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Sir Basil likes a biscuit with his tea. The latest batches have been gingernuts. When I first searched the internet for a recipe, I was surprised to find they seem to have quite a cult following. A very small, well-behaved cult, but still… The enthusiasts like their gingernuts hard. If you don’t dunk them, you risk breaking a tooth. There is a certain appeal to such robust biscuits, but they’re not what you want on every occasion. I finally found a recipe that produces a crunchy, but not hard biscuit, hiding in a Delia Smith book that I’ve had for more than 20 years. I’m not too good at following instructions, so I’ve changed a few things. Here are the two versions (Sir Basil likes the hard ones). Both recipes make about 30 biscuits.
Hard Gingernuts
4 oz brown sugar
2 oz treacle
3 oz butter
1/2 tsp bicarb
8 oz plain flour
2 tsp ground ginger
1/2 tsp cinnamonPreheat the oven to 160°C/315°F.
Melt the butter, treacle and sugar together. Add the bicarb. Stir in the flour and spices. Form into walnut-sized balls, and flatten them a bit. Bake for 15 mins. Cool on a wire rack, then store in an airtight tin.
I’m not sure of the source of this recipe, but I can confirm that it makes a very robust biscuit, ideal for dunking.
Crunchy Gingernuts
8 oz plain flour
1/2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
2 tsp ground ginger
4 oz butter
3 oz soft brown sugar
2 oz molasses or treaclePreheat the oven to 190°C/375°F.
Mix the flour, baking powder, bicarbonate and ginger together. Rub in the butter, as if you were making pastry, until the mixture is crumbly. Add the treacle and mix to form a stiff paste. Form it into walnut sized balls. Put them on a baking sheet, flatten them slightly, and bake for 10 – 15 minutes. Cool them on the baking sheet for ten minutes, then transfer to a wire rack to cool completely. Store in an airtight tin.
As you can see, the ingredients are very similar. I think that what makes the two versions so different, is incorporating the flour in a hot or a cold mix. The flavour was a little richer with the top recipe, but adding a little cinnamon to the ginger in the second one would probably change that. Next time…
Some of the recipes in Hannah Glasse’s The Art of Cookery, made Plain and Easy seem to come from another world. So much has changed in the 260 years since she was writing that the many of the recipes seem bizarre and most of us would have no idea how to combine them to produce a coherent meal. Some recipes use birds or fish that aren’t commonly eaten these days, or use bits of them that we’re not used to eating (there are three different ways to cook a cod’s head, for instance). Some have combinations of sweet and savoury that look strange these days: like sprinkling sugar over your potatoes.
It’s a surprise, in the midst of this alien world, to come across a recipe that is still in common use, pretty much unchanged.
To make Common Saufages.
Take three Pounds of nice Pork, Fat and Lean together, without Skin or Grifles; chop it as fine as poffible, feafon it with a Tea Spoonful of beaten Pepper, and two of Salt, fome Sage fhread fine, about three Tea Spoofuls; mix it well together, have the Guts very nicely cleaned, and fill them, or put them down in a Pot, so roll them of what Size you pleafe, and fry them. Beef makes very good Saufages.
For “fine sausages,” she recommends using only lean pork, and substituting beef suet for the fat (using equal quantities of pork and suet), and adding sweet herbs, nutmeg and lemon zest to the seasoning.
Of course, sausages are much older than the 18th century. They were certainly around in Roman times, though the fact that the latin name for sausages is the origin of the word “botulism” suggests it would have been wise to approach them with some caution.
It’s quite possible that even in Glasse’s day those who were less wealthy than her readers might have added some cereal to the mix. These days, some sausages, like Glasse’s, are made with just meat and seasonings, while others have substantial cereal additions. Walls sausages for instance contain about 65% meat, with water and rusk making up the bulk of the remainder.
I’ve experimented with various formulae, and finally decided that just a little bread improves the sausage texture and helps it to stay juicy when it’s cooked. I use pork shoulder, and try to get a moderately fatty piece. If there isn’t much fat, then I’ll add in some belly pork, or extra back fat (if you’re buying your meat from a butcher, he’ll probably have some he can spare). I also like a pretty traditional seasoning, but there’s plenty of scope for variation: rosemary and thyme; juniper; fennel…
For a couple of pounds of meat, I use:
1 1/2 oz breadcrumbs (about 5% of the weight of the meat)
1 Tbsp Maldon salt (the brand isn’t important, but the big flakes mean you don’t get so much in a tablespoon – if you’re using finely ground salt, use 2 tsp, or 1.5% of the weight of the meat)
Chopped sage – a handful
1/2 Tbsp ground mixed spice (about half black pepper, and the rest a mixture of nutmeg, mace, cinnamon, clove, allspice).
2 yards of hog casings (sheep casings give thinner, chipolata-size sausages)
Mince the meat. I prefer a coarse grind. Mix in the breadcrumbs and seasonings, then put the mixture through the mincer again. My mincer has an attachment for stuffing sausages. Basically, you remove the chopping plates, and add a funnel. Lubricate the outside of the funnel (butter or lard work pretty well). Thread the sausage casings onto the funnel, then feed the mixture through again, this time into the casing. Tie off the ends of the casing and twist the sausages to the length you want.
The sausages will be better if you can leave them for a day or two before cooking them. I put them on a plate in the fridge, covered with kitchen paper.
You could fry them and serve with mash and/or braised sauerkraut; braise them with beef stock, red wine and chestnuts; or combine them with another old English favourite, Yorkshire Pudding, to make Toad in the Hole.
Aubergines are beautiful, with that deep purple colour, and those alluring curves. Whether they’re smooth, ridged, round or elongated, they’re gorgeous. And when you cook with them they add a luscious richness that’s unlike anything else. But have you ever cooked a recipe that starts by frying aubergine slices? I’ve tried them on numerous occasions. No matter how carefully I follow the instructions, I always seem to end up with a kitchen full of smoke, a burnt fat smell that lingers for days, and aubergine that’s soaked up pints of oil and usually releases it later so that the final parmigiana or moussaka ends up swimming in oil. Not to mention the cost of using half a bottle of olive oil to fry your aubergines.
The first solution I tried was a technique that Marcella Hazan uses in a wonderful pasta sauce that combines aubergines with red and yellow pepper. She very lightly sautées the aubergine, then adds just a little liquid, covers the pan, and allows it to steam until it’s fully cooked. It works very well in that context, but for some dishes, like parmigiana di melanzane, it somehow allows the acid notes to express themselves too strongly, and isn’t quite rich enough.
The method I use now came from Paula Wolfert. I slice the aubergine about 1cm, or just under ½” thick, brush the slices with olive oil, on both sides (you can be as generous or as stingy as you like with the oil – I prefer to be fairly generous). Put the slices on a baking tray, and cook at 220°C/430°F for 25 minutes, turning the slices over half way through.
For recipes like parmigiana di melanzane, where the slices are usually coated in breadcrumbs, it works perfectly well to sprinkle a few breadcrumbs over the slices as you put the dish together. By the time they’ve been coated in tomato sauce and baked, it doesn’t make too much difference whether the breadcrumbs were initially cooked with the aubergine or not.
You can use the baked slices in parmigiana, moussaka, etc, or drizzle them with a bit more olive oil and add them to your antipasti; with, or without, some good mozarella.
After the exotic pomegranate, a cabbage seems rather homely, but actually, I eat a lot more cabbage than I do pomegranate. By next summer I’ll be more than happy to abandon cabbage for a few months, but now, after my summer break from it, I’m pleased to see it again.
Most often, I just slice the cabbage and sweat it in butter and a very little water, with some seeds (usually carraway), salt and pepper. There are other options, but this one is the standard for red, white or savoy cabbage.
Today I’m replenishing my depleted supplies of sauerkraut. Sauerkraut is cabbage that’s pickled by fermenting the sugars in the cabbage into lactic acid. People have been making sauerkraut for a very long time. Apparently it originated in China and was brought to Europe by the Tartars. It’s taken such hold in Northern Europe that it’s practically become German. It certainly goes very well with German sausages. In the 18th century, Captain Cook loaded thousands of pounds of sauerkraut onto his ships to ward off scurvy on long voyages.
The bacteria that are needed to work the transformation into sauerkraut are already present on the cabbage, but if you’re worried that the wrong sort of biological activity will start in your cabbage, you can tilt the odds in your favour by adding a little bit of whey (the liquid that separates out from yoghurt will work). The salt in the recipe is not only for flavour, but also helps to make conditions more favourable for the kind of bacteria you want to encourage.
Either white or red cabbage will work. Slice the cabbage finely by hand, or use a food processor. Put it in a large bowl, add 1 tsp salt per pound/500g (or about 1% by weight), then add your seasoning. Caraway is my favourite here, as well: it just goes very well with cabbage. Bruise the cabbage thoroughly using a large pestle, or the end of a rolling pin and let it sit for a few minutes to bring out some of the juices. Put the cabbage into preserving jars, pressing it down firmly. The jars need to have spring catches, not screw tops, so they don’t burst during the fermentation. If you really pack it down with your knuckles, you’ll get a lot more in each jar than you’d expect. I prefer to use 500ml/one pint jars rather than very large ones, so that I don’t have an opened jar around for ages. Keep the jars at room temperature for about a week, then move them to somewhere cooler. The sauerkraut will be ready to eat after about a month, but will keep for a year – until it’s time to make it again.
Sauerkraut can be eaten raw, or cooked, either briefly, or braised for a long time. You can rinse it if you want to reduce the saltiness and acidity. As usual, the traditional food combinations work well: sausages or corned beef go well. And don’t forget the wonderful Reubens: make a toasted sandwich with corned beef, sauerkraut, mayonnaise and cheese.
There’s a long history of meat pies in England. Back in the eighteenth century, the pastry case was thick and hard, and was just there to seal the meat in, not to be eaten. The pies would be boxed up to send to relatives in other parts of the country, or to send out to sea. In country houses, a more refined version gave a way to preserve highly perishable pork for a few weeks in the days before refrigeration.
The first pork pie I made was based on the recipe by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall in the River Cottage Meat book. One of the things I enjoy in cookery books is reading about the stories behind the food, so I always felt a bit cheated that rather than being a long-standing family favourite, he claimed this recipe came from his BBC research team. Since then I’ve found variations on the theme in Jane Grigson’s English Food, Eliza Acton’s Modern Cookery for Private Families, and Florence White’s Good Things in England. They’re all good – any of them will produce a pie that tastes much better than 99% of bought ones.
The basic idea is the same in all of them. The quantities here are enough to make a 20cm/8″ pie, using a loose-bottomed cake tin. If you don’t like pastry, or don’t want to make it, you can bake the same kind of filling in a loaf tin for a French-style terrine.
A day or two before you assemble the pie, make the jelly:
One or two pig’s trotter
A carrot, chopped into chunks
An onion, peeled and chopped into chunks
A bouquet garni
Everything in a pan and cover with about 3 l/6 US pints of cold water. Simmer gently for several hours, then strain off the liquid into a clean pan and boil down to about 500ml/1 US pint.
Make the pie a day before you want to eat it.
Hot Water Pastry:
200 ml water
100g lard
100g butter
550g plain flour
2 eggs
1/2 tsp salt
Put the lard and butter in a saucepan with the water, and warm it until the fat is melted. While it is warming, put the flour and salt in a bowl, roughly mix in the eggs, then add the warm water and melted fat. Stir it all together, by hand, or with a mixer, to form a smooth dough.
Preheat the oven to 180°C, 350°F.
While the dough cools, prepare the pie filling:
1 kg pork shoulder
250g pork belly
250g streaky bacon (the bacon cure keeps the filling pink rather than going grey when it cooks)
20 sage leaves, finely chopped
leaves from 3 sprigs thyme, chopped
½ tsp anchovy essence
½ tsp each mace, nutmeg, allspice, black pepper, white pepper
salt
An egg for glazing
Chop the lean parts of the pork shoulder into 6mm/¼” dice. Put any fatty bits, together with the pork belly, and the bacon, through the coarse blades of a mincer.
Mix the meat and seasonings together.
Cut off a quarter of the pastry to make the lid for the pie. Roll out the bigger piece to about 8mm/ 1/3″ thick. Line the cake tin with the pastry. Put the filling into the case. Roll out the lid and put it on top of the pie, crimping the edges to seal it. It doesn’t matter if the pastry is quite thick at the join. Make a small hole in the centre of the lid, so that you can pour the jelly in later.
Traditionally, English sweet pies were not decorated, but savoury ones could be quite ornate, so you can use any pastry trimmings to make leaves, flowers, acorns, or whatever suits your fancy.
Brush the top of the pie with beaten egg, and put it in the oven. After half an hour, turn the temperature down to 160°C/325°F and leave it for another 1¼ hours. Take the pie out of the oven, remove the case, brush the top and sides with egg, and return it to the oven for another quarter of an hour.
When the pie has cooled a little, warm the jelly just enough to make it liquid, and use a small funnel to pour it into the pie through the hole in the lid. Leave the pie overnight to cool completely before you cut it.
The one I made today had a mixture of chicken and pork. Leftover turkey could find a good home in this kind of pie too. All kinds of poultry and game have appeared in various versions over the years.
“It cannot be denied that an improved system of practical domestic cookery, and a better knowledge of its first principles, are still much needed in this country,” said Eliza Acton, writing in 1845. That (and the fact that her publisher turned down the book of poems she’d written, and said he’d prefer a cookery book) was what prompted Acton to write Modern Cookery for Private Families. The statement is probably just as true today as it was when she wrote it, but these days every book shop food section bulges with more cookery books than one person could ever use in a lifetime. The reluctant cook has a seemingly limitless supply of restaurants to choose from, and there are ready made meals to reheat for a night at home. So why is Eliza Acton’s book still in print?
The recipes are good. They’re thoroughly tested, clearly written, and they work. Not all modern books can say the same. But that’s probably not enough to earn a 160 year old book a place on your kitchen shelf. I think that what keeps the book alive is that when you read these recipes, you want to read them aloud. Eliza Acton may not have been a great poet, but she wrote prose that just begs to be spoken. Her recipes are as satisfying to read as they are to cook and to eat.
It’s easy to get the impression of a maiden aunt kind of figure: very organised, precise, and respectable. But Miss Acton does have a somewhat racy past. It seems that not only did she write poetry, but she spent much of her youth in France, where she was engaged to a young French officer. The engagement was broken off when she found out that he had been unfaithful, but there were rumours that she had a daughter by him, who was brought up by one of her sisters.
Here’s one of her steak pudding recipes. You can make this with packet suet from the supermarket, but it will be incomparably lighter and better tasting if you get some fresh suet. I’ve found that farmers’ markets or farm shops are the places you’re most likely to find it.
SMALL BEEF-STEAK PUDDING
Make into a very firm smooth paste, one pound of flour, six ounces of beef-suet finely minced, half a teaspoonful of salt, and half a pint of cold water. Line with this a basin which holds a pint and a half. Season a pound of tender steak, free from bone and skin, with half an ounce of salt and half a teaspoonful of pepper well mixed together; lay it in the crust, pour in a quarter of a pint of water, roll out the core, close the pudding carefully, tie a floured cloth over, and boil it for three hours and a half. We give this receipt in addition to the preceding one, as an exact guide for the proportions of meat puddings in general.
Flour, 1 lb.; suet, 6 oz.; salt, ½ teaspoonful; water ½ pint; rumpsteak, 1 lb.; salt, ½ oz.; pepper ½ teaspoonful; water, ¼ pint; 3½ hours.
The idea of summarising the recipe at the end was a novel one, introduced by Eliza Acton. A few years later, Isabella Beeton copied the idea, but moved the list to the start of the recipe, setting the format that’s in more or less universal use today.
Time for Food 