internationally significant’ but it is voluminous. It is also wildly curly. The implications of this are twofold: 1. with very little effort, if so inclined I could cultivate dreadlocks, notwithstanding the fact that a befreckled ginger Rastafarian is not what the world needs; and 2. I am usually only outdone in the hair department by drag queens, and even then only just. As it turns out, both of these otherwise irrelevant facts were tangently significant to my trip to Galway for the blog awards last weekend.

For those who have not been, Galway is a fabulous place, it exudes the energy of a small seaside town, though a densely populated one. There are some lovely places to eat (one which inspired the recipe below), extraordinary beer bars, a great ‘local’ beer and as many white people with dreadlocks in one place as I have seen in my life. Perhaps Galway is the site of a localised Hibernian resurgence of reggae inspired Zionism, or perhaps there is poor availability of conditioner, in which case the much maligned winner of best blog of the year could probably be of assistance.

The awards themselves were a very glamorous affair, well organised, with a satisfying number of shocking scandals, including The Beer Nut being captured on camera holding a pint of cooking stout (admittedly it was mine), my hair being trumped in volume and lustre by the enchanting Panti (less of a shock) and 9 Bean Row unwieldily winning best newcomer. In my astonishment I managed to totter up to the stage to collect my trophy, stammer a couple of incoherent sentences, simper like a fool and get back to my seat without doing anyone an injury, fortunate considering the trophy was a lovely crystal affair which could inflict significant damage if brought down with a jolt on someone’s head.

My award, out and about adventuring, it is a bit of a free spirit.

Well done to all the winners, and thanks to the organisers and judges. It was a great event to be involved in and I am still teetering about a little bit awed by the win. The day after the awards Mr 9BR and I went for a celebratory breakfast at Ard Bia where I had the most flamboyantly coloured soup I have ever had the pleasure of eating. Fuchsia in colour, and densely earthy in flavour featuring one of my favourite ingredients, beetroot which was blended seamlessly with cumin to create a soup which I have been trying to replicate all week. The recipe below is a good approximation, but if using younger (and hence sweeter) beets you may need to mess around with the seasonings slightly.

I like to imagine you can tell the age of the beets from their rings, like trees.
Ingredients

15 grams (1 Tsp) butter or olive oil
2 shallots thinly sliced
2 cloves of garlic, chopped finely
1.5 L (6 cups) of stock, I used turkey stock I had frozen from Christmas, but vegetable or chicken would work also
750 grams (or about 4 cricket ball sized) beetroot, sliced into 1.5cm slices
10 grams (1 tsp) of cumin seeds
10 grams (1 tsp) of coriander seed
15 grams (1 tsp) peppercorns (I used white, but pink would be fitting too)
60mL (3 Tsp) of natural yoghurt
Parsley to serve (optional)

Equipment
Medium (2.5 L) pot
Small frying pan
Hand blender
Mortar and pestle

Serves 6 as a starter, 4 as a light lunch.

In a largish pot over medium heat, melt the butter and add the shallots and garlic, cooking until soft, about five minutes.
Add the sliced beetroot and toss to mix through, then add the stock.
Bring to the boil and then reduce to a simmer cooking until the beetroot is soft when tested with the tip of a knife, this should take about 10-15 minutes depending on the ‘woodiness’ of the beetroot (older/bigger beets will take longer to cook).
In the meantime, place the spices and pepper over a medium heat in a saucepan and toast lightly, for about five minutes. Remove from heat and crush spices roughly with a mortar and pestle.
Remove the beetroot from the heat and using hand blender, blend until smooth and then mix through the crushed spices and the yoghurt, reserving one teaspoon for serving. Return pot to heat and warm through before serving in bowls topped with a blob of yoghurt and chopped parsley.

Cabbage & bacon, a love story for the ages.

A few weeks ago, St Patrick’s week to be precise, in a episode of preternatural genetic pre-programming I found myself with a longing to make boiled bacon and cabbage. Wary of the traditional recipe’s ability to infuse the entire house with a sulphuric stench that would turn the hardiest of stomachs, I was determined to fuse the Irish staple with another culinary tradition, preferably something with a fragrance more palatable. I was thinking more of ‘Sydney’-style fusion food, where culinary traditions are melded in an unfussy and unpretentious way born of a natural meshing of cultures in an ethnic melting pot rather than an okra laden throw back to the New York culinary scene in the mid-90s. I decided to stick with the Irish tradition of boiling or poaching the pork, as it keeps the bacon moist and cooks it evenly and quickly, though I made an aromatic spiced broth with star anise, stock, soy sauce, coriander and a scattering of pink peppercorns. It infused the pork with a delicate and aromatic flavour, quite subtle, but distinctly Asian in its influence.

Look on my cabbage ye mighty and dispair

I don’t know many people besides myself who really love cabbage, the culprit of the foul odour when cooking traditional boiled bacon and cabbage. In Ireland cabbage seems to be destined to cameo only as coleslaw, relegated to the side of the plate, bound in glutinous mayonnaise and largely ignored or left behind. I toyed with and quickly dismissed the idea of Korean Kimchi cabbage. Kimchi requires treatment more akin to that of a day spa than dinner, including a long steep in a bath, a vigorous massage with scented oil and a two day rest in order to ferment. Simple stirfry seemed the best option, using savoy cabbage. Savoy is my favourite variety, imposing quite a silhouette on the chopping board, almost magestic, with its vivid colour and crowned with curly leaves. Cooked quickly, with a touch of stock, soy sauce and chilli flakes it retained its crunch and complimented the salty smokiness of the pork perfectly. Some noodles served topped with crunchy potato married together the Irish and Asian influence for my carb-loading brother in law and Mr 9BR. On the side that other darling of Irish sandwich shops corn, though this time in its baby form coupled with some sweet orange capsicum (pepper) completed the meal.

An Oriental Influenced Irish Buffet for Three

Star Anise Poached Pork
Spicey Stirfried Cabbage
Crunchy Potato Noodles
Baby Corn and Orange Peppers
Blackbean and Honey Sauce

I have written these out in the order that makes sense for serving immediately.

Star Anise Poached Pork
500 grams of boiling bacon, or ham
litre of pork or chicken stock
3 star anise
teaspoon coriander seeds
half teaspoon pink peppercorns
teaspoon of minced ginger
Tablespoon of soy sauce

Soak bacon or ham for at least an hour in cold water to remove some of the salt and then drain.
In a large pot combine all ingredients besides the pork and bring to a boil.
Reducing to a simmer, add pork and cook for 40 minutes.

Crunchy Potato Noodles

Any kind of noodles will work for this, I used dried rice noodles, rehydrated in hot water.

3 tablespoons Sesame, groundnut or vegetable oil
One shallot, or 2 scallions, minced
One clove of garlic, minced
One large potato, cut in half and finely sliced
200 grams of fresh or 100 grams dried noodles, rehydrated according to the directions and thoroughly drained.
2 tablespoons hoisin sauce, you could use soy sauce at a pinch, or 1 tablespoon of fish sauce

In hot wok heat oil, add the potato slices and fry until crispy on both sides, about three minutes.
Add the minced garlic and shallot and cook for a further minute.
Add noodles and cook without stirring for two-three minutes until the ones on the bottom are crispy, then toss through the hoisin sauce and cook for another two-three minutes without stirring.
Add a little more oil if required, stirring through then cook for another two-three minutes without stirring.
The result will be a nice contrast of textures, crunchy and soft.
Remove from wok and place in warmed bowl for serving.

Baby Corn and Orange Peppers
100 grams baby corn, quartered lengthways
One orange capsicum/pepper, sliced into strips
One teaspoon vegetable oil
teaspoon sesame seeds (optional)
White Pepper.

Heat oil in pan or wok and cook pepper until soft about two minutes. Remove from pan and place aside.
Add quartered corn to the pan and cook for about five minutes until slightly softened.
Return peppers to pan and cook through to reheat seasoning with pepper and sesame seeds.

Spicey Stirfried Cabbage
Head of savoy cabbage, shredded
Half teaspoon of chilli flakes
¼ cup of shoxing wine (if you cannot find use extra stock with a half tablespoon of soy sauce mixed in)
¼ cup of stock
Tablespoon of soy sauce

Place shredded cabbage into a wok over high heat and pour over stock, wine (if using) and sprinkle over chilli flakes.
Cook for three minutes, stirring to ensure all cabbage cooks evenly.
When bright green and slightly soft (but retaining some crunch) remove from heat and place in serving bowl, pouring soy sauce over.

You may wish to make this sauce, for serving separately. The whole meal is so tasty though I am not sure it is required.

Two tablespoons black bean sauce
Half cup water
Tablespoon honey

Combine all ingredients in pan over medium heat. Mix to combine and heat through.
Serve on side separately.

I ♥ B.L.

Brooklyn Lager is one of my favourite session beers. Its cute Milton Glaser designed label has been making cameo appearances in Dublin off licenses and supermarkets recently. Hopefully it will become a permanent addition.

The beer pours quite high (i.e. a lot of head) and the dense foamy bubbles have great staying power. The colour is darker than you would expect from a lager, being a light reddish amber colour. With sunlight reflecting through the glass (at my impromptu picnic for one) the colour is reminiscent of a stained glass window.

The first aroma of the beer is a fresh grassiness, with a hint of sweetness that smells to me slightly like brown sugar. On aroma alone I would guess this beer would be a great match for barbequed meat. I am thinking particularly of satisfyingly messy foods requiring finger bowls and a change of shirt after, for example marinated chicken wings or glazed pork ribs.

The first sip of the beer gives a rich smooth bodied beer with a sharp hoppiness which clangs across the entire tongue. This is balanced by a malty sweetness and there is a delicious earthy aftertaste, and a lovely warmth in the throat which reminded me of malted whisky. All this makes the beer sound quite heavy, but it is not, with plenty of carbonation carrying the beer and there is a definite lasting freshness about it. The beer is dry hopped, which means fresh hops are steeped in the beer as it ferments.

While called a lager this beer feels more like an American pale ale in its body, and would be a perfect match for the Scotch eggs I posted about earlier this week. I think it would also be an amazing match for a herby roast chicken or a pork and leek pie, both of which I think I will experiment with and blog the results.

Food for a Picnic: Scotch Eggs

'It was a most beautiful evening, with the lake as blue as a cornflower and the sky flecked with rosy clouds. They held their hard-boiled eggs in one hand and a piece of bread and butter in the other, munching happily. There was a dish of salt for everyone to dip their eggs into.’ Enid Blyton Five Go Off in a Caravan

I love foods that sound like they might come from the pages of an Enid Blyton book. Taffy, treacle pudding and scotch eggs delight me no end. I adore the idea of eating outdoors accompanied by lashings of ginger beer, and dearly long to wear dungarees and wrangle Cornish smugglers, foiling their dastardly plans with little more than my plucky attitude and a rope ladder. In fact truth be told, I think my life would be a little more perfect if I was one of the Famous Five, or even one of the less loved, but much edgier Five Finder-Outers, except for the fact that I am a small bit scared of dogs especially those with that are uncannily astute.

I am determined this Summer to picnic in Blytonian fashion wherever possible, to eat currant buns in meadows, and romp around the hedgerows having a gay time. Food will be simple and eaten cold as an interlude to an adventure. It will be parochial and spiffing and there will of course be lashings of everything from mayonnaise to raspberry syrup.

These Scotch eggs are easy to make and are perfect impromptu picnic food: bulbous eggs nestled inside a little cave of deliciously spiced sausage meat and crusted in herby parmesan. They can be made in advance and saved in the fridge or even wrapped and stored in the freezer. I use dried herbs in the crust as I seem to have inherited a cupboard full of them and I am sure they are not improving with age. I often add crumbs to the crust for Mr 9BR who is a carbohydrate fiend but they are as good without.

As the days in Dublin have finally started to stretch out, uncurling themselves into the long summer evenings, Scotch eggs would make a perfect outdoor supper with a salad and a great chutney with homemade lemonade, or a zesty American pale ale, served from a enamel flask of course!

Jolly Good Scotch Eggs.

6-8 good quality pork sausages minimum 75% pork, split down the centre with a knife and the meat squeezed out (my favourite part of this recipe)
6 medium eggs, boiled for about 8 minutes
50 grams parmesan cheese finely grated
2 tablespoons of dried herbs eg oregano, parsley, basil, tarrangon, I often even add a sprinkling of paprika
Half a cup of fine breadcrumbs (optional)

Preheat oven to 180 degrees C.
After the eggs are boiled, remove from the heat and drain water, replacing with fresh cold water. Leave for several minutes until cool enough to handle.
In the meantime in a flat dish combine grated parmesan, herbs and breadcrumbs (if using).
Peel the eggs from their shells (I discovered recently that these can go in the compost-hurrah!).
With wet hands take a sixth of the sausage meat and flatten to the size of your palm.
Place the boiled egg in the centre of the flattened sausage meat and wrap it around the egg into a sphere, squishing to cover the egg entirely.
Roll each sphere in the parmesan mix, coating thoroughly.
Place onto a rack into preheated oven for 20 minutes or until crunchy and slightly brown on the outside.