Pinky & Perky

I always take Fanny Cradock's advice. Well, more often than not. Okay, sometimes. I certainly abide by one of her favourite recommendations, which is to scour the 'thrift' shops for hidden treasures. She's forever popping in to see if she can pick up an unusual dish, a discarded ornament or if she's lucky a delightful mould in which to present her food at it's very best. I can't resist a rummage myself. From time to time I pick something up though that I wonder 'when will I ever use that?' The vintage mould I bought last year is one such item...

Fanny's guidance is to make her Apricot Snow, or La Délice des Abricots, in an old fashioned pyramid mould. It's round and resembles a pyramid only in the way it reaches for the sky with each circular step slightly smaller than the previous one. A bit more like a pointy hat than a pyramid. Well, if only I had one. I am often envious of Fanny's moulds, and she knows it. She practically thrives on being the first to bag the bargains. I had thought I'd have to improvise wildly on this dish, when I suddenly remembered the mould I'd bought and tucked away at the back of the cupboard, waiting for it's perfect time to shine. The relief!

The recipe itself is a variation on the by-now-familiar blancmange theme. With the addition of cold tea. Fanny uses small, stoned, ripe apricots for her Délice, but they aren't really in season at the moment, so I grab a tin I had snuggled away next to the mould at the back of my long-forgotten kitchen cupboard. No shame in that, remember. Fanny cooks hers in a low oven, swimming in the cold tea and then rubs them through a sieve while they are still hot, to emulsify. I whizz mine up in the food processor. Perfectly pulsed purée.

Fanny whisks up a couple of egg whites, adds some single cream, mixes through the cold tea and folds in the purée. And so do I. I know when to strike out on my own, and this isn't the time. Fanny dissolves gelatine in a little extra cold tea. As I'm using my veggie-friendly Agar, I need to dissolve it in the tea, and bring it up to they boil to activate it. Once done, it's swirled into the mix. It looks light and fluffy, just like freshly drifted snow, as Fanny hoped, ready for the mould.

It's only now that I have rescued the mould from the dark recesses of my cupboard that I remember why I tucked it away in the first place. Yes, it makes a decent substitute for a pyramid, but it's, well, there's no escaping this, very booby. I'm really not sure when it would be acceptable to use it, or indeed what it's original purpose actually was. I should've made two perhaps. It's not like I'll be using the mould regularly, or even again for a while. It'll just nestle back into the back of the cupboard and be forgotten again more than likely. Maybe I need to donate it back to the charity shop? I'd have to hide it in something else, or try to disguise it? Would they accept it I wonder?

A Vine Romance

Fanny Cradock loves a mould. They are so useful to transport the simplest of dishes to a whole new level, into a whole new shape and often in a whole new way. Fanny has lots of moulds in her amply furnished kitchen, many which she has collected over the years from the many fantastic places she has visited. She likes to show them off. At. Every. Opportunity. She never misses a chance to demonstrate her one-up-(wo)man-ship, thinly disguised as educational, inspirational and aspirational.

She's clearly rubbed off on me, as I can barely resist eyeing-up and then buying-up a mould myself. I have them hidden in every available nook and cranny of my rather limited kitchen. I even have some on display. I know that I will never compete with Fanny. However, she continues to rub it in. She's making moulded ice creams, and shamelessly displays her multi-flavoured Bombes in all their glory, moulded in eighteenth century pewter moulds that she 'happened' to pick up for a measly £1.50 ten years earlier. In Halifax. I'm clearly searching the wrong fantastic places.

Fanny recognises that I am unlikely to have the same kind of moulds as she has. She's not wrong. She knows she has all the good stuff stashed away. Fanny doesn't think this is important. She obviously is overlooking my burgeoning obsessive collection tendencies that she herself has encouraged. The reason however that she thinks I shouldn't be too bothered is that I am likely to have the perfect mould already in my kitchen. Has she seen my paltry collection of everyday animals, traditional shapes and almost fancy-pants contours? No, dear old Fanny has another altogether more organic idea.

A melon. I don't need to travel to the heady heights of Halifax to obtain one of those. It hardly adds much glamour to my mould collection. A melon? Fanny suggests scooping it out so that it is hollow, which seems reasonable to me. Fanny, always concerned with food waste, has a delightful idea of what to do with the flesh. I'm imagining something fantastic that my neighbours will never even have thought about. No. Fanny's idea? Eat it. How terribly inventive.

More innovative, imaginative and perhaps ingenious is her idea for the ice cream. She calls it a Bombe Anglaise. It's actually Tomato Ice Cream. Savoury. It sounds avant-garde to me. Fanny makes it from what-she-calls Tomato Purée, but what I-would-call Passata. Fanny makes a savoury custard, which is like a sweet one but without any sugar. Fanny whips up some double cream. Fanny adds a range of Bloody Mary seasonings. Fanny beats them all together. Fanny fills the scooped out melons. Fanny freezes them. Fanny then un-moulds them and 'claps' them together to look like a giant tomato. With a mint leaf garnish. Fanny is incredible. Fanny is inspired. Fanny is impressive. The ice cream is 'Da Bombe'. I've almost forgotten about those antique moulds that I've yet to obtain. Almost.

She Wore A Raspberry Beret

Fanny wants us to play 'lets pretend' with her for a moment, as she introduces a 'new' concept to our culinary catalogue. Alcohol. It can be added to food in cooking you know. Please don't look shocked. Please just smile and nod along with Fanny as if you have never raided the cocktail cabinet before in your life. Please never ever let it be known that you've succumbed to the 'one slosh in the pot, one for the cook' philosophy of kitchen capers. So, alcohol in your food, eh, what a grand idea! Fanny thinks it to be a particularly appropriate addition for ice-cream.

Fanny recommends a straightforward Crème de Cacao or Tia Maria to pair with Chocolate. Brandy goes well with coffee, as you might expect. And so Orange Curaçao with Orange Ice Cream. No surprises there, and no stretch on your booze stash. However if your ice cream is Almond flavoured, Fanny suggests Ratafia. For Strawberry her recommendation is Eau de Vie des Fraises. Raspberry requires Bénédictine. My cocktail cabinet is starting to feel rather inadequate. Fanny has a solution - stock up on baby bottles of booze, just one miniature at a time of course as prices are so appalling, scraping the costs together from your stretched household budget and therefore bit by bit building up an 'adequate' range. I'll continue pretending as I place a large on-line order for full bottles.

Fanny's marvellously modern idea for ice-cream is multi-layered and moulded. She has an array of historic moulds - china, tin and cooper. She also has a selection that she refers to as the 'make do' moulds, which she suggests may be what we use at home. These include cake tins, loaf tins and savarin rings. I have a rather charming little china ring mould though so do not need to stoop to the mere domestic level, just yet. For added fancy, Fanny insists that we make 'composite' ice-creams in layers, laced with our new-found knowledge of booze. Let's not let the pretence slip... Oh what a smashing idea!

I have some of Fanny's foundation ice cream already in the freezer. Made simply with whipped cream, folded in custard, and a touch of vanilla, before freezing, ready to be retrieved at short notice and flavoured up as required. Fanny suggests three layers of ice cream, but I, perhaps fuelled with the courage of alcohol, break rank and insist on only two. To half I add a spoonful of freeze dried Raspberry Powder which I picked up from Spice Mountain on my last trip to Borough Market. To the other half, some Pistachio Paste I bought from Sous Chef. The raspberry needs no additional colouring, but the pistachio benefits from a little harmless vegetable green-ness. I don't have Bénédictine (yet) but Fanny recommends Maraschino to go with Pistachio, so in it goes! Sparingly, this is Fanny's key to success. Swig.

Fanny's top tip for moulds is to burnish them hard and carefully with oil before filling. To un-mould once frozen, hold upside down under a very hot tap before placing on your chosen dish, shaking it vigorously and 'hey presto', out it comes. Sort of. Fanny reminds us to re-freeze the un-moulded ice cream on the serving plate until required (tented in foil) to be taken out when serving the main course. Otherwise folks will never get their forks through it. The finished ring of joy is a tempting triumph, tasty and a thrill for the eyes. Not like those 'revolting' Italian trifles such as Zuppa Inglese that Fanny hates so much, drenched in dollops of very crude Italian liqueurs such as Strega. Fanny's restraint is, she notes, a financial as well as a gastronomic consolation. Johnnie rates her ice-creams as Three Stars, in Michelin terms. Perhaps he's been hitting the booze too. Slosh. Quaff. Guzzle.

Sections of Resurrection Confection

Fanny Cradock loves a festivity. None more than the feast following the fast for the faithful, frazzled, dedicated lenters that is Easter. The Easter partwork is a fanfare for the eyes too as Fanny goes into overdrive with the props, staging, colours and teeny tiny fluffy chicks. It's been a long lent of, well, mostly vegetables and eggs so who can blame her for a fabulous facelift of fanciness? Fanny the fashionista even has a springy new hairdo for the season, very froufrou. Incidentally, and somewhat flippantly, she does have huge hands doesn't she?

Fanny puts her feisty new do and mahoosive flapping hands to perfect use in a glorious pic-strip to show us how to 'play together' as we make our own chocolate Easter Eggs. At a fraction of the cost of shop bought naturally. She is sure that any famished youngsters in the house will 'squeal with delight' on Easter Day to receive one of her highly decorated fancily-finished Easter eggs. But first things first, we need to make them... Although Fanny claims these Eggs are easier on the hard-stretched purse than those to be found in the shops, you do need to shell out for a few bits and bobs to get going. Flim flam. The most expensive is possibly the egg mould.

Fanny recommends an array of fiddly old-fashioned metal moulds (both in plain and 'crocodile' pattern) together with the easier-to-work-with modern plastic versions. I have a super-modern polycarbonate mould. Fanny demands that we set about burnishing the moulds ferociously with a little liquid paraffin, which Fanny finds much better than oil. Just a tiny drop, and rub, rub, rub as hard as you can until they are as slippery as glass, and you are fatigued. The eggs will flip out as if shelling peas seemingly. Fanny tries to reassure me that the fractional amount of paraffin would not upset the stomach of the faintest canary, but I'm still a little sceptical. The polycarbonate moulds really don't need it anyway...

Before Fanny can get cross with me, I turn my careful attention to the chocolate chips, or couverture, which must be softened to a creamy consistency without letting them get hot. Fanny does hers in the warming drawer of her oven overnight to avoid a fiasco. I don't have one, so it's the trusty bowl-over-a-pan-of-simmering-water to avoid failure for me. I do hope Fanny would approve of my chips, they are gloriously and most fortunately green and flavoured with sweet garden mint from Guittard. I bought them in San Francisco. They may not *actually* be chocolate. They are described as 'baking chips'. They are definitely confectionary though, not McCains, for those easily confused.

Once the chips are softened, beaten and cooled, Fanny ladles spoonfuls into the burnished moulds and very slowly tips and turns it to cover the surface. When set, she re-coats and 'if you don't mind using a lot of chocolate' Fanny says, do it again. 'The thicker it is, the less tricky it becomes' she tells us, presumably still talking about the chocolate. Once fully cool and set they should just pop-out without fracture. Mine do, despite the lack of paraffin-enabled moulds. Fanny uses a little softened chocolate as glue to 'clap' two halves together before decoration. Just simple for now, we shall deal with more 'glamorous' ideas next time. Together, of course. Inadvertently, the fluffy chicks look a little disappointed.