Treesons to be cheerful: Part one

A seed hidden in the heart of an apple is an orchard invisible.
Welsh proverb

Pink-tinged leaves of the Walthamstow Wonder

Our friend Phil went on a tree grafting course and the result was this apple sapling, variety Walthamstow Wonder. Never heard of it? No, neither had I. That’s because it’s a newly discovered variety and my little twig is one of only a handful in existence. Its mother tree was found growing in an old lady’s garden in Walthamstow and extensive investigations to discover what it was were, shall we say, fruitless – though the tree itself bore much fruit, delicious apples with juicy, pink-tinged flesh.

Phil grafted a scion from the old lady’s tree onto crab apple rootstock and the graft took. Unluckily for him but luckily for us, he doesn’t have space for it in his own garden so he gave it to us. I really think that if there are people on this earth whose innate beneficence matches the boundless generosity of cooks, it’s gardeners. Just as I’ve seldom visited the house of a keen cook without coming home with lovingly wrapped leftovers or at the very least a new recipe, so I’ve seldom said goodbye to a keen gardener without a few cuttings or seeds tucked into my bag.

So here I am with my rare specimen. I am delighted and terrified in equal measure. It needs to stay in a pot for a couple of years before it can be planted out and in that time, I have the onerous responsibility of protecting it from drought and flood, scorching sun and withering frost, pests and pets. But I’m thrilled. Is there any human activity more optimistic than planting a tree? Any more profound demonstration of trust in a benevolent future? My Walthamstow Wonder may be little more than a twig but – in its 20 or so leaves – I spy spring mornings sparkling with frothy blossom and autumn afternoons fragrant with pink-tinged pies, tarts and crumbles.

Bottling joy, an every day experience

What do you do when you have loads of fruit? Make jam. Lady de B and I bought most of the fruit for Stuart’s party at New Covent Garden Market as it was cheaper to buy a whole tray wholesale than a few punnets retail. This meant we had lots left over. So on Tuesday night, we got together for our own little preserves festival. In a few hours, we had a shelf full of strawberry jam, raspberry jam and apricot and vanilla jam, along with peach and almond chutney to go with the cheeses at Paula’s wedding in September. We were a two-woman WI.

Preparing peach and almond chutney. to this.

One of the (many) things I love about Lady de B is that she’s my autodial person for produce. When rhubarb, blackcurrants, quince, medlars or walnuts arrive in the market, I can call her in a high state of excitement and she doesn’t think I’m mad. And it’s a reciprocal agreement. In January, I got a near-breathless call from her announcing she’d seen Seville oranges in Borough Market. The marmalade season was upon us. I dug out the preserving pan, stocked up on sugar, fished out a box of jars from the cellar.

The day before our planned marmalade extravaganza, Séan was admitted to hospital and my life of gentle, joyful domesticity vanished for five sombre weeks. The ping of the kitchen timer was replaced with the beep-beep-beep of monitors. I was in a foreign land of blue linoleum corridors and waiting. Waiting for tests, waiting for results, waiting to speak to consultants, all the time my mouth filled with the sour taste of fear.

Our friends and families were wonderful. His room was filled with cards and visitors. Flowers and fruit arrived in amounts that would have done New Covent Garden proud. We watched movies, reruns of Friends, Obama’s joyful inauguration. We played Scrabble, read, held hands. Lady de B even smuggled Barney into the little garden at the back of the hospital so man and dog could share a few happy hours together. Friends invited me for supper, picked up laundry, walked the dog, fed the cats.

But each evening, home alone, I felt raw with longing for our ordinary life together. Eating dinner, going to the flower market, planning parties and holidays. It seemed like a distant country. Looking back was too painful; looking forward too full of terrifying uncertainty. Every night, as I spooned chopped fruit into Tupperware boxes and washed pyjamas for the next day, I felt numb.

Now he’s home and well and I feel a small rush of happiness every day at 7pm when I hear his key turn in the lock. He still drives me mad. Within a one metre radius of the laundry basket is not the same as in the laundry basket. Unless we’ve received some sort of nature reserve status of which I’m unaware, that lawn needs cutting. A few light bulbs in the hallway chandelier would be nice. It’s normal.

On Tuesday night – as Vanessa and I chopped and stirred, filling the kitchen with sweet, spicy clouds of steam – I felt joyful, as if I were bottling happiness. Forget fancy cars, diamonds and designer shoes. Curling up under our Moroccan blanket on the sofa to watch a film, breakfast together in the park on Saturday mornings, Sundays spent reading the paper, drinking tea and talking nonsense with friends, a few jars of jam. These are my riches, my bounty, my daily blessings.

Apricot and vanilla jam

Apricot jam on my homemade raisin and walnut bread.

We created this recipe from Lady de B’s copy of Mrs Beeton which was given to her mother by her grandmother and then passed on to her. I couldn’t resist adding a few tweaks, as I prefer French-style softer set jams which contain less sugar and really allow the fruit to shine. If you prefer a thicker, English-style jam, simply increase the weight of the sugar so you have the same amount of sugar as fruit and boil a little longer. We also added some vanilla because, well, how can that ever be a bad thing?

Makes about 20 jars

2kg apricots
1.8kg sugar
Juice of a lemon
250ml water
2 vanilla pods, split lengthways
A small knob of unsalted butter

Halve the apricots (reserving a small handful of kernels) and layer them in your pan with the sugar, lemon juice and vanilla pods. Pour over the water and leave to macerate for an hour or so. While you’re waiting, put a few saucers in the freezer and crack the reserved kernels. Blanch the white, almondy bit inside the kernels in some boiling water for a minute and put them on one side.

Warm the apricot mixture over a low heat, stirring to dissolve the sugar then boil rapidly until the setting point is reached. You know you’re there when a dollop of jam on one of the chilled saucers wrinkles when you push it with your finger. I like to take it off the heat when it just starts to wrinkle as it’s so hot it continues to cook a bit afterwards. Add the blanched kernels. Don’t bother skimming off any scum that forms, just stir in a bit of butter at the end which will disperse it. Spoon into warm, sterilised jars and seal. We also retrieved the vanilla pods, snipped them into smaller pieces and added the pieces to some of the jars.

Our little harvest festival of chutneys and jams.

It takes a village …

Our friend Stuart could be the sweetest person I know. He has a supernatural ability to divine whether an occasion merits a cup of tea or a stiff gin, he remembers birthdays, charms small children, sends puppies and kittens into paroxysms of joy just by his gentle presence. He’s also gloriously handsome, a quality he wears as carelessly as an old overcoat. Stuart’s always taking care of everyone else so we couldn’t let his 30^th birthday pass by without, for once, taking care of him, fêting his fortuitous presence in our lives in a fittingly exuberant manner.
Lady de B and I decided a few weeks ago that we would host a party for him in her garden. He’s Australian, so we thought a posh surf and turf barbecue would be appropriate, a late lunch starting at three o’clock. Simple.
Lady de B and I spent days connected by the umbilical cord of telephone, email and Blackberry discussing the merits of raspberries over passion fruit, marinades or rubs, platters or bowls. We knew we couldn’t do it alone, so we called in the troops. Helder and Steve wired the garden for lights and sound; Kim sent over a restaurant’s worth of white china; Séan got up at 5am to collect flowers and fruit from New Covent Garden market; James spent Saturday morning blowing up inflatable kangaroos and hanging them from the trees along with enough flags and bunting to do an ocean liner proud; Paul ran around town collecting loaves, meringues and prawns; Sarah graciously served up lychee martinis and elastoplasts into the early hours; Alex and the beautiful seňoritas washed a mountain of dishes. We ate and drank and danced until three in the morning.

And then, on Sunday, we did it all again. Ten of us assembled to tidy up and rehash the scandals of the night before. It was a beautiful day so we laid the table in the garden and served up a banquet of leftovers and gossip. By seven o’clock, as we sipped reviving glasses of Sauternes and spooned soft Valençay cheese onto slices of walnut bread, I think we all felt very lucky indeed, blessed in the friendships that have steered us through heartbreak and triumph to find us all together, sitting in the dappled sunshine on a Sunday afternoon in July.

Feet up the next day…

Stuart’s birthday menu

~
Bellinis and Kir Royale
Champagne
~

~
Muhamarra
Bagna Cauda
Radishes with butter & sea salt
Marinated olives
Roasted Chickpeas
~

~
Rib of beef with mustard & horseradish crust
Roasted Carliston chillies
Hard core prawns
Director & Lincolnshire sausages
~
Sweet potato gratin
Roasted aubergine & tahini salad
Roasted beetroot & feta salad
Mange tout, green bean, hazelnut & orange salad
Minted new potatoes
Green salad
~
Pavlova with summer fruits
Patriot jellies
Chocolate dipped strawberries
Lychee martinis
~
Colston Bassett Stilton
Parmesan
English & Irish goat cheeses
Homemade de Beauvoir pear chutney
Figs and sultana grapes

Saturday’s pavlova becomes Sunday’s Eton Mess, eaten from one big plate in the middle of the table, with ten spoons.

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.