Dinner, step by step

If there’s a person to whom Oscar Wilde’s quotation ‘I can resist anything except temptation’ applies more than it does to my husband Séan, I’m yet to meet him. It is possibly why he asked me to marry him after we’d known one another for only six weeks. It is also why, when I sent him to the farmer’s market to pick up a chicken, he came back with a chicken and a cut of beef called Jacob’s Ladder. He’d heard the butcher discussing a recipe for it with another customer and was intrigued. He is also a person who, when presented with two tempting options, he’ll take both. Just wrap ‘em up, thanks, I’ve got a bag (he’s an eco-hedonist after all).

Jacob’s ladder is a small rack of ribs from the forequarter flank extravagantly marbled with fat and richly flavoured. It’s also known as ‘short ribs’ or, more dramatically, ‘oven buster’ because it swells up when you cook it on the bone, giving you something which looks bigger once you take it out of the oven than when you put it in – not something you can say for grander, more rafinée cuts.

The Learmonth brothers from Stock’s Farm in Essex are always great with recipe advice, even when the queue is longer than the one outside Top Shop when Kate Moss introduced her first collection. I knew this was a great braising cut, though I have to admit I was a bit sceptical when Sean explained that to cook it à la Learmonth, we needed to sizzle it at 220C/450F/Gas mark 8 for 20 minutes then turn the heat down to 160C/325F/Gas mark 3 for THREE HOURS. Still, I do like a cut of meat that – with the introduction of a bit of seasoning and heat – does all of the work for you, so I was in. It’s also cheap (our bit cost less than £5), which appeals to my northern thriftiness.

I made a quick paste by grinding up some peppercorns, salt, chilli flakes and English mustard powder and mixing it with a slosh of olive oil then I massaged it into the meat. I put it bone-side down in a roasting tin, bunged it in the oven and gave it a little baste every now and again. When I lifted it onto its warmed platter to rest, the flesh was thick and tempting, raised high around the bones which had protruded from the flesh, flaring elegantly at the ends like heraldic trumpets. And it was delicious, meltingly tender, deeply savoury. Though I would say enjoying it at its fullest requires quite a bit of gnawing on bones, so it’s not for those who, as kids, didn’t jump up and down with delight when the Flintstones came on the telly.

How to make perfect roast potatoes

Mr Learmonth also promised Jacob’s Ladder yielded the best fat for roast potatoes. Obviously, in the interests of research, I had to put this to the test as there are few things in the world more wonderful. This is my technique for creating a perfectly crisp, golden exterior and a yielding, fluffy interior. It’s foolproof. It could actually be the reason why Séan wanted to marry me after six weeks.

Peel the potatoes and chop larger ones in half or even quarters if they’re huge. Bring a large pan of water to the boil, toss in some salt then the potatoes and parboil for 5 minutes. While they’re bubbling away, put a roasting tin into an oven preheated to 200C/400F/Gas mark 6, and put a ladle of the beef fat into the tin – you could use goose or duck fat instead if you like.

Drain the potatoes in a colander and allow to steam a bit so they lose some of their moisture. Next, put them back into the saucepan with a good sprinkling of semolina, fine polenta or cornmeal (thank you, Nigella, for this tip), hold the lid firmly on the pan and give them a good rattle to roughen up the edges a bit. Carefully remove the hot roasting tin from the oven and tip in the potatoes – they should sizzle as they go in the pan. Quickly give them a stir so they’re coated in the fat and space them out well in the tin. Return to the oven and bake for about 40-50 minutes, turning once or twice during cooking, until crunchy and golden. Sprinkle with a little flaky sea salt and there you are – potato heaven

Sautéed oyster mushrooms

Séan also found these great coral and chocolate oyster mushrooms at the Gourmet Mushroom stall. I simply sautéed a chopped onion in butter until translucent and soft, raised the heat and tossed in the mushrooms – adding a pinch of salt at this stage, encourages them to lose their moisture quicker. When they’d given up most of their liquid, I threw in a couple of finely chopped garlic cloves and stirred in a good dollop of mascarpone – this is what I had in the fridge, you could use double cream or crème fraîche. Then season with salt and pepper and throw in a few tablespoons of finely chopped herbs – parsley is good, dill is even better, but then I love dill.

And a big slice of cake goes to …

As a child growing up in a small market town in the north of England, I was obsessed with passport stamps, luggage labels and my parents’ old Bakelite radio in the dining room. I used to lie on the floor and trace my fingers across the etched dial – Rome, Paris, Cairo – it seemed impossibly exotic, almost magical, to me. My grandmother had just retired from her career as a nurse and was determined to see as much of the planet as possible. I used to gobble up her traveller’s tales from Denmark or Greece or Spain like a bowl of perfectly ripe berries.

At school, I was a studious, dreamy, often-inky-fingered kid, usually to be found gazing out of the window waiting for my life to start. On the first day of the autumn term when I was 10, Rosie Sinha came and sat next to me. She had a ripple of glossy hair, shiny and dark as just-poured molasses, and was sweet, funny, clever. She was also good at maths – something I still find amazing in anyone of any age. The kid from Delhi and the kid from County Durham became firm friends.

Once, Rosie’s uncle came to visit from India and brought a crate of mangoes. As she described them her eyes sparkled and she cupped her hands in front of her mouth, as though she were eating one. Well, I was happy for her, sure, but fruit seemed a funny sort of gift unless you were in hospital. When my Dad went on business trips, he’d bring me back comics or chocolate which I loved. That was a proper present.

What a difference a few decades make. Every May, I start stalking our local Indian grocers, waiting for the first Alphonso mangoes to arrive in their crates, little tufts of shredded paper sticking out of the sides protecting the golden fruit inside.

I found some today. I bought two cases, not just because I’m greedy – which I am – but because they were all strapped together, still with their British Airways freight sticker clinging to the sides (remember that love of passport stamps and luggage labels?) and it seemed a shame to split them up. After 4,000 miles, fruit can get friendly.

Now, the only practical way of eating an Alphonso mango is over the sink, ideally naked. This is not a perfect solution, particularly if the back of your house is almost all glass like ours is. You could always run a bubble bath, light a few candles and take your mango and a very sharp knife into the tub with you. However you eat them, you won’t be disappointed. Their spicy, honeyed perfume and intensely sweet, rich and creamy flesh is positively addictive.

Really, there’s nothing better than eating them just as they are, but even I can’t eat two crates of perfectly ripe mangoes. So here are a few other things I do with them.

Blitz a couple in a blender with a handful of ice cubes, a big dollop of whole milk yoghurt and a squeeze of lime. It’s the breakfast of (culinary) champions.

Slice them and serve simply with a squeeze of lime and a sprinkling of cinnamon.

Purée three or four in a blender with some lime juice and fold into about a third of their weight of lightly whipped cream to create a luxuriously perfect fool.

Lady de B is coming over this afternoon to discuss menu plans for our friend Paula’s wedding in September, so I thought I’d make a mango upside down cake to nibble on as we discuss the feast. And, ddddddddrrrrrrrrruuuuuummm roll, I want to offer a big slice of cake to my blogging friends who have visited Licked Spoon so often and left such lovely comments since I began this little adventure a couple of months ago. I’ve taken such pleasure in visiting your blogs, too, it’s only fitting that I offer cake (and awards) in return.

Ready, steady, mango…

This is based on a recipe I clipped from Olive magazine a while ago, with a few twists of my own. I added some cardamom, as I often like my sweet things balanced with a bit of spice, but you can certainly leave it out if you prefer.

4 Alphonso mangoes or 2 large mangoes
100g light Muscovado sugar
40g unsalted butter

For the batter:
170g unsalted butter, softened
170g golden caster sugar
3 eggs, 2 of them separated
225g plain flour
2 tsp baking powder
A pinch of salt
A pinch ground cardamom (optional)
1 tsp vanilla extract
60ml milk
1 Alphonso mango, peeled and pureed

To prepare the mangoes, peel them with a vegetable peeler or a sharp knife. Stand them upright on a chopping board and cut down each cheek, as close to the stone as you can get. Put each cheek flat on the board and cut into thick slices or about 1.5cm. Be careful – they’re slippery little so-and-sos.

Butter a 24cm solid-bottomed round cake tin. Preheat the oven to 180C/350F/Gas mark 4. Put the light Muscovado sugar in a small pan with 2tbsps of water and stir over a low heat until the sugar has dissolved. Bring to the boil and continue to cook without stirring until the sugar is syrupy and a deep caramel colour. Stir in the butter and pour immediately into the pan, covering the bottom with an even layer of caramel. Cool then arrange the mango slices in circles over the surface.

Now, this is really a case of do as I say not as I do. I was all ready to make the cake when I realised I didn’t have a 24cm solid-bottomed cake tin. I made a half-hearted attempt to convince myself I could cheat by wrapping a loose-bottomed tin very tightly with foil. Take it from me, you can’t. You’ll lose lots of the buttery, caramelly juices which will then have to be scraped from the foil and spooned hastily onto the hot cake. That’s the best case scenario. The worst case scenario is that it will drip down onto the oven floor and transform itself into some sort of volcanic gunk you’ll never, ever be able to remove without the help of explosives.

Sieve together the flour, baking powder, salt and cardamom if you’re using it. In a separate bowl, beat the sugar and butter until light and fluffy. Add the whole egg and egg yolks, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Stir in the vanilla, then half of the flour. Stir in the milk and puréed mango. Stir in the rest of the flour. Don’t overmix, you want it just to be well combined.

Beat the egg whites into stiff peaks then fold into the batter gently but thoroughly. Spoon over the mangoes and spread with a spatula. Bake until golden and a cake tester comes out clean, 40-45 minutes. Cool for no more than five minutes then turn out onto your serving plate. If you leave it in too long, the caramel will set and you’ll be excavating the thing from the tin with a spoon. Eat warm as a pudding, with perhaps a little cream or crème fraîche, or at room temperature with a cup of tea.

LOVELY BLOG

Now, onto the ceremony. First, can I start by saying you all look fabulous (though if you get any Alphonso mango cake on those lovely frocks I’m not responsible for the dry cleaning bills). After receiving this award from the divine Lady P a few days ago, here’s my list of some Lovely Blogs that have me pressing F5 Refresh at a worrying rate, because I can’t wait to see if they’ve updated.

Catherine at Unconfidential Cook who, in her stylish, entertaining blog embodies all that great cooking is about – sharing a delicious plate of food with friends, with a few stories on the side.

Scarlett the Heavenly Healer because I love to see what she’s up to on her organic, biodynamic London allotment.

Fran at A Taste of Tottenham because I like to see what she’s growing too, and also what she’s rustling up in the kitchen because we share a love of Mediterranean flavours.

Dana at Eat This House is a poet from Ithaca, New York, and she writes – as you might expect – beautifully and humorously. I love her easy, tasty recipes.

This is what you’re supposed to do next. Accept the award and post it on your blog, together with the name of the person who has granted the award and his or her blog link. Then pass it on to up to 15 other blogs that you’ve newly discovered. (Well, I haven’t been doing this very long, and I need to share out my favourites between two awards, so this’ll have to do!). Remember to contact the bloggers to let them know they have been chosen for this award.

SISTERHOOD AWARD

What a delightful week it’s been. Not one award but two, the second from Catherine at Unconfidential Cook, who has given me a Sisterhood Award. I’m really delighted, Catherine, and I swear I had planned to give you the Lovely Blog award before you showered me with honours!

The Sisterhood Award is given to bloggers by bloggers in recognition of attitude and/or gratitude, and I hope you’ll agree that the three I’ve nominated below do just that.

Lady P at Madly Creative because I love her style, her verve, her wit and her near-addictive ebullience.

Mariana at Through my Kitchen Window because she tells a wonderful story, writes a mouth-watering recipe and when I look at her blog, I can imagine for a little while that I live on a beautiful farm in Queensland Australia.

Wendy at A Life Twice Tasted which, despite it’s name, isn’t about food at all. It’s a fascinating insight into a writer’s daily life. Wendy Robertson’s written shelf-loads of great novels over the years and has taught creative writing to everyone from school children to prisoners. She also happens to be my wonderful, inspirational, brilliant mum.

Now, you three, please put the logo on your blog or post. And it’s your turn to nominate up to 10 blogs. Be sure to link to your nominees within your post and let them know that they have received this award by commenting on their blog, or sending them an email. Remember to link to the person from whom you received your award.

Thank you…

This morning, I woke to a wonderful surprise. Lady P, châtelaine of Madly Creative, has given me a Lovely Blog award. Do go and visit her in her delightful, thoughtful world of colour, cupcakes and whimsy.

I hardly imagined, when I began my blog a couple of months ago, how much fun it would be sharing my recipes. It still amazes me that I can cook something, shoot it, post it and – while it’s still cooling on the counter – I might get a comment about it from places as far away from my North London kitchen as Australia or America. For an instant gratification kid like me, it’s thrilling.

I’m supposed to pass the love around and nominate favourite blogs of my own. I’ll do that in a few days but for now, I was trying to think of a way to say thank you to Lady P. She lives near Seattle so I thought a cup of coffee might be appropriate. This isn’t just any cup of coffee, but the best cup of coffee in London, possibly the world. I’m not kidding. It was made by Gwilym Davies who sells coffee from a cart in our local flower market every Sunday morning and in April he was crowned World Barista Champion in Atlanta. It seems like a suitable gift for a Lady.

What the doctor ordered

Want to know what we had after the squid? Last week, I enjoyed a wonderful lunch at Moro which culminated in a slice of the most irresistibly seductive apricot and chocolate tart. I thought about it all evening. I thought about it as I walked the dog the next morning, running through its finer qualities rather as you might after a date with a meltingly wicked lover. It was calling my name and I wasn’t playing hard to get. Back at the house, I’d hardly unhooked the hound from his lead before I pulled my copy of Moro The Cookbook down from the shelves.

My sister-in-law’s visit was the perfect opportunity to reacquaint ourselves. (That little tart and I, I mean, not me and my sister-in-law. We’re quite well acquainted.) Clare is a mountain-climbing-scuba-diving-fell-walking-cycling-to-work-triathlon-training-bastion-of-self-restraint hospital doctor. But I know her weakness and it’s chocolate. Chocolate. Say it, and her eyes light up like her brother’s do on the first Saturday of the football season.

Apricot and chocolate tart

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee from the melting, buttery shortbreadyness of your crust to the tart-sweet shimmer of your apricot sea. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height your dark, mousse-y chocolate crown can reach. And I shall but love thee better after dinner. (With many, many apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who is most certainly spinning in her grave as I type this.)

I was excited to try this recipe because, though I’ve read about grating pastry instead of rolling it out, I’ve never tried it. Also, though it needs a little blind baking, you don’t need to line it with parchment and baking beans first. This was so straightforward and the results so good, I’ll definitely use this shell for other sweet tarts.

In Moro The Cookbook, the apricot layer is a simple, concentrated purée but when I ate it at the restaurant last week, it had pieces of apricot in it too. It was a good addition, I thought, so I’ve added a small handful here. You could leave them out if you wish. It would still be heaven.

For the case:
140g plain flour
30g icing sugar
75g chilled butter, cut into small pieces
1 egg yolk

For the filling:
180g apricot leather (see NOTE for alternative), cut into smallish squares
About 8-10 dried apricots, soaked in hot water for 15 minutes or so to plump up and then cut into sixths
4-5 tbsps water
2 tbsps lemon juice
135g unsalted butter
110g dark chocolate, about 70%, broken up into small pieces
2 large eggs
60g caster sugar

Sift the flour and sugar together. In a food processor or by hand, blend the butter with the flour and sugar until you have the texture of fine breadcrumbs. Add the egg yolk and mix until it more or less comes together. If it looks a little dry, add a tiny splash of milk or water. Shape into a ball, wrap in cling film and refrigerate for at least an hour.

Using the coarse side of a box grater, grate the pastry into a loose-bottomed 24cm tart tin and press it evenly around the bottom and sides of the tin. Prick the base with a fork and pop it in the fridge for half an hour or so. Preheat the oven to 220C/425F/Gas mark 7. Bake the tart shell for 10-15 minutes until light brown. Remove and cool on a rack while you prepare the rest. Reduce the oven to 180C/350F/Gas mark 4.

Place the apricot paste in a saucepan over a low heat with the water and lemon juice and stir until you have a smooth paste. Spread the apricot on the base of the tart shell and leave to cool until it forms a slight skin – it should wrinkle a bit when you push it with your finger.

While the apricot is cooling, place the butter and chocolate in a heatproof bowl over a pan of barely simmering water (the water shouldn’t touch the bottom of the bowl). When the chocolate has melted, whisk the eggs and sugar together in a separate bowl until pale, light and fluffy. Fold the eggs and chocolate together, pour into the tart shell and smooth with a spatula. Bake for 20-25 minutes – the filling should still have a bit of wobble to it and a very thin crust on top when you take it out. I’d be tempted to start checking it after 15 minutes as I took mine out after 20 minutes and it was a little firmer than the one I’d enjoyed in the restaurant. Serve with Greek yoghurt or crème fraîche.

APRICOT NOTE

Apricot leather or paste – labelled as ‘amradeen’ or ‘kamaredin’ in Middle Eastern or Turkish shops – is a warm, glowing amber with the translucence of a stained glass window. It’s as delicious as it is beautiful and it’s used in all kinds of recipes, from drinks, puddings and ice creams to lamb stews and dishes of grilled aubergine. During Ramadan, it’s sometimes served before and after the day-long fast.

If you can’t get hold of apricot leather, Sam and Sam West of Moro suggest using 180g of dried apricots instead. Simply chop them very finely then tip them into a saucepan with 4-5 tbsps of water and 2 tbsps of lemon juice and simmer for about 5 minutes until very soft. Purée in blender. You want a mixture that tastes slightly tart to provide the perfect foil for the rich chocolate layer.

Love me, tentacles

Are there any Freudian practitioners in the house? If so, could I trouble you to turn off the meter for a few minutes and not read too much into the fact that I’ve created two consecutive posts about stuffing things? I’m working on the principle that putting one delicious thing inside another delicious thing is a passport to heaven and I promise it goes no deeper than that. (Of course, this theory doesn’t really have legs. Passionfruit with chicken livers, avocado with cherry jam, melon with ox cheek don’t really appeal unless you’re a tiresomely experimental show-off chef stuck in some kind of 1980s gustatory hell.)

My wonderful sister-in-law Clare is down from Yorkshire for the night and we’ve persuaded our friend Sara Ellen to come over and join us too. It’s hot. The cats are passed out on the terrace, gently baking themselves by the pots of rosemary and mint. The dog is binge drinking his favourite sundowner cocktail: dirty water from a bucket rather than the fresh water in his bowl. I’ve pushed open the doors to the garden to give me a little air as I chop and fry and spoon green-speckled filling into tiny, pearl-fleshed squid.

Squid stuffed with spinach and ricotta

Serves 4-6

2 tbsps olive oil
A small knob of unsalted butter
2 medium onions, finely chopped
About 1kg of small squid, cleaned, tentacles and wings reserved
2-3 garlic cloves, minced
A good few handfuls of baby spinach (a 250g bag would be perfect)
250g ricotta
3 hard-boiled eggs, quite finely chopped
1 egg, lightly beaten
75g pine nuts, toasted
1x400g tin of tomatoes or 400ml passata
About 125ml white wine
3 tbsps chopped parsley
About half a dozen basil leaves
A few grinds of nutmeg
A good pinch of chilli flakes
Salt and freshly-ground black pepper
Lemon wedges to serve

Preheat the oven to 180C/350F/Gas mark 4.

Warm the olive oil and butter in a large frying pan over a medium-low heat and gently sauté the onion until soft and translucent, about 10-15 minutes. While they’re cooking, finely chop the tentacles and wings from the squid. When the onions are done, add the chopped squid and garlic to the pan and sauté for a minute. Next, add the spinach and stir until wilted (you might have to do a handful or so at a time). Put a sieve over a bowl and strain the spinach-squid mixture, reserving the liquid. Let the mixture cool.

In a large bowl, mix together the ricotta, chopped egg, beaten egg and pine nuts. Season well with a good pinch of salt, plenty of pepper, a few grinds of nutmeg and a sprinkling of chilli flakes. Fold in the cooled spinach and squid. Taste and adjust seasoning if necessary. Use a teaspoon to fill the squids’ bodies with the stuffing, taking care not to overfill them as they expand a bit while cooking. Seal each little body with a toothpick. (At this point, they bore a rather striking resemblance to the sheeps’ testicles which are a great favourite at our local Turkish restaurant. I tried not to let this put me off.) Place them in a single layer in a large, ovenproof dish.

Purée the tinned tomatoes and mix them with the reserved liquid from the spinach and the wine. Season well with salt and pepper, a little nutmeg, a pinch of chilli flakes and three or four big leaves of basil, finely chopped. Pour over the stuffed squid, cover with a lid or foil and bake for 45 minutes, removing the cover for the last 10 minutes. Serve sprinkled with basil and with lemon wedges on the side. We ate ours with roasted asparagus and lots of rice to soak up the lovely sauce.