The Friday Photo: the Englishes invade Mayo and Galway
So this is exciting. Yesterday, Hubby took us on a really exciting trip. We went all the way to Galway, and then to Mayo, for lunch at the beautiful Ashford Castle. The place is absolutely stunning, as you can see from my unusually passable photography.
We felt like total celebs, and even the €75 it cost us for two rounds of sandwiches, two kids portions of chicken and chips and four cokes did nothing to dent our excitement (yes okay, so it’s hardly cordon bleu but we didn’t dare order anything decent – we can’t afford to remortgage). Anyhoo, it was worth it, just to have a nose round this magical place. If you ever get the chance, get yourself booked in. Just remember your gold card!
Chicken and Thyme Pie
I love baking. Especially a nice pie. Okay, so it’s a bit of a faff, but give it a try; it’s worth it for the wow factor when you cut it at the table. And you know what Oscar Wilde said: ‘one should try everything once. With the possible exceptions of incest and morris dancing’.
4 chicken breasts
500ml good chicken stock
Couple of stems of fresh thyme
2-3 peppercorns
1 carrot, diced
1 onion, sliced
Handful frozen peas
1 tsp butter and 1 tbs plain flour to thicken
Seasoning
For the pastry:
250g plain flour
125g butter
1 egg
Pinch salt
So start with the chicken – get the stock bubbling away on the stove, snip the chicken into bite-sized cubes, and pop it into the stock along with the thyme, peppercorns, carrot and onion (I always leave onion in quite big pieces as #2 likes to irritate me by picking it out). I know you’d probably normally chuck thyme on top of roasting stuff, but trust me, it really adds a little something here. So leave the chicken to simmer away and get on with the pastry. You know my view on pastry – don’t ponce about, if you don’t like making it, just buy it, but if you’ve got a food processor, whizz the flour and butter together until breadcrumby, then just whizz in the egg and generous pinch of salt. When it starts to come together, squish it into a ball, then wrap it in clingfilm and pop it in the fridge.
When the chicken’s completely cooked through (probably 20 minutes, depending on your chunk sizes), fish it out and reserve it while you reduce the stock (make sure you fish out the thyme and peppercorns at this stage too). It would benefit from a splash of cream here (ooh, lovely with some sliced mushrooms…yum), but Hubby’s not a fan of creamy sauces so I left it out. If you like a thicker sauce, mush together a teaspoon of flour with the same amount of butter and whisk it in. Season to taste. Add back your chicken, along with the frozen peas, then turn it off while you roll out about 2/3 of your pastry and line your pie dish.
If you can be arsed, it really helps to blind bake the lined pie dish to stop your pie having a soggy bottom(altogether now ‘and nobody likes a soggy bottom’). Put some greaseproof paper loosely in the dish, then pour in some baking beans (or just any old dry beans) and bake it for about 15 minutes. Remove the beans and greaseproof paper, and brush with beaten egg to seal, returning to the oven for 5 minutes. But if you don’t want to, don’t bother; I won’t tell.
Now roll out the pastry lid, place it on top of the pie and crimp it artistically. Brush with beaten egg, then put the whole thing back in the oven until the top is golden brown. Remember you’re only cooking the lid really so 20 minutes should be fine.
It’s a standing joke in our house that #1 (aka A A Gill) will always find something not quite to his taste at the table. The roast potatoes are never quite as good as Auntie Jen’s (curse you, Jennifer, what the hell did you do to them?), the sauce will be a tad salty, the rhubarb a little too tart. All this will be commented upon whilst enormous quantities of the slightly sub-standard food are whooshed into his mouth, along with seconds, and often thirds. Still, nothing’s ever completely up to scratch. This one, though, actually shut him up. Yup, we all waited with baited breath, but no, not a single comment. Things must be looking up.
In which I forsake fashion to wear fluorescents
Okay, so you know my views about Halloween. I did it all last year with C, walking round to a few friends with Little C, Lou and the fellas, but meh. I mean, I know it’s probably my Englishness (we just don’t DO Halloween), but what is it with all these hideous plastic skeletons and crap? Not that I give a poo about what religion anyone is, but I can’t help but find it quite ironic that Irish people embrace this weird pagan festival so readily. ‘It’s for the KIDS’, said Mrs Lovely yesterday (I took a chilli round as they were babysitting Mr Lovely’s adorable 6 month old niece). ‘I don’t care’, I said, eyeing her as she picked out all the kidney beans, ‘I just don’t get it. I mean, you send your children round to people’s houses to beg for sweets? WHY? Last year we got a load of half arsed teenagers setting fireworks off on the lawn – it’s just an excuse for them to piss about.’
Anyoo, the whole weekend saw hundreds of people head up here for the Pumpkin Festival in nearby Virginia, the thrilling climax of which was a fireworks display over the lough. The Lovelies somehow persuaded me and #2 (#1 wasn’t having any of that and Hubby was away working) to walk (yup, walk) all the way down the boat road to the lough to watch the fireworks. Now Mr Lovely being a fireman and all, had us all suited and booted in fluorescent gear, with flashing armbands and everything, but even so, blimey it was dark (bain’t no street lights in these parts, my lover). And a bit spooky. ‘There’, I said to #2, this is scary enough, who needs Halloween?’
So we finally got to the end of the road (I never walk to the end – Bert would collapse with the shock) and the fireworks were absolutely awesome: they not only whooshed and banged, like normal fireworks, but they swirled and squiggled and fizzled and all sorts of clever stuff too. Quite a few people decided to drive down to the lough shore, rather than drive round the lough to the festival. An extremely bad idea down a little one-track lane. They all got stuck, and we strutted past them all cocky and flashing and fluorescent, as they reversed back up, trying in vain to find somewhere to turn round.
A great night – and a great adventure for the kids. There, I’ve done my bit. Just don’t come trick or treating at English Towers. I don’t wish to join.
My bestest chocolate chip muffins. No, really.
So we woke up this morning to the wonderful smell of baking. ‘Mmmm’, I thought, ‘I love baking in the morning’. Then, ‘that’s strange, though’, I thought after that, ‘I’m baking and yet I’m still in bed’. Of course, it was the smalls in the kitchen: Head Chef #1 was knocking up a batch of chocolate chip cookies, ably assisted by his slightly grumpy Sous Chef, #2. And very nice cookies they were too, except… ‘they need a bit more butter’. ‘What?’, says #1, ‘why? They seem perfect to me’. ‘Meh’, says I, ‘I just think they’d be nicer a bit more buttery. Whose recipe did you use?’. ‘Yours’, said the little sod, with just a small hint of triumph.
But that’s the thing about cooking, you see. Nothing’s ever quite perfect is it? Take my Bounty Cake. I was so pleased with the result, I thought I’d try and make a chocolate version, but when I replaced the coconut with cocoa, the result was all horrible and powdery. Back to the drawing board then. So anyhoo, no, you’re not getting the cookie recipe just yet as it obviously needs a bit of tinkering. Instead, I’ll let you into the secret of my chocolate chip muffins. I make hundreds of these, often for breakfast. My thinking being that I’d rather have my children eating something homemade in the morning, than some fat-soaked cereal bar, the ingredients of which I don’t even understand, let alone approve of. The recipe for these, then, has been tinkered to death, and I’m pretty sure it’s foolproof:
200g plain flour
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp bicarbonate of soda
75g granulated sugar
50g muscovado or dark brown sugar
2 eggs
100g butter, melted
125ml milk
1 tsp vanilla extract
100g dark chocolate, chopped
So get your oven on to about 190 degrees, gas 5, and put a dozen of those little paper muffin cups into a muffin tin. Sieve the flour, baking powder and bicarb together, then stir in the sugars.
In another bowl, whisk the eggs with a fork, then add the melted butter, milk and vanilla, whisk briefly to combine them, then pour this into the dry stuff. Add the chocolate, then remember the golden muffin rule: mix as briefly as possible until everything is just combined.
Put a spoonful in each paper muffin thingy, then bake then for about 20 minutes or so, until they spring back to the touch and they’re a lovely golden brown.
Give them a try. Oh, and feel free to burst my bubble if they’re a horrible failure for you, though. Nobody’s perfect, eh?
The Friday Photo: I demand a DNA test
So #1 is a big fella now. He’s loving his new school (‘some of them big lads have moustaches, Ma!’), has mastered the art of actually being on time at the bus stop (after a couple of ‘oh shit’ moments when the bus sailed past him as he wandered out of the sweet shop) and now has serious amounts of homework. To be frank (it’s okay, you get to be Frank next time), he was getting increasingly frustrated having to do his homework on the kitchen table while various conversations/arguments/loud tv programmes/recipe testing involving food processing/silly buggering about-type stuff was going on around him. Distracting, I agree. So me and the Hubby visited our local DIY store, and bought him a desk. And yes okay, I admit, it’s not the prettiest desk in the world, and yes, it’s a flat-packed melamine job, but hey, we’re skint. Sorry. That’s life. Two hours of disgustingly navvy-like swearing from Hubby later and the desk was up. And actually, it’s really not that bad.
Anyhoo, I digress. So a good week or two later, and the desk is still immaculate. Everything is still in its original place. There’s not a pen or a piece of paper out of place. While mine, on the other hand, looks like the aftermath of a rather large explosion inside a branch of Office World. I can’t help it, my natural instinct is seriously messy.
So my question is: how come the child doesn’t have the messy gene? He often comes into our bedroom, where (there’s no way of saying this nicely) there are pairs of pants strewn all over the floor, and the bed is only ever made when the sheets are changed, tuts sadly and walks back out. The Professor is a neat freak; a clever, mathematically amazing, novel-devouring, neat freak. Plus, he knows the difference between a simile and a metaphor, can name the entire Liverpool team (including subs), slay the cleverest smarty-pants with a devastating, razor-sharp comeback, and even the dog daren’t ruffle his sheets. I demand a DNA test.
Shiny, happy and incredibly annoying
So yes, things are a little tough. Hubby’s job is by no means certain in the current economic climate, and it’s a worry, what with C… oops, nearly said the C-word again… what with a rather expensive time of year coming up. And now Hubby’s car has decided to conk out, and my jeep’s making weird noises. Don’t they say things come in threes? I wonder what’s next.
So sod it, I say to Hubby, we’re all healthy, nobody died. We have a roof over our heads, two happy, healthy children, a big mad family, lovely friends, a big cuddly stupid dog, and have settled into a lovely community. For some reason, my unbridled optimism really annoys him. ‘So if we end up losing our house and living in a tent you’ll still be this perky will you?’ he asks, somewhat unfairly. ‘Well, at least we’ll have each other… and if we’re all in a tent together, we can pretend we’re camping – it’ll be an adventure’. Hubby snorts in a rather derisive manner and goes off to do something manly in the garage.
This morning, then, #2 comes down for his breakfast. I make him a hot chocolate with extra marshmallows, and serve him a big chunk of homemade brownie (don’t worry, there’s a stealthy portion of dates in there – shhhh). ‘I love you, Mum’, he says, ‘you’re always so smiley and happy’. ‘That’s funny’, says I, ‘it annoys the pants off your father’.
Warning: this post contains the C word
Oh come on, it’s what, the 21st October? That’s not bad for me – I usually start thinking about Christmas in September. I know, I’m sorry. I just can’t help it. Now I’m not saying I’m buying presents, or digging out the decorations or anything, just that I enjoy the thinking and the planning and the list-making almost as much as the main event. And this year, the whole bloody great clan of Englishes are coming over: me Ma, Sensible Uncle I, Mrs Sensible and the Fleas, and even Mad Uncle Ali, which means a big, huge, happy house party to look forward to and -even better – to cater for.
And the postie came yesterday with my new book:
Bounty Cake: a coconut cake with chocolate buttermilk icing
So you’ll like this. For my new job, I do all sorts of bonkers things (like cooking Christmas dinner in October, but that’s another story), but it does give you lots of new ideas. I’ve been working on cupcakes recently, and this is how I started with the Bounty cake idea. I was trying to think of a nice icing to go with a coconut cupcake. I have a really nice lemon cream cheese icing recipe, which would be fab with ginger or carrot cupcakes but somehow it just didn’t seem right with the coconut. And then it hit me: what better combination is there than coconut and chocolate? And so the Bounty cupcake was born. This is its older brother: just as nice, you just get to have bigger portions. Result.
For the coconut cake:
150g soft butter
250g caster sugar
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
2 eggs
300g self-raising flour
40g desiccated coconut
250ml buttermilk (if you can’t find it, make your own by squeezing the juice of half a lemon into 250ml milk)
For the ganache:
175g bar dark chocolate (or white would be lovely)
Leftover buttermilk (or cream)
So preheat your oven to 180/gas 4 and line a baking tin with greaseproof paper (one with a removable bottom – ooer – is good here). Give it a brush round with some soft butter too, just to make doubly sure it won’t stick. Whack it in the mixer, or just beat the butter and sugar until they’re light and fluffy, then add in the vanilla and the eggs, beating well after each addition. Then just bung in all the dry ingredients, pour over the buttermilk and stir gently until just combined. Pour the mixture into the buttered tin and bake for about 40 minutes until the top is golden and a knife poked into the centre comes out clean. Mine was going a bit too brown on top, so I covered it with foil for the last 5 or 10 minutes. (Obviously if you’d prefer, you can spoon the mixture into about 12 cupcake papers. They’ll only take about 20 minutes to cook.)
Take the cake out and leave it somewhere to cool. Then make your ganache. Melt the chocolate in a bowl over a pan of hot water (turn the heat out once the water is bubbling otherwise it will spit boiling water at you). As soon as the chocolate’s about there, take it off the heat and let it cool a bit, before whisking in a splosh of buttermilk, then another, until the mixture gets to a spreadable consistency. Put the icing in the fridge. You’ll get the same result if you use cream, but somehow the buttermilk gives it a more ‘grown up’ tang which works well with the dark chocolate.
When the cake is cool, take the icing out of the fridge and whisk it, preferably with an electric whisk. This will incorporate a bit of air and make it fluffier and paler. Don’t worry if you whisk too far and it goes grainy and solid – splosh a bit more buttermilk in, whisk it a bit more and it’ll recover. Spread all over the cake, sprinkle on some desiccated coconut and stuff into face, preferably with a latte, a roaring fire and a very fat, spoilt greyhound for company.
The Friday photo: half woman/half Bic biro
Now you know I’m all for women supporting women and I’m not usually a ‘sleb’ basher, but good jesus. Doesn’t David object to all those pointy bits when he’s lying in bed next to her?
Someone give this woman a doughnut already.
Green tomato, apple and apricot chutney
So just as we all reach the depths of financial despair and can’t afford to feed ourselves, here at English Towers we’ll be okay as our self sufficiency knows no bounds. Okay, so it wouldn’t be particularly pleasant to live on underripe tomatoes, parsley, carrots and erm… two courgettes, but hey, at least I’m trying. Anyhoo, I finally gave up hope of any of the tomatoes going red in the greenhouse, picked them all and dug up the plants. This left me with two huge bowls of green tomatoes. Here’s the result of my chutney experiments, which left my kitchen looking like somebody had spontaneously combusted in there, but is pleasantly sweet, satisfyingly sour and has a kick like a seriously unhappy mule:
1.4kg green tomatoes (I know, but I had a lot of tomato plants)
450g bramley apples (3 or 4 apples)
1 large red onion
450ml malt vinegar
225g demerara sugar (use a bit more if you like a more jammy result)
125g dried apricots
100g sultanas
1 tsp cumin seeds
1 tsp chilli flakes
2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp crushed black pepper
Can I just say that if you don’t have a really sharp knife, don’t even think about making this chutney. Chopping a mountain of green tomatoes with a blunt knife will only lead to rude words and missing fingers. You have been warned. So dice up all your tomatoes, peel and dice the apple and onion and chop the apricots. Add them, along with all the rest of the ingredients, to a very large saucepan.
Bring it all to the boil, then reduce and let it bubble away (hence the kitchen redecoration) stirring occasionally for about two hours or until there’s no excess liquid on the top.
Try and be slightly less Frank Spencer-like in your jar filling than I was – actually getting some of the chutney IN the jars would be preferable, I could really do with a funnel. Oh and remember you need to wash them thoroughly and sterilise them first – a hot dishwasher cycle or 15 minutes in a cool oven should do it. Shove the lid on and keep in a cool, dark cupboard to enjoy at Christmas with your coca cola baked ham and your Wexford cheddar… Savage, as #1 would say.
