Bonkers Conkers

This time of year always makes me think of conkers. I long to spend days throwing sticks up into the tall trees in the hope that a spiny capsule will come tumbling down, soon to be prised open to reveal a mahogany prize. Dried out for a while, never soaked in vinegar nor baked in the oven (cheating was not on my agenda, even as a child), nailed through the centre and strung on a long piece of twine. Ready for battle. I wasn't a violent child, or particularly competitive. However, I had to be conker champion.

Fanny seems to have indulged in the same pastime as myself. Skipping through her garden, collecting chestnuts in a wicker basket. Wearing gingham ribbons. Singing a happy tune. No doubt. Or, more likely, sending someone out in the howling rain to scarper round furiously shoving the fallen jewels into their pockets while she barks at them from the kitchen door. Either way, she ended up with quite a collection of chestnuts that would not be strung nor whacked to pieces in the name of a playground game.

Fanny's prized nuts were far too delicious to be wasted on leisure pursuits. She plunged them into slightly smoking hot oil in the deep fat fryer, causing the oil to seethe up madly. Just as she herself did when the garden haul was less than bountiful. Fanny's chestnuts split not with heavy strikes, but with the heat and tension. Once things have cooled down a little, they are shelled and skinned, boiled and drained, wiped and rubbed, through a sieve. Perhaps Fanny would be seething at me, as I bought some ready cooked and vacuum packed. And a food processor.

Fanny has a grand plan for these little wonders. Mont Blanc, or Chestnut and Meringue Cream. She whips up an Italian Meringue, whipping egg whites with hot sugar syrup to cook them. She blows the syrup through  slotted spoon until bubbles appear to know that it is hot enough. I've never been to Mont Blanc (although I have seen it from the skies as we flew over) so have no real concept of what it looks like but Fanny suggests colouring the meringue before piping it, so who am I to disagree? Ignoring the name as the major clue, I wade in with a delightful shade of teal. She builds a meringue case with elaborate pipes and borders. It feels perhaps more like '70s Toilet-Roll Holder Lady' than 'Highest Peak in the Alps', but I'd never tell her.

Fanny adds a splash of sherry, some vanilla, icing sugar and whipped double cream to the whizzed up chestnuts to make a very Christmassy (too early?) tasting paste. Fanny then pipes it using a 'writing pipe' nozzle into a mound of squiggles over and up on the inside of the meringue case. Squiggles. Squiggles? This must be what the Great White Mountain looks like up close. Only one thing left to do. Just like my younger days. Decide on tactics. Take aim. Smash the chestnut mound swiftly, cracking the meringue and, in a departure from the playground pranks, shovel into your mouth as quickly as possible. Conker Champion once again.

Fanny Italia #2 - Do Italians Do It Better?

In 1964 Fanny and Johnnie published a volume which would safely guide readers all over Europe, but safely outside the Iron Curtain. Their aim was to be extensive but not comprehensive. How could they be after all? All they could do was to impart their considerable knowledge and hope that their readers, who were sending in around ten thousand fan letters a week, would be inspired to try somewhere new. Fanny clearly asks 'Why always go to the Algarve?' as her starting point. I wonder how many of those tens of thousands of 1960s readers were even venturing abroad? How many used the guide to explore beyond the Algarve, perhaps, like myself, into Italy?

Fanny's previous writing almost put me off my upcoming trip to Italy altogether. This book lets me plan my own route, and thankfully that includes flying. Fanny still has words of warning however, for the wary tourist. She claims that 'souvenir hunting' from tourists seems to be a national sport, so it is unwise to leave any items unguarded. And if the Italians aren't stealing all that you own, they are apparently trying to steal your hard earned money. According to Fanny, the tourist is regarded as 'fair game' so it is wise to determine the price of anything you plan to buy, hire or enjoy. Another thing to worry about. Or perhaps not, as Fanny notes it is entirely different in the North, where I will be spending my time. Apparently there is a 'gay friendliness' there which means locals have a tremendous interest in the well-being of tourists, in direct contrast to the 'tourist-piracy' which persists in the 'deep south'. Well, thank goodness for that. Things are looking up.

And then Fanny gets to the food. I've never been to Italy, and am looking forward to tasting all that the nation has to offer, but Fanny has a warning for me. It's limited. Far more limited than the cuisine of her beloved France. She says its 'runs the whole gamut from A to B.' Despite the limitations, there is at least variety, but mostly the food revolves around oil and pasta. Seemingly the Italians also add goat and all manner of feathered objects, all lumped together under the name uccelletti. In my pursuit to avoid thrush, lark, blackbird, bullfinch, quail, woodcock, turtle-dove and the strangely named figpecker (although I like the sound of that one), I shall scour every menu making sure uccelletti and their numerous feathery frames do not feature.

I'm heading to Piedmont, where Fanny says I can look forward to good grazing, flourishing orchards, vineyards and rice fields. So, rather more than the limitations of A to B? Although she points out that dishes will be highly seasoned, I can expect a high incidence of garlic, cream, cream cheese and butter. Doesn't sound too bad, does it? With White Truffles on risottos, polenta, agnelotti, gnocchi, beans, golden peaches, cheese and chestnuts surely I will eat well? I'll skip the wild boar and partridge. Oh and the frogs. But otherwise all sounding good. There is even mention of cakes and chocolate.

You'd imagine that Fanny might be a fan of Italian wine at least? She does concede that they can be very interesting and pleasant, but sadly there will be no 'great ones' for me to sample. The Italians do not lavish the same care and attention on their production as the French you see. The best I will find is Vermouth in Turin, which is perfect for me, and exactly where I will be. Elsewhere in Piedmont, the best I will find is Barolo, or it's less potent and fresher cousin Barbaresco. Perfect. I'm not sure what Fanny is complaining about to be honest. She tells me I can expect to find Asti Spumante, which bears no relation to Champagne. It seems that there is simply nothing which Italy can offer which would make Fanny sparkle. Will I discover something to pop my cork? Will the Italians do it better than Fanny describes? Should I have planned a holiday in the Algarve instead? Let's see...

Merry Crustmas one and all!

With Christmas well and truly over, presents tidied neatly away and the tree starting to look a little shabby, Fanny Cradock moves swiftly onto making pies, naturally. They are simply a must for the New Year, and super for using up any old bits and bobs of scraps that happen to be left lying around after the festivities. Of course, for Fanny that means rabbits, lamb kidneys and pigeons. Things are a little different in my kitchen though, so it's chestnuts, cranberries and some spring onions for me. Not sure what Fanny would think. Fanny whizzes all her various animal parts up into a wonderful raised pie crust, so I'm sure I can too...

Fanny makes her hot water crust 'paste' with self-raising flour of course, milk, water and pure lard. She calls it English Raised Pie Paste. She gives an alternative fancier French Raised Pie Paste (Pâté à Foncer) which replaces the lard with butter, however she warns very strongly that under NO circumstances should a lard replacement be used if making the English version. She probably wouldn't approve of my vegetable fat based lard substitute Trex in that case. For probably read definitely.

Fanny mixes the water with the milk, and melts the 'lard' gently in it until it reaches boiling point. It's then flung into the sifted flour and beaten vigorously until it comes together into a smooth, thick paste. Fanny then kneads it until it is even smoother. The English version is kneaded on a wooden board, while the French demands a marble one. Not sure what the Veggie version should be, so I just use the counter. Either way it should be used immediately otherwise it will become hard and cold, just like Fanny herself, some bolder than I might suggest. Keeping it warm is key, in contrast to other pastry which must be kept cool. Fanny rolls her out on top of the cooker while the oven is on.

Fanny fills her pies with pâté and hard boiled eggs. I try to recreate the pâté by blitzing up the chestnuts, spring onions and cranberries before mixing in a perfectly ordinary egg. Fanny makes a large raised pie, but I have a lovely 'individual' baking tray thingy so I line them out with the still warm hot water paste, pop in some pâté, place half a boiled egg in the centre, pack round more pâté and seal on a lid of pastry with a little brush of milk. Obviously with a little leaf fashioned out of pastry scraps on top too. Above all garnish and presentation.

Fanny bakes her pie in a low oven for a long time, until it looks crisp and brown. My little individual ones take around 45 minutes before coming out, cooling slightly and then being unmoulded. Fanny leaves hers until the next day in the refrigerator all ready to serve to unwelcome guests popping round uninvited between festivities. The finished pies are lovely, the hot water crust is so crisp and tasty, easy to make and I am sure versatile. Many pies to come. After all, not a rabbit, pigeon or lambs liver in sight. Merry Crustmas one and all.