9 Bean Row

Salty ice-cream, sunshine and three strip Technicolour.

2010-07-26T21:41:00.001+01:00

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.

2010-07-03T17:50:00.002+01:00

(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’).

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.

2010-05-24T19:02:00.001+01:00

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

2010-04-23T13:52:00.004+01:00

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

2010-04-19T01:18:00.000+01:00

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

2010-04-10T03:06:00.001+01:00

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

2010-04-04T13:02:00.000+01:00

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

2010-04-02T16:20:00.002+01:00

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.

2010-03-27T13:41:00.004Z

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.

2010-03-26T13:36:00.001Z

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

2010-03-24T22:00:00.002Z

'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.

Finalist

2010-03-24T21:56:00.000Z

I have been away this week in Brussels: working in between mainlining trappist beer and dark chocolate, so I am only now getting a chance to post that 9 Bean Row is a finalist in the best newcomer category in the Irish Blog Awards.

In my excitement at finding out I managed to burn an egg I was boiling and forget about the butter I was 'softening' on the radiator as I swanned around instead engaged in Gwyneth style simpering. Still, greasy floors and pungent smoke are a small price to pay for being a real live finalist! I am so delighted and must thank both the sponsors Lastminute.ie and the judges for trawling through the volume of blogs on the shortlists. Well done too to my fellow finalists, it is lovely to be in such great company:

The Style Bitches

Good After Morning

Chronicles of a Year Long Break up

Pretty Far West

The rest of the finalists in other categories are listed here where you can also buy tickets to the finals in Galway.

Beer and the woman who loves it, featuring a very girly beer tasting notebook.

2010-03-19T19:53:00.003Z

My trustee steed Pashley, laden down with beer.

Spring is in the air in Dublin this week: the changing of the seasons blows faintly on the wind, daffodils are starting to emerge from their winter hibernation and I hopefully eye up my thongs (flip flops) while planning ever more elaborate outdoor dinners and picnics for the months to come. I love the optimism of Spring, especially in Ireland-everyone seems to predict with Nostradamus-like inaccuracy the scorcher of the Summer to come, only to have their spirits wilted by the inevitable deluge of rain of July and August, and then sanguinely repeat the whole exercise again the next year round.

Yesterday, infected with the joys of Spring I cycled my bike, the Pashley Princess to one of the three outstanding off-licences I live within ~~walking~~ cycling distance of. It has to be said here, for those of you that are not aware: the Pashley Princess is a diva of a bike. More like a precocious high-maintenance debutant than a sleek means of transportation, with her wicker basket and cherry red panniers, she is a little self-important and is not minded to rush for anyone. Try as I might, getting her out of second gear is a feat that eludes me. For this reason I tend to avoid cycling uphill, as she has a tendency to look around, roll her eyes and with a huff and a flounce refuse to go any further until she has a little rest for herself. Or at least I do.

Thus, it was only on a matter of grave importance that I ventured out with the Pashley uphill to McHughs. I have been planning a new element of 9 Bean Row for a while. As you may or may not have discerned, I am very in to beer. I love tasting it, talking about it, and have even been known to make it. There is a quiet revolution gaining ground for the beer drinker in Ireland: two new microbreweries are on the cusp of launching (Dungarvan Brewing Company and Trouble Brewing) the established microbreweries are increasing their range, the importers (of which Mr 9BR is one) are increasing their offerings and there is a new consumer lobby, Beoir due to launch in July. To paraphrase the Bass-drinking gardening advocate ‘The (beer) boom is getting boomier’.

So without further fanfare, meandering stories or Aussie Rules-style running through a banner I present 'Beers at 9 Bean Row'. Please don’t expect the high calibre of musings of my favourite beer blogs, rather a focus on matching beers with the foods that compliment them, accompanied by my girly beer notebook.

First up…Chapeau Kriek.

Cherry Ripe

2010-03-19T19:52:00.002Z

Chapeau Kriek is a lambic beer, meaning that fermentation is spontaneous caused by wild yeasts native to Belgium and the beer is aged traditionally in wooden barrels, which themselves contain many wild yeasts. To make a Kriek, cherries are added to the fermentation, giving a beautiful red colour which ranges from fuschia to deep ruby. This particular beer is also sweetened with syrup and additional sugar.

The aroma on this beer was very ‘boozy berry’ with the first sip (after I removed both the crown closure and cork) giving a kirsch (cherry brandy) like sweetness with a hint of syrupiness. This was well balanced with a sourness that left the impression of sherbet in my mouth. The beer was thirst quenching and reminiscent of vanilla cream soda. The beer is light and zesty, with a distinct ‘zing’ of fizzy sweets.

Forgive the dodgy photo, it was night and very dark and although committed to lovely photos I am not going to start drinking in the middle of the day.

The obvious pairing might be a desert, like a pot de chocolat or even a fruit based tart especially something with almonds- in fact Kriek and dense chocolate pudding is my fall back desert. More challenging though is something like a Mortadella ham, or good quality smoked ham, for example a ‘Black Forest’ style. The contrast of the smokiness and the saccharine cherry works surprisingly well. No recipe required there, just slice and serve on a hefty wooden chopping board with some crusty bread if you are so inclined. Another sweet and savoury combination might be washed rind cheddar, or even an aged hard cheese served on oat cakes.

The only complaint I have about this beer is the price v alcohol content. Coming in at 3.7% ABV and priced at just under €4 in the off license and at a recession-flouting €6.90 in one of my favourite pubs the pricing seems a little out of kilter.

Of Snakes and Bran

2010-03-17T17:20:00.005Z

St Patrick’s Day, a day for celebrating a snake-free Ireland, bellowing out wistful ballads of homesickness and hunger (even if you happen to be sitting within ten kilometres of said home with a plate of Taco Fries in front of you) and wearing ironic jaunty caps. I adore St Patrick’s Day. Like most Irish families abroad, growing up St Patrick’s Day was the seminal holiday in our home. We were kept off school and the doldrums of grade three maths was replaced with feis, a parade in Fremantle and GAA games, not to mention being allowed to break Lent. Such excitement.

Now that I live in Dublin, with its ever cynical undertone, St Patrick’s Day celebrations have taken on a less rumbustious tone, with the day involving a meal tipsily cooked with friends accompanied by plenty of Irish craft beer. I am so fortunate to have access in Ireland to meat bought from the man who reared the beast, eggs fresh from the farm, commercially available dairy of astounding quality and beers brewed with passion by fledgling craft breweries. I try to make a point of using the best of these in celebration of not only the feast day, but also what signifies to me the real start of Spring.

As ever, my go-to starter is my fabulous mother-in-law’s brown bread with charcuterie. Served with relish, Irish farmhouse cheeses and gubeen ham this bread is the most sublime of starters. Earthy, rich with a touch of sweetness, it coverts even this non-bread eater. Beannacht Lá Fhéile Pádraig!

12 ounces/340 grams plain flour
4 ounces/110 grams of bran
2 1 ounce/ 30 grams brown sugar
1 heaped teaspoon bicarb of soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
750mL buttermilk
2 Tablespoons olive oil

Grease a kilo loaf tin and preheat oven to 170 degrees C.
Mix all dry ingredients together and make a well in the middle.
Add wet ingredients and mix to combine.
Pour into loaf tin and bake for approx 45 minutes.

Edited to add that two ounces is too much sugar, I suggest using one ounce. The other critical thing I forgot to mention is that when it is baked, leave to cool in the tin for ten minutes or so and then wrap tightly in a clean teatowel until ready to use.

Istanbul Inspired Raspberry, Pistachio and Rosewater Semifreddo

2010-03-14T16:06:00.001Z

I am an appalling haggler. While I adore arguing, exchanging ideas, negotiation; haggling I do not care for. Nor am I particularly good at it. I think even the least wiley of traders sense this, being that other people are quoted as an opening offer, a sum lower than the price I manage to clumsily 'negotiate'. I listen with envy as others return from Thailand, Egypt and India laden down with bounties secured for a few shekels. Meanwhile I take cold comfort in my lovely exorbinately priced bowl which (I am assured by the nice hawker I bought it off ) was handmade by nubile young dervishes, hand-whittled to an ancient family design, passed through the generations in a secret scroll buried in a cave. I'd say it was with wistful thoughts of their bottom line that Instanbul's purveyors of lamps, baklava or bowls in the Grand Bazaar bade me farewell.

As ever when travelling, my favourite experiences in Istanbul were food related: endless cups of dark grainy coffee, durum kebabs with meat of questionable origin hastily eaten on the deck of a ferry-boat, corn cobs served from a cart outside the Blue Mosque, doused in mouth puckering table salt after emerging from suspiciously murky water. I was fascinated by the fragrance of the city, how temporal it felt, despite the loom of minerets on the horizon and the pervasive religious observance. The entire city was permeated with the scent of rosewater, and when I returned home (five boxes of rose flavoured turkish delight under arm for which I haggled the vendor's price down to college education for his eldest grandson only) I couldn't stop thinking about using rosewater in cooking.

I have made this semifreddo countless times. It is a Bill Grainger inspired recipe and every time I have make it, I resolve to make it more often. It is one of my favourite deserts not only because of the rich taste and talking point texture (it should be served at the 'melting icecream' stage) but because of the striking colours. A great Spring desert. I use berries frozen from last season but if you are making this at a time when fresh are available, they work just as well.

Ingredients
6 egg yolks
3 tablespoons Honey
250 ml Cream whipped
1 Tablespoon rose-water
150 g raspberries plus a few extra to serve
3 tablespoons shelled, chopped Pistachios

Grease a 6cm-deep, 19cm x 9cm (base) loaf pan. Line with cling film, allowing a 5cm overhang on both long ends.

Beat the egg yolks and honey together with electric beaters for 10 minutes, or until thick, pale, creamy and doubled in volume. Fold in the whipped cream and rosewater until just combined.

Spoon the mixture into the tin, fold the plastic over the top to cover the semifreddo and freeze for 1–2 hours, or until partially frozen. Remove from the freezer and stir through the raspberries and pistachios. Cover with plastic wrap and return to the freezer until completely frozen.

Allow to soften for 20 minutes or so in a cool spot or in the fridge before serving. Cut into slices or cubes and top with remaining raspberries and a few crushed pistachios to serve.

Poor Man's Praline

2010-03-10T13:12:00.001Z

Brown Bread Icecream. Ignore the frosty glass.

My mother in law, a remarkable baker, makes the most fantastic brown bread. It is dense and heavy, almost treacly in consistency, and makes the most amazing base for my ‘go-to’ starter for large groups: bread, dips and charcuterie. Not limited in its range, it is also perfect with paté, and elevates simple smoked salmon and crème fraiche to heavenly proportions. Her kitchen in Sligo is never without one of the rich nut-brown loaves perched on the kitchen bench with the whole family carving hunks of it to top with homemade blackcurrant jam or wedges of creamy butter.

I have made the bread a number of times, but it is never quite as good as when my mother in law makes it. Besides her baking prowess, the secret seems to be eating it a day after baking, though I have suspicions about the magical properties of her oven. I will pull out the recipe and post it soon. Today however, I am more concerned with using up the leftovers in fitting fashion. You can use any brown bread for this, the staler the better it seems. The idea of bread in icecream seems strange, but I was assured that it is a traditional Irish flavour. Any doubts I had were melted away by the results: praline like, managing creaminess and crunchy meltingness in perfect harmony. Happily it does not need an icecream maker, though a thermometre comes in handy. I would use half the bread called for in this recipe especially if using less dense bread. I felt the icecream to bread ratio a little too even.

Brown Bread Icecream
Inspired by Darina Allen's Forgotten Skills of Cooking
4 organic egg yolks
110g sugar
200mL water
1.2 litres of softly whipped cream, measured after whipping
Seeds from one vanilla pod
350 g stale brown bread, torn into small chunks
150g demera sugar
150g soft down brown sugar

Place egg yolks into a bowl and whisk until light and fluffy (reserve the egg whites for meringues) about four minutes.
Combine sugar with 200 mL of water in a small heavy bottomed saucepan. Stir over heat until the sugar is completely dissolved, then remove the spoon and boil until it reaches the 'thread' stage (this is actually at 106-113 C). You will know it is at this stage because it will look thick and syrupy and when a metal spoon is dipped in it, the last drops of the syrup drift into thin threads.
Pour syrup in a steady stream, onto the egg yolks whisking all the time with a balloon whisk.
Split the vanilla pod and scrape out the seeds and add them to the mixture.
Continue to whisk mixture until it becomes a thick creamy white mousse.
Fold in the cream to the mousse. Freeze for two hours.

In the meantime place bread onto a large tray. Sprinkle with sugar and place in a 230 C oven for 10-15 minutes. Stir every 4-5 minutes until the sugar caramelises and coats the bread.
Turn out onto a large plate to cool. Pulse into breadcrumbs, or as I did bash with a masher.

Remove 2 hour frozen mixture from freezer and fold breadcrumbs into mixture.
Return to freezer until fully frozen.

Nostalgia, National Pride and Lamingtons.

2010-02-27T20:15:00.004Z

Food is nostalgia. A reimagining of old loves, flavours, textures, celebrations of the past. I try to say this without pretention, and I am self conscious writing this, as I know it is also a great many other things: political, social, economic and ethnic. Despite this, I firmly believe food connects us to the places we are from, it tells us stories about our past and most importantly I think it speaks of who we are.

I will never be able to eat red lentils without seeing them, in my mind’s eye bobbing in a pot of soup on the wood stove in my parents’ kitchen, my dad toiling over piles of earthy vegetables for his signature stock. Eating garlic prawns I am transported to a tiled tavern in Spain, shells crunching beneath my feet, eating the entire fire softened prawn, chased by sticky fortified wine. The taste of Merlot: my wedding, the texture of liquorice: my first trip to Ireland as a child, the smell of green melon: too many evenings spent working behind a bar serving ‘Squashed Frogs’. New flavours, textures and aromas likewise herald new phases, new associations.

No doubt everyone has these associations, memories triggered by flavours. Food is a great leveller, it is intrinsic to being human, it both connects and separates us from each other. At a recent ‘International Dinner’ it was touching to see the pride taken with each national dish and to hear the patient explanations of how to best enjoy each one. I was taught by a friend from Colombia how the cornmeal dumplings offset the ceviche style prawns, and listened while a Greek friend explained how brining and baking feta cheese brought out its flavours.

One of my favourite ‘Australian’ dishes is Lamingtons. While I don’t really care for coconut or Madeira cake, once the chunks of cake are rolled in the cloying icing and showered in flaky coconut shavings, the lamington ceases to be just something to serve on Australia Day and becomes a lightning rod for the memories I associate with the unassuming little cake. It tastes of countless primary school cake stalls, the coconut flakes shake off and I feel like I am ten again, lugging home boxes of lamingtons ordered by neighbours as part of our lamington drive, hoping to be offered one (especially a pink one!) when dropping them off. As much as I love eating lamingtons, I think I enjoy making them more, the production line of coconut, chocolate and cake creating a satisfying mess.

Lamingtons

Madeira Cake I use Rachel Allen’s recipe. Marbling optional.
Cocoa Powder
Icing Sugar
Milk
Desiccated Coconut

Make the Madeira cake in a square loaf tin. Once the Madera cake is completely cooled, place cake into the freezer for half an hour to prevent crumbliness during the next step.

Cut cake into 3-4cm cubes and set aside.

Melt one tablespoon of butter in a heavy pan over medium heat. Once melted, stir through two tablespoons of cocoa until smooth. If the cocoa is lumpy sift it, there is nothing worse than a chunk of cocoa powder perched atop a lamington.

Add milk to the cocoa butter mix, stirring the entire time. Remove from heat.

Sift in icing sugar and transfer to wide bottomed bowl.

Assemble one plate with the cake cubes, one with the cocoa icing and one filled with desiccated coconut, start with half a cup. Prepare either a wire rack with baking paper underneath, or a plate for the finished lamingtons.

Working quickly roll each cube in the chocolate icing, making sure each side is saturated, before rolling through the coconut and setting aside on the tray.

Leave for one hour to set and sprinkle any splodgey bits with extra coconut.

Chilli Mussels

2010-02-21T23:29:00.002Z

Prior to my current employment in international espionage, I spent years working in hospitality. The objective standard by which a workplace was judged was dictated by one thing: the quality of staff meals. There is nothing worse than slogging out a twelve hour shift, fuelled only by strong macchiato and cigarettes (or in my case raspberry liquorice) with Birkenstocks gnawing at your heels, only to be greeted at the end of the evening by a plate of sloppy gruel, crowned by a few slivers of depressed looking rocket. Especially if to add insult to injury, you have spent said shift resplendent in a bright orange polo shirt. I digress.

I was fortunate to spend the last three years of my hospitality career working for a wonderful couple at the ‘brewery tap’ of a microbrewery in my native Swan Valley. While my week days were spent studying sea-side in the port city of Fremantle, by weekend I escaped home inland to the brewery, nestled amongst Western Australia’s oldest family wineries. My favourite moment of the week, and one I long for to this day, was on a Sunday evening, after the hordes of tourists had dissipated, sitting on the verandah of the brewery, overlooking the vines, a glass of German Red beer in hand waiting on my ‘staff meal’: Chilli Mussels. One chef in particular, long gone now, made the most amazing sauce, an unctuous tomatoey puree which I have never been able to replicate, despite having the ‘recipe’ - a typical cheffy approximation of a pinch of this and a dash of that, hastily dictated by the chef as he scrawled out the dry store order list. Below is my closest attempt, the product of much trial and error.

The key to these mussels is freshness. Any whiff of stale ‘fishiness’ ruins the meatiness of the dish, which it needs to carry the warmth of the chilli. Near Mr 9BR’s village in Sligo is a beach with partially submerged rocks clustered with mussels. A fresh dinner of mussels can be yours in exchange for a pair of wellies, a copy of Old Moore’s Almanac and an hour or two scraping barnacles off the shells (a job I prefer to outsource).

Ingredients

2 kg mussels, scrubbed, de-barnacled and de-bearded.

600mL jar of passatta or two cans of chopped plum tomatoes in juice

Glass of white wine

3 cloves of garlic, finely chopped

2 large sticks of celery, finely sliced

Small bulb of fennel, shaved finely into slices

Medium brown onion, finely diced

One medium fresh chopped red chilli or a half teaspoon of dried chilli flakes
Half a lemon
Handful of parsley, roughly chopped
Olive oil
Salt and Pepper

Heat a glug of olive oil in the bottom of a heavy bottomed pot over medium heat, and add the garlic, fennel, celery and onion and stir occasionally until softened.

Add tomato, wine and chilli and reduce heat to a simmer, allowing to bubble gently for an hour or so until thick. The fennel and onion will have dissolved slightly.

Season to taste with pepper, salt and lemon juice.

In a separate frying pan, place mussels in a single layer, hinge down. Turn heat to high and cover with lid. Steam for a minute or so until all shells open. Discard those that do not open. Drain any liquid off the mussels and stir sauce through the mussels.

Serve in warmed bowls with lemon wedges, sprinkled in parsley with a malted lager on the side.

Bread, Butter and Insomnia

2010-02-15T14:33:00.005Z

Not going to win any beauty pagents.

A friend said to me the other day that ‘Baking is like lab’. I think he is right. In cooking, there is room for the irreverent, the flamboyant. Baking, by contrast is precision. It demands methodology, care and cleaving to a formula. Even the most decadent and over-the-top sweets demand strict fidelity to the recipe.

I am not by nature a rule follower; I prefer the freedom of adding a splodge of this, or glug of that. I love the precarious line between disaster and success. When people ask me for a particular recipe I often have difficulty committing to it and always with the caveat to tweak as necessary. I am firmly a ‘cook’ as opposed to a ‘baker’.

As an insomniac though, baking is my saviour. My only respite from sleeplessness comes from the methodical, plodding act of measuring out flour, softening butter and beating eggs, following the rules, watching the rise of the yeast or baking powder, marvelling as the sticky batter transforms into satisfyingly squishy cakes, bread and buns. I sit at the bench in my kitchen, flicking idly through case law, one eye on the swollen form in the oven. The result of all this baking is far better suited to a carbo-loading clean and jerker than my starch adverse self, fortunately anything left in the kitchen of my office is demolished enthusiastically, so that is where the products of my late night forays into the kitchen end up.

I made these muffins for a bake sale for Haiti organised by the tireless Aoife B from Sweet Oblivion. I love the process of making them. Measured and unhurried, the batter is glutinous and pleasingly dense and the result bulbous and golden. Happy (and drowsy) times.

Bread Muffins

Inspired by the Joy of Baking

7 cups of bread cubes, cut into bite sized pieces (I used white bread and brioche)

1 cup cream

1 cup milk

4 large eggs, lightly beaten

⅔ cup (135 grams) granulated white sugar

2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

6 tablespoons (84 grams) unsalted butter, melted

⅓ cup (45 grams) all purpose flour

½ tablespoon baking powder

½ teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

½ teaspoon ground mutmeg

1 tablespoon grated lemon zest

Preheat oven to 180 degrees C. Grease or line 12 muffin tins.

Place the cubed bread in a large mixing bowl and add the cream and milk. Let stand for five minutes. Then mix through the eggs, sugar, vanilla, and melted butter.

In a separate bowl, combine the rest of the ingredients. Stir this mixture into the bread cube mixture. Do not overbeat or the bread will break up too much.

Evenly divide the mixture among the 12 muffins cups. Place in the centre of the preheated oven. Bake for about 25 to 30 minutes, or until golden brown and a toothpick inserted in the centre comes out clean. Place on a wire rack to cool.

Beetroot, Butternut and Feta Tart

2010-02-01T17:24:00.003Z

Tart posing in Pashley Princess basket. Note the ubiquitous baguette.

Last year it seemed as though I was never out of the Netherlands. Between studying in an achingly cute university town for several weeks and business trips back and forth to the Hague, Amsterdam and Rotterdam, tulips and windmills seemed to dominate the landscape of 2009. I am back in the Netherlands again now, for two weeks, staying in an airy light-filled apartment with exposed beams. I am travelling by bike to my LLM classes and churning out goat cheese frittatas for breakfast from the tiny apartment kitchen, by night working on my ‘day job’. To say I am enjoying it would be an understatement. It is my very own ‘American girl in Paris’ moment, except of course that it is more ‘Irish/Australian girl without sleep in Leiden’.

That being said, I am mostly uninspired by the culinary landscape of the Netherlands. There are two exceptions though: the use of chicory ‘San Choi Bao' style-starters piled with mild blue cheese or tiny morsels of veal, and the availability of complex dark bitter beers. The quality of beers produced by Dutch craft brewers is amazing, most notably for me the De Molen brewery and especially the glutinous Mout and Mocha. Even the large commercial breweries Heineken and Grolsch produce seasonal beers for the Dutch market, which while not of craft quality are certainly more interesting than their insipid offerings elsewhere.

While the substance of the food may be less than enchanting, the way it is enjoyed is. Even last September, with the days taking on a ear-(and nose!) chilling edge, cafés and bars along the canals served meals terrace style, with diners’ bikes lined up along the railings, without so much as a lock between them. My Pashley Princess would scarcely last ten minutes in Dublin in similar circumstances. In fact, chances are it would end up in the Royal Canal as opposed to patiently tethered waterside waiting my return.

This tart was inspired by canal-side seasonal eating last September, though poached beetroot is still available vaccum-packed in supermarkets, and Dutch butternut squash seems to be a staple at markets and groceries across the country, so food mile guilt aside, this autumnal dish can be enjoyed even in the depths of winter.

Ingredients
Tbsp melted butter
8 sheets of frozen filo pastry, defrosted
150g soft goats’ cheese/boursin/feta or mixture of the three
100g ricotta, drained
50g parmesan
1 egg, lightly beaten
200g butternut squash, peeled and cubed
200g beetroot, peeled and cubed
2 Tbsp pine nuts
3 sprigs of thyme, plucked, stalks discarded
3 garlic cloves, crushed
Juice of 1 lemon or half a preserved lemon sliced very finely
Olive Oil
Salt
Pepper

Roast the beets and squash by tossing cubes in olive oil and seasoning. Sprinkle with thyme sprigs and place in a 180°C oven for 20 minutes. If using pre-poached beets, there is no need to roast, just remove from juice and chop roughly.
While vegetables are roasting, brush a 20cm round loose-bottomed tart tin with some of the butter. Lay a few sheets of filo across the bottom, slightly overlapping. Brush the overhanging filo with more butter. Continue layering with filo, brushing with butter as you go. Set aside.

Crumble the feta/goats cheese/boursin into a large bowl and mix with the rest of the filling ingredients, including the vegetables, but except for parmesan. Season and spoon into the filo case. Shave parmesan over the top of the filling.

Scrunch overhanging filo to form an edge. Bake at 180°C for 15 minutes or until the filo is golden and crisp. Serve with Ballymaloe relish and a brun beer. Certainly won't win any beauty pagents, more La Trappe may help.

Bit of an uggo.

Feel Good Stodge: Gnocchi

2010-01-18T19:05:00.002Z

I remember the first time I tasted gnocchi. It was back home, at our local parish hall. I could not have been any more than eight or nine. I can’t recall the reason for the celebration, but the occasion was marked by that most Australian of traditions: bring a plate. It must have been springtime, as there was a whole lamb sizzling on a spit on the verandah, next to the hopscotch square, and inside, trestle tables heaved with the gastronomic equivalent of the League of Nations. Everyone in our multicultural community had brought their own dish to feed the multitude. There were steaming Malaysian curries, rich Italian pastas, Hungarian goulash and the ubiquitous Australian lamingtons. My own family’s offering was Irish stew, bland in my estimation compared to the lavish treats alongside.
‘At least our stew is colourful though,’ I thought, leaving the casserole dish on the table, its chunks of luminous carrot bobbing next to pearlescent onions, and gave a sympathetic glance to a neighbouring Tupperware dish containing what looked like blobby beige gruel. I felt sorry for the owner of that dish, thinking that their lumpy concoction would embarrass them, being left behind. To my surprise though, the gruel dish was the first to empty. Some had made its way onto my friend Norinda’s plate and despite my protests, she pushed a solitary lump towards me to try. To my amazement and delight, the gnocchi was soft, fluffy and delicious. The sauce was lightly flavoured with ricotta and parmesan, and was perfectly balanced, even to my primary school palate. I remember thinking it wasn’t a million miles away from the taste of my Uncle Gerry’s potato bread, but was a much cuter shape, like a mini cloud, fluffy and soft. From that moment I was a gnocchi convert. While I no longer eat many potatoes, tradition dictates I cannot resist stealing a bite or two from someone else’s plate.

I made these recently for Mr 9BR and his brothers, and they were very well received, the twin combination of spudness and pastaness was decreed a winner. There is something almost medative about the process of rolling gnocchi. The repetition of roll, shape and score is very calming, though you need a light touch or the pieces turn to rubber-like texture when cooked. I co-opted my brother in law to shape the gnocchi into little ‘lumps’ which he did to feather-like effect. The result was as light and heavenly as my first gnocchi encounter in Midland parish hall twenty years ago.

Ingredients
700 grams floury potatoes
100 grams of flour
1 large egg yolk

Cut the potatoes (if necessary) into even sized pieces. Boil in salted water in their skins for 20 minutes. When soft (check with a skewer or toothpick rather than a knife) drain and peel skins off with a butter knife, protecting hand with a oven mitt or teatowel. Mash until all lumps are removed.

Beat egg yolk lightly and add to mashed potatoes, mixing quickly before sifting the flour into the mix in four parts, mixing after each addition. You may need more or less flour based on the wetness of the mix. The dough should be quite dry. Turn dough onto floured board and lightly roll pieces into a sausage shape, cutting lengths of 5 cm. Lightly score each piece with a fork.

Cook by boiling plenty of salted water, adding a few pieces at a time, waiting until they rise to the top to remove with a slotted spoon. Set aside in a warmed bowl.

Sauce
250 mL of cream or cream/milk combined, I prefer the lightness of the latter
100 grams Cashel Blue cheese
Half teaspoon ground nutmeg
Grated parmesan to top
Salt and Pepper
Chopped walnuts
Rocket (optional)

Combine cream and cheese in a small saucepan until cheese just melts and whisk to combine. Remove from heat and stir through nutmeg and season to taste. Pour over cooked gnocchi and toss lightly. Divide between 6 plates and sprinkle with parmesan cheese. Grill for a few minutes until the cheese melts and sprinkle with walnuts and rocket, if used to serve.

The Patron Saint of Leftovers

2009-12-30T10:33:00.002Z

The Irish, and particularly Dubliners have a tendency to drop the 'Saint' from the front of phrases. Saint Stephen's Green becomes 'Stephen's Green', Saint James' Hospital merely 'James-es' and St Patrick's Day, colloquially 'Patrick's Day'. Perhaps its omission is an indication of a backlash against the persuasive influence of certain religious traditions in Irish life, more likely it that the prevalence of the prefix renders its inclusion in the name of any public amenity or feast day spoken self-evident! Thus the day after Christmas, traditionally in Ireland known as St Stephen's Day is predictably shortened to 'Stephen's Day'. Given the enthusiasm for debauching names in this way, the vitriol I encounter though when using the phrase 'Boxing Day' is unfathomable. It is somewhat appropriate though, as I am constantly reminded, that the day after Christmas is a 'feast day' being that for me, it surpasses Christmas Day itself as my favourite food day of the year. All of the delicious food of the day before's meal and no need for anyone to spend hours in the kitchen! It has always been a day for lazing, watching the 'Boxing Day Test' while picking at ham and turkey, and eating the contents of selection boxes in one sitting. Living in Ireland has relieved me of the need to pretend to enjoy cricket, making Boxing Day even more enjoyable!

This year I was flying out to Istanbul three days after Christmas so the urgency to use up all the food in the fridge was greater than ever. I made this salad on Boxing evening, the ingredients are fairly fluid though, so use whatever you have left over. Parsnips or pan fried sliced potato would be a great addition.

Ingredients
A wedge of cooked ham, diced.
Radicchio, iceburg, spinach leaves, or any greens you have in the fridge.
Cooked and cooled butternut pumpkin, sliced.
Cooked and cooled peas (runner beans would work too!)
50 grams fetta, crumbled.
Tablespoon flaked almonds.

For the dressing
Tablespoon olive oil.
Teaspoon Balsalmic Vinegar
Half Teaspoon Apple Cider Vinegar
Two large pinches of dukkah, if you don't have any dukkah, one pinch salt and some tumeric and sesame seeds would be a fine substitute.

Combine all dressing ingredients in a clean jar with a lid and give a good shake.
Combine all salad ingredients except for the ham in a large bowl and pour over the dressing, reserving a small amount, tossing to coat all ingredients.

Heat a heavy bottomed pan on the hob and add the ham. It should brown nicely after two minutes each side without the addition of oil. Sprinkle over salad and pour over the reserved dressing.

Serve sprinkled with a few more almonds and loads of mince pies to follow.

Double, double toil and trouble: A Christmas tale

2009-12-26T21:29:00.007Z

Eight weeks ago, my Christmas preparations started: for the first time I made steamed Christmas puddings. Being from a warm climate, Christmas pudding is usually of the icecream variety, but given my relocation to the northern hemisphere, I was determined to embrace this hubbley-bubbley festive tradition. Resolute that the ingredients for Christmas this year would be sourced locally, and from smallholders if possible, I started off at Temple Bar markets for dried fruit and nutmeg from ‘Len’, butter from Jenny McNally, oranges from Dennis Healy and eggs from Paddy Jack, then schlepped onto Fallon and Byrne for almonds, and out to the Gourmet Store in Rathgar for flamboyantly kitsch glace cherries. The final stop on the mission was the ‘Diagon Alley’esque Magills, a ‘blink and you will miss it’ kind of store, but one which is like a cavern of lovely treats, for mixed spice. Rather than using ‘cooking stout’ (as Guinness has come to be known in certain circles) I used a bottle of O’Haras Stout, brewed in Carlow which added a beautifully rich coffee flavour to the batter. Seven hours later, with a kitchen that resembled a Scandinavian bathhouse, the puddings were ready to be rested in the cupboard in advance of dispatch to Oxford, Perth and Sligo.

I used the Avoca recipe, but needed also to make a chocolate version for the dried fruit dissenters in the family, namely Mr 9BR and the two brothers-in-law. I made sauces to accompany each. Being firmly of ‘Team Custard’ persuasion, as opposed to ‘Team Icky Brandy Butter’, I made crème anglaise for the traditional pudding and a hefty chocolate ganache for the choco-pretender.

This is an enormous recipe, which made four one litre puddings and room half a dozen individual sized ones, so could easily be halved if not supplying the far reaches of the colonies with Christmas dessert.

Traditional Pudding.

Ingredients
450g golden sultanas
450g currants
450g raisins
100g glace cherries (halved)
110g mixed peel

450g brown sugar, I used vanilla scented that I made by leaving a split vanilla pod in a sealed jar with the sugar.
275g fresh breadcrumbs
275g self-raising flour
2 teaspoons mixed spice
1 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
225g nibbed almonds

350g butter, melted
6 eggs
grated zest and juice of 2 oranges
1 small bottle of stout
a little milk (optional)
2 tablespoons of whiskey

Grease four litre pudding bowls and any ramekins you plan to use.

Wash the all dried fruit in a large bowl and drain. You may need to do this in batches. Place the dried ingredients in a large bowl and mix well with the fruit. Melt the butter and beat the eggs lightly. Add the butter, eggs, orange juice and zest and Guinness to the dry mix and stir thoroughly. If the mixture seems a little dry, moisten with milk.

Spoon into the greased pudding bowls and cover with a lid. If using delph bowls, place a double piece of parchment paper over the bowl, followed by a double piece of tin foil and tie down with string. Steam for 4-5 hours, by placing in a pot of boiling water, making sure the water stays ¾ of the way up the sides of the bowl, topping up with water as you go, then leave pudding to go cold. Spray the pudding with whiskey and wrap in foil or parchment paper.

On Christmas Day, place the pudding back in the pudding bowl, and if using a plastic pudding bowl, place in a pot of boiling water on the stovetop and simmer over a gentle heat for 1.5 hours or (I prefer this method) if using delph place into a cooking tray in the oven, pour in enough boiling water to reach ¾ up the sides of the pudding basin cooking at 180 C for 40 minutes. Make sure it does not boil dry.

Crème Anglaise (Inspired by Delia)

Ingredients
1 vanilla pod

275 ml double cream

3 large egg yolks
1 teaspoon cornflour
25 g golden caster sugar

Split the vanilla pod lengthways and scrape out the seeds. Place the pod and the seeds in a small saucepan with the cream over a gentle heat and heat to just below simmering point.

While the cream is heating, whisk the egg yolks, cornflour and sugar together in a medium bowl using a balloon whisk. Then, whisking the egg mixture continuously, pour the hot cream in gradually.

Once combined, immediately return to the saucepan using a rubber spatula over gentle heat. Continue whisking until the custard is thick and smooth, which will happen as soon as it reaches simmering point. If it overheats and looks grainy, transfer it to a jug or bowl and continue to whisk until it becomes smooth again.

Pour the custard into a jug or bowl, cover the surface with clingfilm and leave to cool. To serve it warm later, remove the clingfilm and sit the bowl over a pan of barely simmering water.

Chocolate Pudding for the Anti-Raisin Brigade

Ingredients for Pudding
175g plain flour
1tsp vanilla extract
40g cocoa powder
175g caster sugar
175g soft butter
60ml plain yogurt
3 eggs
2tsp baking powder
1/2tsp bicarbonate soda
2 litre plastic pudding basin with lid

Ingredients for Sauce

125g dark chocolate, chopped

125 ml double cream
2 Tbsp golden syrup

2 tsp vanilla extract

Grease the pudding basin. Sift dry ingredients into a bowl then add the rest of the ingredients and beat together with an electric mixer or food processor then pour mixture into prepared basin. Steam in boiling water in a pan on the stovetop for 11/2 hours.
Make the sauce by putting all the sauce ingredients into a pan and place over gentle heat to melt, whisking to combine smoothly.

The Hungry Blog

2009-11-07T12:59:00.001Z

Like a hungry bunyip, my blog seems to have developed an annoying taste for blog posts, devouring them in whole or part favouring those unhappily which I have not saved elsewhere. Chomp chomp chomp.

Thus, I am repeating the Picknicking with The Pashley Princess post below, reinspired by two recent days at the Peace Palace in the Hague and despite the fact that it is no longer picknicking weather in Dublin and trying to catch back up the other eaten posts. Hoping to change the design also, to make it easier to navigate and perhaps less appetising for the self-cannibalising blog.