Gingerly into Autumn

The weather is turning here - there's a definite crispness creeping in, and though it's lovely and warm in the sun (when it's out), a passing cloud or a patch of shadow elicits an audible 'brrr!' and a quickening of step. It's time to break out the flannellette sheets, time to switch back to the slow cook. It's most definitely baking weather.

I've not baked for a while, and this weekend I compensated for it; a surprise petit apple pie on Saturday, and a batch of chewy ginger cookies on Sunday. The pie was a surprise in that there was some shortcrust pastry in the fridge, leftover from my last pie caper, and a bundle of granny smiths in the fruit bowl. I decided at dinner prep time that we'd have apple pie for dessert, so some chopping, rolling, freezing, and baking later - surprise! Apple pie!

The ginger cookies had been in the back of my mind for a while, and today I decided they'd come to be. 

I found a gorgeous looking recipe at fork knife swoon, and set about tweaking it to my particular taste and pantry. I wanted the ginger to really shine, so I added a handful of minced Buderim Naked Ginger pieces to the mix to add kick. I subbed the molasses for golden syrup, because that's what I had in the panrty; and as for the spices, I omitted the clove because I felt like it. 

The finished cookies are just as they should be - sparkly and crackled on the outside, chewy and soft within, maintaining a warm glow long after the oven's cooled. A pair of these would be lovely clamped around a scoop of good vanilla ice cream (and what doesn't go with good vanilla ice cream?); as lovely as they are, I'm sure, with a cup of lady grey, as I happen to be having them now.

Tart with a heart.

I'm often asked to bring desserts when there's a family gathering happening, and I'm always happy to oblige. It gives me an excuse to scour google for something luscious, or go back to tried-and-true crowd pleasers. Otherwise, desserts can be dangerous in this house - just us two, plus one huge cheesecake (or equivaent) in the fridge can take on the look of a grim challenge by day three. So, having a guaranteed flock of mouths to feed is my insurance, and gives me carte blanche to whip up something decidedly decadent.

This past weekend, we went away with some friends to the beautiful Ellis House, and I volunteered to make dessert. Taking into account the levels of indulgence we'd likely soar to over the weekend, I decided to make something light, tart, and full of antioxidants - a fruity galette. 

Its rustic, freeform spirit just seemed to suit a weekend away in the country.

I adapted the Plum Galette recipe from Food & Wine, with the following changes: for the filling, I used 5 tablespoons of almond meal, and added the seeds of one vanilla bean; for the fruit, I used around one dozen plums, a bowlful of cherries, and a punnet of blueberries; and instead of sprinkling on third cup of sugar over the fruit and the edges of the rolled-over pastry, I used barely half that amount. And I didn't dot butter over the top, because I forgot to.

I also omitted the jam glaze at the end, because I just didn't think it needed it. Served with generous dollops of double cream, this tart provided a memorably zingy end to a lovely evening.

You could pretty much use any fruit in season to fill a galette. The drive home through winding country roads was spent dreaming up new combinations - banana and brown sugar, with a squeeze of lime? apple? pear? apple and pear? - though I'd love to do one with just morello cherries and cinnamon. Pumpkin would be nice, even.

The best part? There was just enough left for the two of us to share when we got back home. 

Wake, bake, blog.

That was the drill this morning. As I eased myself into productive wakefulness, the hint of baking wafted into my mind like the smell itself. Gentle, sweet, slowly intensifying - till all there is to do is haul yourself out of bed and head to the kitchen.

Lucky I have the perfect muffin recipe at hand - again, I have Nigella to thank for it. But how could I not keep going back to it? It's so versatile, and I've made it even more user-friendly by lowering the sugar content, and replacing the sour cream with greek yoghurt - something I always have in my fridge.

As for the fruits - I've made these muffins as per the recipe several times, and again at least as many, experimenting with the fruit and flavour combinations. She calls for pear and ginger; I've done apple and cinnamon, blueberry and cinnamon, pear and chocolate - and right now, the aromas of pineapple and coconut are creeping into the very corners of my house. Tropical and summery - and let me assure you, a pineapple half purchased for a dollar from the bargain table at your local greengrocers smells just as sweet.

Nigella's Pear and Ginger Muffins (with my changes in brackets)
Dry ingredients:
250g plain flour
2 teasp baking powder
150g caster sugar (I use raw caster sugar)
75g light brown sugar, plus extra for sprinkling (I omit this entirely)

Wet ingredients:
142ml sour cream (I use greek yoghurt)
125ml vegetable oil
2 eggs
1 tbsp honey

Fruit:
300g chopped pear (or any other fruit equivalent)
1 teasp ground ginger (or other flavour/spice to match your fruit)

Method:
Preheat oven to 200C, and line 12 cup muffin pan with papers or cases.

Mix all dry ingredients in one bowl; mix all wet ingredients in another bowl; then fold wet ingredients through dry ingredients.

Add fruit to mixture and fold through.

Divide evenly into patty cases; if desired, sprinkle tops with a little raw sugar to give some crunch when baked.

Bake for 20 minutes.
Congratulate yourself.

Dark times call for These Measures

As a child I was afraid of the dark. Back in the days when I shared a bedroom with one of my brothers (he in the top bunk, me in the bottom), I remember pleading with him after lights-out to 'stay up half night'. After lengthy whispered conversations in which he would try and make me understand that he just couldn't do that, we found a compromise; he would dangle his arm off the side of his bunk, and I would reach up and hold it. This solution was none too practical for either of us. I progressed to taking comfort from the sight of his dangled arm till eventually, I didn't need the reassurance any more.

These days, darkness makes me think of other things. Mystery. Saturation. Depression. Shadows.

Chocolate.

I'm sure there was a time when I liked milk chocolate; even now I sometimes crave the mouth-coating sweetness of white, not-really-chocolate-at-all chocolate. Case in point: a white chocolate Lindor ball. Exhibit 2: Green & Black's organic white chocolate.

But we're not talking about lightness here. We're talking about dark. And now, in the first of my 'cook' posts, I will share with you my all-time favourite Dark Chocolate Fudge Cake recipe. I've adapted this from my little Womens Weekly chocolate cakes recipe book (original recipe here). I love this recipe because it has no butter in it, but it produces the deepest, darkest cake with a beautifully dense crumb. It's not a mud cake, but it's not airy either. When I get an intense chocolate craving, I make this; when I take that first bite, I wonder why I ever even bother looking at other chocolate cake recipes at all. I have tweaked the eggs - instead of using 2 yolks and 4 whites, I use three of each - no muss, no fuss.

No-Butter Dark Chocolate Fudge cake

85g dark eating chocolate (I use the 60% Cacao Bittersweet Chocolate Baking Chips I bought in bulk from from Costco. They lasted a while, but they're all gone now. I miss them.)
50g cocoa powder
200g firmly packed brown sugar
125ml boiling water
3 egg yolks
30g ground almond
50g wholemeal plain flour
3 egg whites

Preheat oven to moderate (180-190 degrees C). Line base and side of deep 20cm round cake pan with baking paper.

Combine chocolate, cocoa and sugar with the water in large bowl; stir until smooth. Add egg yolks; whisk to combine. Fold in ground almond and flour.

Beat egg whites in small bowl, with electric mixer or by hand, until firm peaks form.

Gently add egg white mixture into chocolate mixture, in two batches; pour into prepared pan.

Bake in moderate oven about 40 minutes. Stand in pan 5 minutes. Turn onto wire rack; remove paper. Savour.

You'll never bake another chocolate cake again.

Happiness, by hook or by cook

Of all the things in the world that (currently) make me happy, the two things I love most?
Crochet and cooking. Happiness, by hook or by cook.

I say ‘currently’ because either activity hasn’t always inspired joy.

I was introduced to crochet when I was a child. My cousin showed me how to hold the hook, how to twirl the thread around my fingers; how to hook the plain thread in and out to transform it into a length of perfect chain links. Then more magic moves made loops and circles, diamonds and pineapples, the possibilities were endless… until I lost interest.

Cooking was something I was protected from till my early teens. My mother shielded me from most forms of housework despite the frowns and tut-tutting of her six sisters. She’ll have to do that stuff for the rest of her life, she’d tell them calmly, so she might as well enjoy herself now. I was never destined to be a Junior Masterchef contender, but that was fine by me – I grew up without television, anyway.

I’m lucky to have been blessed with a mother who is a whizz in the kitchen; while I may not have been cooking as a youngster, watching her cook meant I was definitely not afraid of it. She began teaching me to cook in my early teens. We started gently with milky stove-top chai, then progressed to her charging me with regular cooking tasks, like making the rotis for the family’s breakfast and lunch every weekday morning. Once I started, I loved being in the kitchen – especially since mum’s minimal-housework rules meant I didn’t have to do the cleaning up most of the time.

My love of cooking has endured over the years, waxing and waning like the moon – always there, but sometimes burning more brightly and brilliantly than others. I have a dishwasher in my kitchen now. It eases the pain.

Crochet, on the other hand, was buried under layers and layers of life until quite recently. Those lessons provided by my cousin lay dormant within me like a late-flowering, long-forgotten bulb. They’ve been slowly pushing up toward the sun since then, the first green tips just now breaking the soil, making me curious to see what blossom will follow. They are all different, and they are bright and gorgeous, and they just keep on coming.

I wonder though - does this mean I’ve entered the Autumn of my life..? Meh - who cares. I’m enjoying myself too much to worry :)