As Comic Book Guy would say… Worst. Xmas. Ever.

This buche de Noel is brought to you by three festive doses (in varying strengths) of the flu—proper flu, none of this “I have a bad cold, so I’ll call it flu” crap—two aggrieved prolapsed discs (me), food-allergy triggered blotchiness & swelling (Dave), and a distinct lack of appetite for anything (all of us).  Even for dessert.

It probably goes without saying that I’m a little cranky, too.

At any rate, on to the challenge.  This month’s challenge is brought to us by the adventurous Hilda from Saffron and Blueberry and Marion from Il en Faut Peu Pour Etre Heureux.  They have chosen a French Yule Log by Flore from Florilege Gourmand

I was so excited about this month’s challenge.  I babbled for days to Lorraine about it, and started it with such enthusiasm.  And then the ‘flu hit.  Now I have zero enthusiasm for the buche or indeed, any form of food.  (I don’t feel any thinner yet, but I’m still hopeful.)

My chosen flavour combinations were a coconut dacquoise, white chocolate ganache insert, mango mousse, ginger creme brulee, and a gorgeously glossy (but very tempermental) white chocolate icing.  I went all Blue Peter and created a mould out of an old plastic bottle, some cardboard and sticky tape.  I’m really happy with how ithe shape turned out and I’d certainly make my own mould again rather than buy a tin that’s only going to be used once a year.

Oh, I should mention that I added some popping candy to the coconut crisp insert and it stayed nicely pop-py, which was quite cool.  It was a shame that I didn’t like the taste of the rest of the layer.  I suspect, that gavottes aren’t quite my thing and I should have just bought a box of Rice Krispies or asked around and begged some from a friend.

On the whole, I did like the buche, but I was by no means blown away or impressed.  Which makes me really sad, considering how excited I was and also that I dragged myself through its creation when I should have been languishing in bed.  But I would like to thank Hilda and Marion for giving us such a wonderful challenge to end 2008 with!

Sparkling royal icing snowflakes adorn the top of the buche.

Today is the fifth anniversary (or should that be birthday?) of A Spoonful of Sugar!  I can’t believe that it’s been five years since I first posted—about my stollen, if you were curious.  I still remember how nervous I was, and how I wondered if anyone other than family, friends or colleagues would read my little blog.  And then, slowly, ever so slowly, people started to arrive.  Clotilde, Alberto, Renee (of the sadly now defunct Shiokadelicious.com), Deb… So many people have come and gone over the years, and I’ve loved getting to know them all!

This year has been particularly fantastic, with very special means at both The Fat Duck and Restaurant Gordon Ramsay, a weekend cookery course in Devon, and plenty of foodie outings.  I’m still thrilled beyond belief at the morning I spent at Perry & Son butchering half a pig—I’m looking forward to picking up my Christmas loin of pork—and I don’t think I’ll ever forget how wonderful it was to pick my own apples at Our Small Farm.  Definitely a great year!

So I’d like to say a big thank-you! to everyone who has visited A Spoonful of Sugar over the years, encouraged me to try new foods and techniques, suggesting suppliers and telling me about fantastic new restaurants.  Thank-you, all!

And now for dessert!  I did think about reprising the stollen for this birthday post, but when I spotted some incredibly early rhubarb in the farm shop, I knew I had to make something special with it.  I’m not a girly-girl, and you’d be hard-pressed to find anything pink in my wardrobe, however… I find the lurid pink of forced rhubarb impossible to resist.

The recipe which follows is a slight reworking of ‘Rhubarb and Custard’ from John Campbell’s fantastic book, Formulas for Flavour.  I tried the original recipe last year and unfortunately it didn’t go so well due to the wrong size of rings, a too-runny centre, and a rather horrid ginger sponge base. However, the flavours were fantastic!  So, I’ve swapped the frozen creme anglaise in the original recipe for a frozen creme brulee, replaced the ginger sponge with a thin slice of stem ginger cake and pared down the garnishes as I thought it was quite beautiful already.  I won’t lie to you, this dessert is a lot of work, but I felt the occasion warranted all the dirty dishes and utensils.

The rhubarb mousse is so light and fluffy with a great balance between sharp rhubarb and sweet, creamy mousse.  Nestling in the mousse is the custard component, beautifully speckled with vanilla, and silky smooth and pairing beautifully with the layer of rhubarb geleé below.  Last, but by no means least, is the stem ginger base which I loved, but Dave would have preferred something crunchy.  Perhaps some sort of feuillete?

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It always amazes me how a taste of a food can trigger memories and transport you back in time in an instant.

As I dipped my spoon into the freshly churned ivory tub of ice cream and tasted it, I suddenly became eight years old again.  I pushed aside horrified thoughts of, Omigod, my hair! and Why am I wearing the world’s geekiest glasses?  Did I want to be bullied? and tried to figure out exactly what I was remembering…

When I was a kid, we used to get ice cream as a treat from Danny Craig’s shop in town or Cardosi’s Cafe.  To us, this was just ice cream.  There was never a range of flavours; it was just ice cream, and it was delicious.  It was only special because it came in a cone and with a flake poked in at a jaunty angle—a ‘99—and you went to a special shop for it.  Sometimes mum and dad would even order big tubs for our birthday parties and everyone loved it.

Looking back with an adult’s eye… this wasn’t just ice cream. This was gelato. Now, I didn’t grow up anywhere fancy.  Far from it.  I grew up in the very far north of Scotland, and had absolutely no idea as a small child that our special treats of ice cream from Danny Craig’s, Cardosi’s or even Capaldi of Brora were anything remarkable.  I must have been very accepting, as it didn’t dawn on me that the proprieter’s names weren’t Scottish.  (Okay, so Danny Craig was as Scottish (and as grumpy) as they came, but he still made damn good gelato!)  I should mention that Capaldi’s was the place to break your journey south at.  Everyone stopped there, and an ice cream from Capaldi’s was the real beginning of your summer holiday as well as a means of consoling yourself on the way home when your wonderful holiday was fast becoming a memory.

It is only as an adult that I realise what happened and how Italian families came to settle in Scotland and open ice cream parlours.  They left Italy in search of a new life in the United Kingdom, in the late 19th century, and settled across the country. However, after Mussollini declared war on the Allies in 1940, many Italian men—those resident in the United Kingdom as well as those captured in battle—were interred in prisoner of war camps.  Most notably, in the Orkney Islands—off the north coast of Scotland–where they were set to work building an a series of barriers to protect the British fleet from submarine attack.  These barriers are now known as the Churchill Barriers.  A more beautiful and hopeful legacy of those times is the Italian Chapel on Lamb Holm in Orkney.  At the end of World War II, most of the Italian POW returned to Italy or their homes in the United Kingdom, however, some settled permanently in the far north of Scotland, opening ice cream parlours.

Gradually ice cream parlours and shops were eclipsed by the dizzying array of flavours available from the supermarkets that opened in town.  Cardosi’s Cafe became Cardosi’s shop that just sold sweets and cigarettes, and Danny Craig died with no one to take over his shop and keep the ice cream churning.  The only ice cream shop that remains from my childhood is Capaldi’s of Brora, which still looks unchanged despite having very recently changed hands and become part of a much larger food company.  I hope they keep the small producer spirit going in the shop, rather than just branding their own ice cream with a famous name…

I think that’s enough history and nostalgia for one day… Back to the ice cream!

This perfectly smooth, ultra-milky ice cream has exactly the same taste and texture of the ice cream I grew up with.  Not a speck of vanilla in sight to interrupt the purity of the milk flavour, just a beautiful,smooth taste of milk that rolls off the palate so cleanly, leaving you eager for the next lick or spoonful.  You might think that milk ice cream sounds boring.  You’d be wrong.  If you use the very best milk and cream, then you’ll create your best ice cream ever with an unmistakable flavour.  You’ll surprise yourself with how good it is.

You have to eat fast, though.  As it’s just milk, cream and sugar, the ice cream melts at an astonishing rate, but since you’ll be gobbling it up, this shouldn’t be a concern!

It is beautiful served alone, however makes a wonderful partner to a chocolate cake—I served it with the chocolate decadence I made recently—and drizzled with dulce de leche it is stunning.  Ambrosial, even.

What foods lead you down your own memory lane?

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Do you ever feel like the Universe is messing with you?  Taking the piss maybe, just a little bit?

Every November, I make a little tour of greengrocers and farm shops, hoping against hope that they will have quince.  They never do, which always baffles me as surely the quince is quince-essentially English?  It was certainly beloved of the Edwardians and Victorians, but despite living in the West Country, surrounded by orchard fruits, there is never a quince to be found.

This hasn’t really bothered me until this year.  Sure, I was sad.  Maybe even mildly vexed.  But this year, not only was it heavily featured upon Market Kitchen—which is normally a surefire way of getting unusual fruit and vegetables into the supermarkets, let alone farm shops—but bloggers far and wide were cooking with it!  That was just insult upon injury!

Why could I, in the orchard of England, not find any quince?  Aran was making membrillo in Florida, Clotilde and David were poaching quince in Paris, and Andrew—who must surely be the luckiest man on the planet—was poaching quinces he’d found at the side of the road.

Well.

The bit was firmly set between my teeth by this point, and so I started visiting my usual farm shops, my list of known shops expands year upon year, and calling ones I’d never been to before.  Some, worryingly, had never heard of quince.  Others said, “Ooh, no.  No one eats those any more.”  I even went so far as to try and track down a quince tree that I could scrump some fruit from.  Poor Dave put up with my dark mutterings for days.

I had an ace up my sleeve, though.  Farringtons Farm Shop is my go-to place for unusual vegetables—fresh borlotti, cavolo nero—so perhaps they would have some?  Luckily I rang before jumping in the car, as they’re not exactly local.  No, no they didn’t have any.  I could have cried, and perhaps sensing this, Diane, the farm shop manager, offered to order me in a tray of quince.  She did warn that she might not be able to get any, but still… how kind of her!

As you can see, my quest for quince has had a happy ending.  A couple of days later, Diane called and I drove down there with Lucas to collect eight of the most aromatic quince ever known to man.

Aren’t they beautiful?

I must admit that by the time I had the quince in my hands, I had completely forgotten what I had originally wanted to make with them.  So, some fast-thinking was called for as I had no idea how long they would keep for.

I was somewhat seduced by Nigella’s Ruby Red Quince from Forever Summer, but a quick Google revealed some serious concerns about the cooking temperature/times.  I also discovered that not every quince will turn ruby red—apparently it’s all to do with the ripeness of the quince, as well as the variety.  An unripe quince will turn a beautiful dark red, but a very ripe one may not get much beyond amber.  There’s some interesting science behind the transformation from off-white to ruby red, but I think some things are perhaps best left as magic.

I tracked Nigella’s version back to Maggie Beer’s original recipe for slow-roasted quince, and after an initial wobble about having the oven on for seven hours, decided to just go for it.  In my Googling I’d also come across a quince & brandy ice cream which sounded delectable, so I knuckled down and made that too.  (I also made an amazing lamb and quince tagine, which was unapologetically unphotegenic yet utterly delicious.)

So, after all the trouble I went to, were the results worthwhile?  Absolutely.  I couldn’t believe how different the fruit tasted with the two different preparations.

The ice cream was fresh and light, tasting exactly like the scent of the fresh quince.  Honey-sweet, somewhere between apple and pear in taste and wonderfully light in texture thanks to the Italian meringue.  The brandy kept it from being too sweet and made it more autumnal in taste, if that makes any sense.  At any rate, it was very good and very adult.  If I had a quince tree in the garden then the first fruits of the season every year would go towards this!

The ruby red, slow-roasted quince were a complete contrast to the lightness of the ice cream.  Each bite conjured up thoughts of Turkish bazaars, with heady flavours of rose, caramel, and spice as well as the apple/pear inbetween-ness.  Slow-roasting the fruit created a glacé fruit effect, and each bite was a seductive experience.  Definitely worth leaving the oven on all day for—I was too chicken to have it on while we slept!

They say that all good things come to those who wait, and they’re right.

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Occasionally, I like to pretend that I’m a thrifty cook who can always whip up something fabulous from leftover ingredients or foods.  And if I hadn’t just confessed that I am merely pretending, you’d all think I was totally amazing for looking at some leftover egg yolks (from an Opera Cake), the bottomless bag of apples and a half-full pot of cream in the fridge and coming up with the idea of semifreddo.

I had vaguely contemplated making Skye Gyngell’s Apple Ice-Cream with roasted cobnuts and caramel sauce, but got no further than buying cream.  I also completely overlooked the necessity of pre-freezing the cannister for my ice-cream maker.  And then along came these egg yolks that needed to be used up…

It dawned upon me that I could turn the egg yolks into pate a bombe—a common component of mousse and occasionally of semifreddo—fold in the cream and then the apples.  But what to do with the apples?  “Er… I know, I’ll bake them,” said I.

So that’s just what I did.

I peeled and chopped a couple of eating apples which would keep their shape once baked and also a little Bramley apple which would collapse into sticky-golden purée.  This would give an apple flavour throughout the semifreddo as well as delicious chunks of baked apple.  The apples were dotted with little bits of butter and sprinkled with sugar then baked with whole spices until golden, sticky and tender.

I’m ridiculously proud of myself for making the pate a bombe.  After several disastrous attempts at Italian meringue in the past, I’ve stuck firmly to making Swiss meringue and avoided fiddling around with sugar thermometers and syrups.  However, since joining The Daring Bakers, I’ve been a bit more, well, daring, and decided to give it a go.

I’ve never met a sugar thermometer that I’ve trusted or gotten along with, so I ignored that and just cooked the apple syrup for exactly 2 minutes once it came to the boil; while the syrup cooked, I whisked the egg yolks in my KitchenAid until they were pale and beginning to go fluffy.  Once the syrup was done, I poured it into a jug to give better control when adding it to the egg yolks.

With the mixer off I added a tiny trickle of the syrup and immediately flicked it on high to incorporate it without scrambling the eggs.  And then it was just a case of repeating that, with the increments of syrup getting larger each time until it was all incorporated and the mixture had massively increased in volume and had become billowing and fluffy.   I left the mixer running on slow until the bowl felt cool to ensure that there wouldn’t be any little bits of scrambled egg lurking and also to firm up the structure a little.  Now that I’d created this fabulously light pate a bombe, I didn’t want to lose any of the air that was whisked into it.

To keep the semifreddo from freezing solid, I added a couple of tablespoons of brandy which enhanced the flavour of the apples, too.  A little cinnamon folded in with the softly whipped cream made everything perfect.

I was a bit worried that the apple pieces would sink down to the bottom of the semifreddo if I incorporated them into the mixture before freezing, so I just poked them into the firmed up mixture (at random depths) after it had been in the freezer for about an hour.  This worked out nicely and each slice looked different, so I was quite pleased.

I like how this turned into a British interpretation of an Italian classic.  Rather like how the Italian’s have interpreted trifle into Zuppa Inglese but in a very autumnal fashion.  The warm, spicy apple chunks are totally British in flavour, and the incredibly light, silky smooth texture is utterly Italian.

For an extra burst of flavour, I drizzled the cut slices with some apple glaze, made with some of the apple juice that we bought at Our Small Farm last month.  Some crisp-tart slices of Granny Smith apples gave a fresh and crunchy contrast to what had turned into a celebration of apples.

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Apples, apples everywhere!

I’ve never been faced with a glut of apples before, but after our afternoon at an orchard, Dave negotiated scrumping rights with our next-door neighbour and now I find myself with a large bag of apples that seems to be bottomless.  So far I’ve made a luscious apple crumble, some apple butter (inspired by Zarah’s) and the apples barely seem dented.  Serious measures are called for.

One of the mottos that I seem to live life by is: in case of emergency… bake cake.  So I figured that a nice, moist apple cake should take care of quite a few of the tiny Bramley apples that Alan, our neighbour, brought round.  Every year I look longingly over at the laden branches of his trees and this year I finally get to taste them!

This cake is superbly moist with a pure apple flavour and lovely distinct chunks of apples with additional flavour bombs in the shape of the cider-plumped sultanas.  There’s a lovely buttery finish and just the right amount of cinnamon permeating the entire cake.  The whole house smells warm, welcoming and apple-y which is marvellous.

I served the cake warm with a generous spoonful of Chantilly cream, but it would be equally as delicious with something a little edgier like creme fraiche.  It is also fantastic on its own as elevenses with a glass of apple juice—for the apple obsessed among us… I’m looking at you, Lucas—or a glass of cold milk.

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After our afternoon at the apple orchard in Wotton-under-Edge we came home with the most marvellous haul of apples.  Since we’d already feasted upon apple pie at the orchard, I decided to turn some of the apples into a wonderfully buttery crumble.

Crumbles were a favourite family pudding when I was growing up.  Our Sunday roast of a succulent chicken, roasties and (alas) sprouts was frequently followed by a tart, fluffy apple crumble doused in evaporated milk or Bird’s custard.  My tastes have moved on a bit since then, but I still have a bit of a weakness for evaporated milk.

I like to keep all the fruit in my crumbles, rather than bubbling over the edge and disappearing to the floor of the oven.  So, to ensure a juicy crumble and a clean no dirtier than usual oven, I peeled a few apples turned them into a compote.  A brainwave struck me whilst chopping the apples and instead of sweetening with sugar, I used the deliciously sweet-smokey syrup left over from the honey and marsala baked pears I’d made a couple of days before.  There was still a leftover baked pear, so I decided to peel and slice it over the compote before adding the crumble.  I also re-used the cinnamon and vanilla that were still lurking in the syrup for additional oomph.  Apples and pears are always happy bedfellows and I’m trying very hard to waste less food, so I was quite pleased with myself.

For the crumble topping, I turned to How to Eat and the wisdom of Nigella.  Her recipe was deliciously buttery which boded well for a crunchy golden topping to the crumble.  I did intend to add some sliced almonds, but I forgot all about them until the crumble was well on its way to perfection.  I wasn’t too sad as it smelt divine, and anyway, almonds are always welcome in my pantry.

So, did I do the apples justice?  I think I did!  The apples were soft and pillowy but so, so fresh and vibrant despite being cooked twice.  Apples eaten just hours after being picked are a world away from apples that have sat in cold stores for months.  The honey and marsala syrup didn’t dominate at all… just gently supported the apples and added an extra dimension to the compote.  The occasional chunk of tender, almost grainy honeyed pear came as a very welcome treat.

Nigella’s crumble topping was a triumph.  Such a fabulously buttery and crunchy topping, almost like shortbread.  I think that the almonds would have been a step too far with the additional tweaks I’d already made, so my forgetfulness was actually a good thing for once.

I served the crumble with lashings of double cream and between Dave and I—I’m ashamed to say—we ate the whole lot!  I did fleetingly think that Lucas would really enjoy it, but that last portion just looked too good.  Still, I can’t feel too guilty about my gluttony… Lucas can look forward to numerous crumbles in his lifetime and let’s face it, crumble is best served hot!

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I saw Claire Clark, the executive pastry chef at The French Laundry, demonstrating these gorgeous little spiced pumpkin pots on Market Kitchen last week and thought to myself… what a great dessert for Autumn! And then realised that this would also be the perfect thing to make for this month’s Sugar High Friday and Waiter… there’s something in my… gourd.

All three of us are big fans of pumpkin and squash, so it surprises me to realise that this is the first dessert I’ve ever made with them.  I’m sure it won’t be the last, though.  Dave keeps gently hinting that he’d quite like a pumpkin pie and after tasting these pots de creme I’m rather keen on the idea, too.

For the cuteness factor, I decided to serve the pots de creme in little Munchkin pumpkins.  I spotted them in the supermarket and had to pick them up as (a) I couldn’t resist the name and (b) they were so small and cute.  The flesh of the Munchkin is quite tasty, but to be honest… there are more seeds than flesh, so I wouldn’t go out of my way to eat them again.  However, they do make a fantastic edible serving dish for the pots de creme!

I did manage to save some Munchkin flesh—that just sounds wrong, doesn’t it?—for the custard, but the bulk of the pumpkin flavour comes from my favourite (and ever-reliable) butternut squash.  I know pumpkin and squash are subtly different, but we always have a butternut about the house and they’re delicious!  Excuses aside, the custard is generously spiced with cinnamon, ginger and freshly grated nutmeg which gives you a wonderful gingerbread taste before the sweetness of the squash comes through.  This is a sexy little dessert that is just sweet, seasonal and perfect if you’re planning some sort of Halloween shindig!

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What else could I possibly follow roast partridge with?  It had to be pears.  In this case, baked pears with honey, marsala and bay from My Favourite Ingredients by Skye Gyngell.  I am loving this book so much; everything I’ve made has turned out beautifully and it’s just such an inspiring read.

This is a beautifully simple autumn dessert, requiring only the tiniest bit of effort on the part of the cook.  And honestly, chucking a few well-chosen ingredients in a dish barely constitutes effort in my book.  I did go the extra mile (or two) and picked up a jar of gorgeously amber honey from our local farm shop.  I was thrilled to discover that it was their own honey and relieved that the hives are nowhere near the shop itself.  I didn’t even know they had their own bees.  It’s quite a mild honey—compared to chestnut or eucalyptus—but still flavourful.

While at the farm shop I took the opportunity to check out the new plant and herb nursery that had opened behind it.  My attempt at rooting rosemary cuttings has failed to elicit even the tiniest root, even after two months, so I decided to just buy myself a rosemary plant.  Safely strapped into the passenger seat it drove around with me for the rest of the day before being repotted into a shiny new pot at home.

I picked up some almost-ripe comice pears at the supermarket—the farm shop had none—figuring that a little longer in the oven should still give me sweet, meltingly tender fruit.  The pears were all wrapped-up and ready to go in the oven long before it finished preheating!  Like I said, a very simple recipe!

Fifty minutes later and the pears were caramelised and sitting in a bath of golden-brown syrup, heady with the scent of vanilla and marsala.  As they cooled I basted them with the syrup, hoping for a toffee apple effect that sadly didn’t materialise, but I do think it helped keep everything succulent.

I served the pears with a generous spoonful of thick, thick, crime fraiche which played well against the sweetness of the pears and syrup.  It’s a cliché, I know, but it really did cut through the sweet stickiness of the syrup to make a beautifully balanced dessert.  Ice cream would kill this, I think.  I loved the smokiness that the marsala left behind in the syrup and there was also a subtle spicing from the bay as well as the nutmeg.  Maybe infusing bay into the creme fraiche would lift this dish even further?

This was the perfect ending to our autumnal feast and I’m pretty sure that I’ll be baking plenty more pears in the future.

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My kitchen is filled with the heady scent of lavender.  The bunch of gloriously purple Provençal lavender that I bought at the Bristol Organic Food Festival lies by the windowsill, enticing me closer for a sniff every time I pass it…

With such constant temptation, it wasn’t long before I succumbed and made my first floral dessert.

I’m not sure how I came up with the combination of peach and lavender.  Perhaps I was inspired by Tartlette’s apricot and lavender panna cotta, or it might just have been that peaches were the only fruit I had to hand.

Semifreddo means “half cold” in Italian.  As the name suggests, it’s served when only just frozen so it melts quickly in the mouth, leaving only the sweetest memories behind.  There are a myriad of recipes and techniques for preparing semifreddo, but the end result is always a delicious mousse-like frozen dessert due to the thousands of air bubbles captured within it from either meringue or whipped cream.

And the best thing about semifreddo?  You don’t need an ice-cream machine.

The scent of peaches and lavender rise subtly at first from the semifreddo and intensify as it continues to melt until you’re wrapped in the most delicious aromas.  The scent isn’t too heavy; there’s nothing grandmotherly about this dessert and nor does it feel like you’re eating potpourri.  It’s complex… full of ripe peach flavour, floral, and citrusy from both the splash of limoncello I added to the caramelised peached but mainly from the lavender itself.  In essence, it tastes as good as it smells!

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