ENGLISH MUM

Turkey, stuffing and a very merry Christmas

So that’s it, then.  The big day is shortly upon us and I’m looking forward to a small family Christmas (just us, English Grandma and maybe Mad Uncle Ali in the afternoon) at our new little house in Hertfordshire.

Wherever you are and whoever you’re with, I wish you all a wonderful, indulgent Christmas.

And as always, remember to chill out, have fun, stick on your glad rags, enjoy your precious loved ones, have a few cocktails, don’t shout at the children (or at least count to ten first), don’t worry about  your waistline, don’t drink and drive (I need you!), do give someone everyone you love a kiss under the mistletoe, say you love it even if you hate it, carry a hankie, say please and thank you, keep your hand on your ha’penny… and have a glass of champers on me.

Now, let me think what you might need:

Firstly, of course, you’ll need a really good festive cocktail recipe.  This little beauty was sent to me by naughty ol’ Maxi Cane.  It’s called ‘A Mouthful of Maxi’:

1 regular spirit measure (35ml) of Peach Schnapps.

1 dash (15ml approx) of orange liqueur (Triple Sec/Cointreau/Grand Marnier)

1 dash of Crème de Cassis liqueur (blackcurrant)

1 dash of Crème de Banane liqueur

200 – 250ml (depending on your taste) of cranberry juice

Shake well over crushed ice and take it easy – these babies are evil!

Now, if you can still stand up, to the dinner:

If you need any help with the turkey, just click here.

Remember, once the turkey’s cooked it’ll sit happily for at least an hour, covered in foil and tucked snugly under a couple of teatowels, while you cook the roasties, etc.

If you don’t like Christmas pudding, I can heartily recommend my chocolate fondants, and finally, if you need stuffing (ahem), then you can’t do better than my easy peasy apple and red onion stuffing (serves 4-6, double up as necessary):

1 tbsp butter

1 red onion, finely chopped

1 dessert apple, peeled and finely chopped

225g pork sausage meat

100g fresh white breadcrumbs

1 tbsp fresh parsley, chopped

1 tbsp fresh sage, chopped

Squeeze of lemon juice

1  Preheat the oven to 190ºC/gas mark 5.  Heat the butter in a frying pan, add the onion and fry gently until soft.  Add the apple and cook until softened.  Remove from the heat, transfer to a bowl and allow to cool.

2  Stir the sausage meat and breadcrumbs into the onion mixture along with the herbs and lemon juice.  Stir until well combined.  You can put a little in the neck end of the turkey (I’m not a fan of stuffing the main cavity – I think it stops the hot air circulating), or squish it into a buttered oven-proof dish and bake for 25 minutes.

Off you trot, then.  Big hugs, even bigger wet kisses and lots of love

xxxx

‘And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so?
It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags.
And he puzzled and puzzled ’till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before.
What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store?  What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?’

Last minute panic? Relax, The Present Queen’s got you covered

Easy Christmas Stollen

So if you’re snowed in, or just fancy a nice afternoon of Christmassy cooking in the kitchen, I can think of nothing finer than stollen.  Not only is it yummy, but the smell of it cooking is just the finest thang ever.

As you can see from the picture, I actually made mine when I was back at English Towers in Ireland (it was for a magazine article, so they were unseasonably made in October), but they freeze really well (if you slice them first, you can grill the individual slices which makes the marzipan all lubly and bubbly).

Anyhoo, you’ll need:

500g plain white flour, sieved

½ tsp salt

125g butter, softened

3 tsp baking powder

200g caster sugar

1 large lemon, finely zested

1 tsp ground mixed spice

50g suet

125g sultanas

125g raisins

125g raw almonds, roughly chopped

40g chopped mixed candied peel (or if, like me, you think peel is the spawn of the devil, use dried cranberries instead)

250g crème fraîche, or thick Greek-style yoghurt

2 eggs, beaten

1 tsp almond extract (or almond liqueur)

30ml spiced or dark rum

Pack of marzipan, (or to make your own, see below)

Homemade marzipan:

50g caster sugar
100g ground almonds
150g icing sugar
1 egg, beaten

Mix the dry ingredients and then add the egg, mixing well and pushing together with your hands. Form into a sausage shape and refrigerate, wrapped in cling film.

To finish:

25g melted butter

Icing sugar, sieved

So preheat your oven to 180ºC/gas mark 4 and generously butter a large baking sheet.  Mix the flour and salt in a large bowl and rub in the butter, then add in the baking powder, sugar, lemon zest, mixed spice, suet, dried fruits, almonds and peel (if using) and mix well.

Now, stir in the crème fraîche or yoghurt, eggs, almond extract and rum.  Bring together to form a firm dough, adding more flour if necessary.  Divide the dough into two.

Put the dough on a floured surface and roll out into a rough rectangle about 2cm thick.  Roll the marzipan into a sausage shape and place in the centre of the dough.  Fold the dough over the marzipan, tucking under the ends.  Repeat with the other half of the dough.

Place on the baking sheet and bake for about 35-40 minutes, or until golden brown.  Brush with the melted butter and dust generously with icing sugar.  This keeps really well, so if it’s wrapped in greaseproof paper and then in foil, it will probably last about two weeks.  Unlikely, as it’s yummy, but just in case…

And there you have it.  Christmas on a plate.  Nom.

Auntie L’s birthday curry and home made Christmas liqueur

My sister in law, the  lovely Auntie L, has her birthday ridiculously close to Christmas, so on Saturday we decided to throw her a little birthday party.  It also just happens that the lovely chaps at Cobra Beer had contacted me a while ago and said ‘guess what, we know you like curry so we’re going to send you some beer to go with it’.

No way.  ’What, like no strings?  You’re just going to send me beer?

‘Yup’.

‘And you don’t want anything in return?’

‘Nope’

‘What, like not even a mention?’

‘No, we’re cool’

Wow.

I love blogging.

Curry it is, then.

And yup, they did.  Sent us a whole box of Cobras to go with our curry.  And the links to a load of curry recipes on their website.  Anyhoo, digressing.  So I made a beef dhansak and their recipe for marinated spicy chicken (and no, not just ‘cos they sent me free beer, honest), along with some yoghurt/cucumber/mint raita (raitha? I’m never sure), some onion salad with coriander, and a rice pilaff from Nigella’s ‘Feast’ book.

For pud, I set Turtle, my adorable niece,  a secret mission to find out Auntie L’s favourite cake.  It turned out to be coffee and walnut.  Frankly, the less said about this the better.  I made the walnut cake, but my attempt at coffee frosting was a total shambles.  Hell, we poured it over, stuck a few candles in it and ate it anyway.  It didn’t set, but it didn’t seem to matter.  Not my finest moment, but hey, it tasted okay.

Finally, I served frozen shot glasses of my special Chrimbo liqueur: a shudderingly, toe-curlingly whizzy little mouthful of Christmas.  Try it, you won’t be disappointed:

First, then, assemble your ingredients:

1 litre vodka (or Eau de Vie or Bacardi – whatever really)

50g soft brown sugar

1 clementine or tangerine, peel and juice

1 lime, peel and juice

1 tsp mixed spice

A handful of dried cranberries

2 cinnamon sticks (make sure they’re slim enough to fit in the vodka bottle)

4 cloves

1 star anise (likewise, pick ones that fit in the bottle)

2 bay leaves

So first, bung the brown sugar in a pan and add in the juice of the clementine and the lime.

You don’t really need to stir it, just swirl it around and allow it to come up to the boil so it’s all bubbly and kind of syrupy:

…and when it’s bubbling, turn it down and add in your other ingredients:

Stir them around so they’re all coated in the caramel, then take it off the heat and carefully add the vodka (watch out, it’ll spit).  Now, pour the whole lot back into the vodka bottle (you’ll need to poke some of the ingredients in with a knife or something).  And that’s it.  Just leave it somewhere to fester for a couple of days (not too long or you’ll just have cough medicine), sieve it and serve in teeny, cold shots.

Wehay!

Mrs Wallop’s fabulous Advent calendar rant

It’s the last Sunday in Advent today.  And for those not ‘in the know’ (me, in other words), I turned to our wonderful friend and ‘YTPR‘, the Revd Craig, for a quick update.  Turns out, then, (bear with me here), that the four Sundays leading up to Chrimbo are called Advent Sundays.  The first Sunday of Advent actually marks the beginning of the church year, and each Sunday has special significance.  In a lot of churches there’s an ‘Advent wreath’ with four candles around the outside and one in the middle (which instantly brings to mind the startlingly bad wire coat-hanger/tinsel candelabra thing on Blue Peter).  One candle is lit each week, finishing off with the one in the middle being lit on Christmas morning.

But let’s face it, to most of us (and certainly a giant proportion of our children), Advent is all about the chocky.  And this leads me neatly on to my friend, Mrs Wallop, who’s got a few things to say about those.  I love this.  Onwards, then, Wallop:

Those that know me would attest to the fact that I’m not the most regular of Church goers.  But I do know that Christmas is the celebration of Jesus’ birth.  So why is this so rarely mentioned?  If an alien came down to earth at this time of year, they would get the impression that Christmas was an exercise in shopping for expensive plastic crap, eating frozen canapés and ordering half price sofas.  Don’t get me wrong, I realise that for children, Christmas is mostly about the presents, which I completely understand.  I’d just like my children to know a little bit about WHY they get presents and what it is we are celebrating.  Perhaps religion is just too embarrassing to talk about, or perhaps the marketing bods think it will turn people off buying their products.

Or is it just laziness on the part of product developers?  The Christmas product that most makes my blood boil is the advent calendar.  Advent is a time to get excited, make decorations out of large quantities of cotton wool, dream about presents and practise nativity plays.  It’s fun for children to open a door every day watching with anticipation as the calendar counts down the days until Christmas.  So why is it so hard to buy a calendar with a picture of the nativity or a Christmassy scene?  I’d even settle for a non-specific wintery scene but all the shops are full of Ben 10, High School Musical, or Spiderman calendars full of cheap, waxy chocolate.  And the thing that I hate most is that they can’t even be bothered to make them look Christmassy.  Is it really too much effort to add a spring of holly to the picture of Ben 10?  It’s lazy and exploitative, they know that every child dragged around the supermarket by unwilling parents will be begging for them, Christmassy or not.

I think it’s really sad.  The nativity story is a wonderful, accessible tale full of light and miracles, and who doesn’t need a little bit of that in the depth of winter?  My happiest childhood Christmas memories involve elaborate nativity scenes created by our Spanish neighbour, decorating the house with giant paper bells (it was the 70′s),candle lit carol services, and spending time with cousins, grandparents and friends.  These memories are not all to do with the Christian aspect of Christmas, but they are about valuing the important things in life.  And Ben 10 is not one of them.

Mince pies. And why most things are improved with a slosh of booze.

Deep breaths, then, and enough of this doom and gloom.  Hell, it’s Christmas. 

Seeing as I’m currently obsessing about mince pies, I thought I’d share my latest ressup with you.  It’s the pastry, see?  I thought I had it perfect, but it was too short, too ‘dissolve into crumbs as soon as you pick it up’, which is perfect in some ways, but mince pies need to be handled.  The pastry needed to be crisper.  And several hundred later, by jove I think I’ve got it.  Brace yourself, then:

The perfect mince pie.  Honest.

250g cold butter

400g plain flour

1 tbsp caster sugar

Pinch salt

1 egg yolk

First, then, cut your butter into little cubes and bung it in your wondrously gorgeous food processor (I love you, Jen)with the flour, sugar and a pinch of salt:

Mix gently until it resembles breadcrumbs:

Now add your egg yolk and let it continue stirring gently until the mixture just comes together.  If it’s really not happening you can add a tablespoon of water or orange juice (or rosewater if you’re really posh), but you want a firm dough, remember, so don’t go mad.

Now, splodge the dough gently into two balls, clingfilm them and whop them into the fridge for 20 mins.  Don’t leave them too long – rock hard pastry is a sod to roll out.

Preheat the oven to 190 degrees/gas 5 and get ready to mess with your mincemeat.  Now, don’t get me wrong – normal mincemeat in a jar is fine, but let’s face it, there’s not much in life that can’t be improved with a bit of alcohol (moved country? Miss your friends?  Trust me, it’s not time that’s a great healer, it’s booze), so splosh some in: I’m loving Cherry Brandy at the moment, but anything will do: Port, Brandy, Cointreau - whatever you have to pep it up a tad.  I also add a handful of dried cranberries because I like the colour.  But don’t bother if you don’t want to.

So now, just roll the pastry out and use a cutter to make circles.  Pop the circles gently into a muffin tin and put a scant teaspoon of your boozy mincemeat in each one :

Now you can either cut out another slightly smaller circle to use as a lid, and pass the whole kit and caboodle onto the Eggy Wash Department (you’ll need a small, willing child for this – just use the leftover egg white to paint over the pies and add a sprinkle of sugar):

Or you can whip up a quick Madeira cake batter by creaming 100g butter with 100g caster sugar until light and fluffy, then beating in 2 eggs, a splash of vanilla extract and finally folding in 100g self raising flour.  Blob a small amount (about a dessert spoonful) on top of each mince pie to make pastry mincey cakey pies:

And that’s it.  Bake for about 10 – 15 minutes and serve with more booze in the shape of some warm, mulled wine.  Ah lubly.  I feel better already.

A mass of contradictions

I am, dearest reader, dazed and confused. And no, it’s not because I’m sitting in the library, still suffering from broadband-withdrawal, although that’s true too. No, I’m homesick. At home.

I don’t even know if I can explain. You know that feeling you get when you’ve just come back from the most amazing holiday and it’s back-to-work-Monday-morning? Well it’s kind of like that. And it’s kind of like the feeling you used to get at school, that first day back in September, in an uncomfortable collar and squeaky new shoes.

Nothing fits.

My wonderful friends here in chilly Hertfordshire have welcomed me back with open arms: lovely Tums, one of my oldest (and most glamorous) friends, had the most magical, amazing and fittingly glamorous 40th birthday party in a beautiful old country house hotel. We dined in a private room, danced until we had to take our shoes and hobble home, and ate beautiful pink cupcakes for dessert. I loved every minute (and you know I’m not really a party person). Then Mr and Mrs Foxy, more of our long-term friends, threw us a ‘welcome back to England’ dinner party, with lashings of wine, fantastic food, a roaring fire in their beautiful home, and laughter until our sides ached.

My friends have re-opened their social circle and slotted me back in. I’m beyond grateful.

So it’s not that, then.

I miss my dog. Yes, he was growly and unsociable on occasions.  He hogged the sofa and hurled himself at guests. And yes, we thought we were doing the right thing by having him rehomed. But now I’m not so sure. I miss tootling down the boat road together and writing my blog with his head resting on my lap, looking at me with his ‘a walk now, please?’ stare.  Should I get another one?  Hubby says he doesn’t mind.  I just don’t know. 

And I miss all our Irish friends… The Lovelies, Poppy’s Mum and D-next-door.  But I’m glad to be home, have spent lots of time with the wondrous English Grandma and seen my brothers, nephew and my beautiful nieces.

But I’ve argued with my Dad.  I never argue with my Dad.  I adore him.  I don’t, however, adore his partner.  It’s all wrong.

My new kitchen is nice. It’s got the same oven as English Towers, but it’s not my oven. We’ve got a garden, it’s not big, but it’s nice, really.  Maybe I should get some chickens?  Or maybe not.  The new occupants of English Towers say that it’s all lit up for Christmas.  They’re so happy there and I’m really pleased for them.  They keep in touch and tell me not to worry.

So what’s wrong with me?  I’m usually all Christmassed-up by this stage in December.  I haven’t bought a single present.  Although, as I bake in a crisis, I have baked, and consumed, my own body weight in mince pies.

Bleurgh.

Mise’s coconut ice: the perfect retro present

Well, well, well, hello again!  We’re all moved over to the UK (after much swearing and broken fingernails packing the house up, then a ferry crossing from hell with storm force winds and high seas).  We’re moved into English Towers Mark 2 (kitchen is a B+ but garden’s a C-) but sadly I’ve no internet connection, so I’m going to hand you over to my lovely friend Mise for a little retro pressie making.  Chat soon!

Hi there, I’m Mise from Pretty Far West and I’m here to help. You’ve been reading the lifestyle blogs and you’ve realised that this year you can’t just buy junk from the ‘For Her’ and ‘For Him’ stands of the chain-stores as Christmas gifts, as they won’t show that you’re Vintage, Frugal, Retro and Caring.  So what can you do? Well, while you’re thinking about it you could make a batch of old-fashioned Coconut Ice to give to your aunts in beautifully-wrapped little boxes.  Here’s how.

 

You’ll need:

250g sugar

75 ml milk

a splash of rose water or 1 tsp vanilla essence,

75g desiccated coconut

 a few drops of red food-colouring.

1.  Heat the milk and sugar in a heavy saucepan until the sugar has dissolved, then simmer it gently until it reaches the soft ball stage. That means that if you drop a spoonful into a glass of cold water, it’ll form a soft ball. Don’t worry if you boil it for too long: it may turn into coconut toffee.

2.  Remove from heat, stir in the coconut and rose water or vanilla. Mix well (it’ll start to become firm).

3.  Turn half of the mixture out onto a sheet of greased greaseproof paper (in a square tin or just on a big plate).

4.  Add a few drops of red food-colouring to the rest, mix it in, and press the pink mixture down on top of the white. Tidy the edges a bit if you like by pressing them in with a knife.

5.  In a few minutes it’ll be firm enough to cut into squares (this should make about 16 pieces). Leave it in the fridge for an hour and then remove from the tin or plate.

I was surprised at how well this turned out – it was delicious and much sought after. Add more colouring if you prefer a brighter pink. Play the Bee Gees while you’re working to enter fully into the spirit of the thing. And tell your aunts I said hello.

Off to the kitchen with you then, and I’ll be back soon with more guest posts and fabulous ideas for a cracking Christmas.  Mwah! x

Rules for a perfect family Christmas

I know,  I know, it’s not even December, but it’s a Christmas Countdown, so stop moaning (you know who you are).  The lovely chaps at John Lewis set me a little Christmas challenge to give my rules for the definitive English Towers family Christmas. They go a little like this:

Children

#2 must awake at the crack of dawn. There will then follow an intense period of annoyance when every other sleeping member of the household must be awakened (generally in an aggressive, jumping-on-the-bed fashion) and invited to ‘wake up, it’s Christmas!’, even though it is barely 6am.  There is invariably a lot of creative, un-Disneylike swearing at this point.

Every year, at least one present will be opened by the wrong child.  This will cause all sorts of trouble.  This will have nothing at all to do with how inebriated the gift giver was when wrapping and labelling the present at 11.55pm on  Christmas Eve *cough*.  #1 got Rachel Allen’s ‘Bake’ last year.  He was not amused.

Christmas Dinner

The dinner must be at least 1 hour late (it’s amazing how long a turkey can ‘rest’ when the cook has been on the cooking sherry, got distracted and wandered off to have a chat with someone).

One part of the dinner (generally something that I have slaved over) will be left in the fridge or oven and be completely forgotten.

Everyone must talk at once (I remember my two lovely sister-in-laws once comparing notes about our family dinners, saying that they could never keep up with the 17 conversations that were all taking place across the table at the same time).

There MUST be champagne.

Family

There must be at least one drunken misdemeanor on Christmas day.  This will usually involve Mad Uncle Ali (remember the swan dive off the sofa last Christmas?  I rest my case).

There must be a call to The Disreputable One which will entail each child in turn listing each and every present in great detail, and must bore the pants off the poor man, but he bears it with dignity.

Entertainment

There must always be a disagreement about what is The Perfect Christmas Movie.  I will vote for How The Grinch Stole Christmas or White Christmas and be outvoted (and told that ‘it’s GAY’), and Hubby will vote for Back to the Future, even though it patently has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas whatsoever.  We’ll probably all settle on Elf, which is obviously the best Christmas movie in the history of absolutely everything.

English Grandma, who is well known for not saying no to anything, will end up being caned at Texas Hold’em or playing Call of Duty on Xbox, even though she won’t know what the hell she’s doing.   

Decorations

The children will always insist that every tree ornament that we’ve ever purchased must go onto the tree.  My attempts at subtle two-colour decor will be treated with contempt and that bloody plastic star thing covered in glitter will go on the top of the tree again.

The outside of the house will be lit up like Blackpool Illuminations.  This is Hubby’s department.  He will moan and groan about it, but at some point he’ll be out in a force 10 gale, swaying about on the top of a ladder, swearing at gutter clips whilst stringing 500 lights across the front of the house.  It’s just his thing.

Oh, and the big move commences today, so feel free to chat amongst yourselves until I unpack the computer at the other end.  Over to you, then.  Christmas rules?

At last, I’m all growed up

Do you know the best thing about having my family over for Christmas?  How could I choose, you may wonder?  Was it spending Christmas with my siblings again after so long?  The sheer accomplishment of getting 6 busy people and their offspring to the same place at the same time?  The kids opening their stockings together?  Even sharing a glass of wine with my sister in law in front of the fire with everyone else asleep or down the pub?  Well yes, all of those.  But the very best bit was feeling, possibly for the first time, like a grown up.  I know, it’s ridiculous.  For one thing, I’m 38 years old.  I’m the mother of two children – both of whom can read, write, don’t smell too bad and get to school on time – and a food writer too (okay, so I still find myself opening up the magazine and sneaking a happy look at my name on the first page, every month, but still, it really is me) .  I can make a cracking pavlova and read a whole book – both in one day.

What is it about spending time with family that makes everyone revert to their childhood ‘roles’, I wonder?  I’m the little sister: the scatty Doris that’s had seventy five different jobs, crashed a few cars and lived in so many different places that everyone has no room left in their address books…  But no more.  This time I was the hostess.  I welcomed them into my home (my immaculately clean and tidy home – me Ma nearly fell over with the shock), fed them, watered them and accommodated them with laundered sheets and a sparkly fresh bathroom.  And let me just clarify that I’m not bagging all the glory here – Hubby helped enormously with… erm… getting drinks and… er…well, anyway, he was there too, and my Ma and sister in law were fantastic help in the kitchen, but I did it.  I fed ten people for four days and enjoyed every second.

Okay, I still reverted to type a couple of times: firstly by knocking a full cup of tea all over the rug by the fire, then following it up by kicking a glass of water over about ten seconds later.  I got a ridiculous fit of the giggles when we stuffed the turkey too, but generally I felt rather clever and in control.  A first.

So what’s changed then?  I’m not sure.  But you know how certain people have this impression of you?  This image that they’ve perpetuated for so long you almost believe it?  Take my Disreputable Dad (no, please, take him).  I’m sure he’s very fond of us all, and he’s fantastically supportive in a crisis, but when I emailed him to tell him I’d finally got my dream job, what was his response?  ‘I wonder how long this one will last?’  You see, to him I’ll always be his dizzy blonde 18 year old, grabbing any random, unsuitable job and leaving after five minutes because it was boring.  And then there are friends.  Don’t tell me you haven’t got a friend who smiles indulgently at you while recounting any number of silly things you’ve done in the past to anyone who’ll listen?  Thought so.

So there you have it.  I know nothing’s changed: I’ll probably still run out of petrol occasionally, eat four cupcakes for breakfast, fall down the stairs when Bert treads on the back of my slipper and drop the boys to school wearing pink fleece pyjamas, but I’ll do in in the knowledge that it’s my choice, my prerogative as an adult, if you will, and absolutely not because underneath it all I’m still that dizzy blonde Frank Spencer.  Not any more.  Uh uh.  No way.