Best of British No. 2: The Pink Wafer Biscuit

No silly poems this time. Sorry.

No picture, either. For those of you who don't know what a pink wafer biscuit looks like (i.e. the French contingent, mainly- ze boy, zis means YOU), Google image search produces a quite respectable number of results.

When I was even smaller than I am now (yes, that IS possible) and went to toddler group, half way through the morning there was drink-and-a-biscuit o'clock. I'm thinking of reinstating it, actually- how much more fun would life be if there was a drink-and-a-biscuit o'clock sometime between ten and eleven? Anyway. Yes. When I was smaller than I am now, I really, really loved pink wafer biscuits. At toddlers, I would eschew the chocolate biscuits in favour of THE PINK ONE. It wasn't even that I liked the colour- I was more inclined towards plastic dinosaurs than barbies- but there was just something about them.

Last Sunday, at drink-and-a-biscuit o'clock (after church, where there is a far bigger selecction of biscuits than at home) I had a pink wafer biscuit for the first time in years. I expected great things.

I was sorely disappointed. You can't really dunk them, which is to be expected, but they taste like cardboard with sugar and food colouring. That would explain why even the Irish shop in Grenoble, which even sells fig rolls (FIG ROLLS, for heaven's sake!) doesn't sell them. Why did I waste so many drink-and-a-biscuit o'clocks on them? WHY?

Book of the Fortnight, No.1

This year, I made a proper New Year's resolution, one I actually stand a chance of keeping, as opposed to the usual list of impossibilities (stop smoking, for instance, has never yet worked, mainly because I never start). This year, I have resolved to read one decent book- a good length, and not trash- every two weeks. I can almost hear my ten-year-old self, capable of getting through eight thick library books a week, wondering what on earth has happened, and why this "future-Catherine" is having to make that kind of a resolution. All I can say is that a history degree requires an awful lot of reading for work rather than pleasure and that, for the last five years, I have always felt guilty taking time to read anything not related, at least vaguely, to the work I should be doing.

The idea, then, is that I will read one "sensible" book per fortnight, and write about it on here- that way I will a) have the impression that people are checking up on me (extra pressure to keep resolution) and b) not try and pass off "trashy" books as ones that count. It's not that I have a problem with "trashy" books- I do read them, and they have their own merits as a means of relaxing- but somehow, I don't think they count as "serious" reading, and there's probably not much to say about them afterwards.

Anyway, the first book of the year (I'm running a bit late because I forgot to post this, not because of teething problems with the resolution, honest...) is Les Pingouins n'ont jamais froid by Andrei Kourkov. A bit of a peculiarity, this one. The author is Ukrainian and the book was originally published in Russian, which interested me- I did at one point study Russian/Soviet literature, so I have a vague idea of where Kourkov is coming from.

For me, Soviet bloc literature is divided into two parts: anything from before 1917, which I am liable to like (Tolstoy, Lermontov, Pushkin et al) and anything from after, which I don't tend to like and have only read under duress (Bulgakov, Pelevin etc.). This particular book is post-Soviet, something I don't have much experience of, so I thought I'd give it a shot.

The plot, appropriately enough for this blog, revolves around a man's attempts to find his penguin. After becoming embroiled in Ukrainian politics, Viktor- the owner of the penguin, Micha, whom he left in Kiev whilst hiding from the Mafia in Antarctica- pursues the penguin to Chechnya, where he is employed in a private crematorium. The Ukrainian Mens' Handicapped Armwrestling Team is also involved at one point, but to say any more would be to give the entire plot away. Hopefully, these few sentences should give a relatively good impression of the surreal and decidedly peculiar character of the book.

The verdict? I actually really enjoyed it- one of the most gripping books I've read in a while. The influence of Soviet authors remains visible in the surreal aspects of the book, whilst the gloom and black humour of the book fits into the broader Russian/Soviet tradition. (An aside here about Russian literature: in one of the set works for a Russian literature class I took in first year, NOBODY DIED, and this was the major point up for discussion in the seminar. This should give you a good general idea of what goes on).

I do actually have another resolution for this year: 2010 will be the year I finally finish War and Peace. Watch this (cyber)space.

The Sugar-Free Cake Challenge

So.

A week or so ago, a friend challenged me to produce a cake with no added sugar. I did, of course, accept the challenge- not to have done so would have been rude and also somewhat pathetic (rather like Simon Cowell, methinks). The subject- sugar-free cake, not X-Factor judges- brought back memories of Food Tech at secondary school, a subject at which I did not excel, to put it mildly. The fact I didn't know how to work a conventional cooker at that point didn't help- the one (and only, as far as I can see) disadvantage of growing up with an Aga is a persistent tendency to forget to switch the oven on. One of the barely-edible monstrosities I produced in Food Tech lessons, alongside lemon meringue wallpaper paste and nasty pizza (yes, it is possible to muck up pizza!) was a sugar-free sponge cake. It was, to put it bluntly, VILE.

Haunted by the memory of the Food Tech sponge (it would, I feel, have been more successful as a discus than as a dessert), I was not entirely sure where to start.

And then I sat down and had a cup of tea, and everything was ok again.

TEA LOAF!

No added sugar. Virtually no fat (although I usually compensate for this by slathering the slices in butter, but that's a matter of personal taste). Tea. Can't be bad...

Here's the recipe:

Big heap of dried fruit (about 500g or just over 1 lb, for those who, like me, still use imperial measurements- I like them, it makes me feel all powerful like Darth Vader). Most of this is usually raisins or something raisin-related, with whatever else happens to be knocking round the dried fruit box. Apricots are good, figs are good, dates are wonderful. You could also use various nuts but not too many because they don't soak up the tea and the cake goes soggy. Dried pineapple and glacé cherries are also acceptable but I find it tends to get a bit too sweet- both are treated with sugar and that's not really what we're aiming for here, now, is it?
Slosh of orange juice (slosh= about a mouthful. Can't think of any other way to describe it)
1/2 pint, or about 225 ml, hot tea, plus enough for an extra mug
12 oz, or 300g, self-raising flour (or normal flour with 6 tsp of baking powder)
1 egg

Instructions:
1. Pour self mug of tea.
2. Tip rest of tea and orange juice on fruit. Drink your tea while the fruit enjoys its bath. Ideally you would leave the fruit to soak overnight. I'm rarely that organised. Failing that, leave it as long as you can.
3. Tip in flour and egg. The mixture should be quite dense. If you're not struggling to move the wooden spoon, add a bit more flour.
4. Dollop into loaf tin or other suitable receptacle. Stick in oven at Gas Mark 2 (erm... about 100°? In any case, low enough that you don't need to worry about pre-heating) for a good hour and a half. At the end of this time, poke it a bit, and if it wobbles, stick it back in the oven for a while. 'Tisn't critical. If you feel that way inclined, you could brush the top of the loaf/cake with a small amount of honey let down with hot water. If you don't, then don't. No big deal.

I'm afraid I don't have any pictures of this one, for the simple reason that I'm not allowed to make any more desserts until we get through all the stuff Mam and I made this weekend. I miss ze boy, he never complains about having too much food.

Best of British No. 1: The Cornish Pasty

Firstly, please understand that the title of this series of posts- "Best of British"- is not meant to be taken seriously. This is not a Murdoch-owned newspaper, nor is it an outlet for any kind of jingoistic patriotism. The idea of a British-themed series of posts comes partly from the fact that most of the people who read this site aren't, well, British, and partly from my own attempts to come to terms with major bouts of culture shock every time I come back. As for the title...well...I kind of like alliteration (looks ashamed and shuffles towards cupboard).

Titles and disclaimers aside, the idea for this series of posts is to look at British oddities, otherwise known as "stuff you can't get in France". As ever, there will be food, and there will be gnomes. There will be very little factual information and, in all likelihood, an Awful Lot of Silliness.

The Cornish Pasty was my first candidate for inclusion, not because of any personal preference, but because I had an idea, and, being completely unable to resist the oportunity for a parody...well... you'll see.

So, without much further ado (about nothing... now there's a clue...)

To a Cornish Pasty

(with apologies to William Shakespeare)

Shall I compare thee to a chicken pie?

Thou art more juicy and more succulent.

Rough winds may shake the flaky crumbs of crust

And pastry's life hath all too short a lease.

Some time too hot the fire of oven shines

And then is pastry's gold complexion dimmed

And every pie from pie some time declines

By chance, or waiting, willing teeth untrimm'd

But thy eternal flavour shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that sauce thou ow'st

Nor shall bin bag brag thou lurkest in his shade

When in his bulging gut wise man pie stow'st

So long as man can taste, and smell, and see

So long live pasties- Cornish, just like thee.

I'm sorry, Mr. Shakespeare. Really I am.

I'll go back to my cupboard now.

Cake, again

After a week or two of (vaguely) snow-related disruption, I'm back with a whole list of things to post over the next couple of weeks. There may even be some kind of organisation involved (ooo! organisation!) in the form of series of posts, but more on that later. For the time being, though, no big changes around here- just more of the same, or similar, in the form of cake.

The Smallest One was thirteen the other day, and so cake was in order. I considered making the now-somewhat-notorious Broken Glass Cake (no real glass involved, honest, I'm not really evil) but that would have required a trip outside in search of ingredients, and, well, I had other things to use up.

It turns out that, last week, I spoke too soon and there was another penguin waiting for me at home.

Well... at least I think it's a penguin. In any case, it was full of marshmallows.
Incidentally, the cookery book in the picture is Valentine Warner's What to Eat Now. My mother approves of him as "a bloke who eats", hence her possession of the cookbook. Having flicked through it, he reminds me somewhat of ze boy in his determination to eat anything with four legs.

The red plastic thing is the penguin's boater hat. Why yes, my marshmallow-filled penguin has a boater- how else is it meant to keep the sun off its face? Honestly, some people!
In any case, the opportunity to make cake with marshmallows could not be passed over.

Step 1: One chocolate cake. Photo demonstrates my ineptitude in the realms of both food photography and even slicing of cake into halves. Also, I hadn't tidied the kitchen table. Bad Dobby.


Step 2: Marshmallow gunk. Very pink. Actually, most confectionary items can be made into a satisfactory gunk for cake filling by melting them in cream, in case you were wondering. I had to take this outside to get the full effect of the Barbie-pink-ness to register in the photograph.

"Hi, George? It's Tony. We seem to have found the Weapons of Mass Destruction...
No, wait, it's just really scary-coloured cake filling".

Step 3: Assembly, crème ganache and the rest of the marshmallows. I took the cake outside, where it made friends with an ornamental frog.

Cake with Frog. Sounds like a Heston Blumenthal recipe, n'est-ce pas?

Off back to the cupboard now, possibly with what remains of the cake.

Epiphany

Yes, I know it was yesterday, but had I stopped to post photos of what follows there might not have been any left.

J'aime la galette, savez-vous comment? Quand elle est bien faite, avec du beurre dedans...
(Ok, ok, I'll stop singing now)

This, for those who don't recognise it from the mugshot or genuinely don't know what it is, is a Galette des Rois, traditionally eaten in France on 6th January and at any point between this date and the beginning of Lent, from what I gather. Since ze boy and I may well not be in France this time next year and we'll both miss it, I decided I should try making my own this year as a practice run. The ingredients weren't too hard to find, except I forgot to buy a fève- small ceramic figure/object/thingummywotsit that plays the same rôle, more or less, as the sixpence in a Christmas pudding, so I put a dried bean in the galette instead. The person who finds the fève is king for the day and has to wear a daft hat/crown/strange tinfoil object, in our case, for the rest of the day.

Strange tinfoil object, as modelled by the pot plant, who, incidentally, did not find the fève so is sort of cheating, really

Sidenote: Someone, somewhere in the world, is making an absolute FORTUNE from the production of ground almonds. There are 5 euros' worth of ground almonds in there, and that's the supermarket own-brand ones. Maybe I should become an almond farmer when I grow up. Then I could make lots and lots of macarons. Mmmmm. Food. (Trundles off to kitchen in search of biscuits to dunk in tea).

Right. 'mback, I'll try not to get crumbs everywhere. What was I saying? Ah yes. Galette des Rois.

The ladies and gentlemen of the MDL (aka ze boy and his flatmates) decided we should do the whole galette thing properly, meaning I, as the youngest, had to go and sit under the table (what is it with all the confined spaces? First the cupboard, now the table...) so I couldn't see the fève if it escaped during the cutting. I then had to decide, from my position of power under the table, who got which part. See? A fair way of deciding who gets to be king. Très français, methinks.

As it happened, there were leftovers. Leftovers! The fève has not surfaced yet, meaning that a) the galette has won, gets to be king, and there will be a regicide this evening when we finish it off (in true French style), b) someone has swallowed it, or c) it ran off somewhere in the interests of democracy. Hmmmmm. Eeeenteresting.

Happy Orthodox Christmas!

No More Penguins?

No. No More Penguins.

Well...we're getting there.

Some time ago- around the beginning of this century- a small colony of penguins, driven out of Antarctica by global warming, took up residence in my bedroom. At first, I thought nothing of it. But every year, on two precise dates- namely 25th December and 9th August- another penguin or two (or three, or four) would arrive. It should be noted at this point that my bedroom is a more-or-less ideal location for a penguin colony; not only is it north-facing (as a nesting site at the South Pole would undoubtedly be) but also COLD. Ah yes, THAT cold, the kind with capital letters. If ever anyone wanted to study the effects of double glazing, the temperature difference between the ground floor and the top floor of our house would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that a) it works, and b) it is GOOD.

I began to notice something fishy going on when the penguins started keeping haddock on my bookshelves (euhhh... sorry, I couldn't resist). In any event, by 2004 the penguin situation was beginning to get out of hand; this led to the establishment of what some refer to as the Spring Penguin Cull (I prefer to call it 'rehousing') whereby a number are evicted at random. This allows me to deal with the biannual penguin influx without too much bother.

The next step, clearly, is to stop the penguins getting in. Unfortunately, using their immeasurable cunning, the penguins have managed to convince members of my immediate family to help them.

This Christmas, an important victory was won for the anti-penguin cause. My youngest sister, one of those fallen furthest under the influence of the penguins, resisted their pleading and gave me silicone cupcake moulds instead (M, if you're reading this, thanks, I've been after some of those for ages!). The incoming penguin count for Christmas 2009 stands at 11, of which 10 were small and edible and, oddly enough, made of chocolate. Mmmm, penguin. In any case, the colony has not grown significantly.

Maybe once we get double glazing they'll all up and leave. Maybe.