What Colour Were The 1970's?

Brown. Everything was freakishly brown. Furniture was brown. Think of all those drab wooden sideboards and burnt-looking velour sofas that houses were so very full of. Our houses themselves were brown. With brown front doors. Wallpaper was brown. Sometimes it was more off-the-wall than on it with swirly patterns granted, but generally it was different shades of brown. Our clothes were brown. Our shoes were brown. We were all tanned. We liked it. Brown was where it was at. We fawned over it. We were happy with brown. Until someone paired it with another ludicrous colour of course.

Orange. We had outlandish orange curtains hanging in rooms to match the peculiar orange lampshades. Rugs were a range of far-out orange tones. Our kitchens were so orange we needed sunglasses to enter them. We had offbeat ornaments that were orange and maybe a bit space-aged. But orange still. And kooky. We matched them with brown. We embraced the eccentric, extraordinary orange and brown combinations in our homes, in our wardrobes and in our lives. Even our tans went orange. If it wasn't for orange the whole curious decade would just have been, well, brown.

Almost. Okay, Fanny did her best to banish the buff and beige, bringing every colour of the rainbow to the buffet table. But the table was probably brown, the table cloth would undoubtedly be brown and orange. The guests crowded round it would certainly be dressed head to foot in cocoa inspired patterns of chocolatey brown and zesty orange, with orange accessories that perhaps looked like they'd been fashioned from the space-age adornments scattered around the house. And dipped in extra brown. You get the idea.

Fanny decided to embrace the unavoidable brown-ness of the time. In celebration, she unveiled her Brown Meringue. She could've worked more on the name, but do remember how hip and happening it was to love brown. Today we want our meringues to be so glowingly white they match our overly-whitened teeth and pristine, shiny, clinical white homes. Not brown. In the 1970's Fanny replaced the white sugar in her meringue mix for the tawny brown stuff and whipped up a brown frenzy. If she could've got brown egg whites I'm sure she would've. That's how she rocked.

Bang on trend, she pairs it of course with... Orange. She replaces the milk in a custard with equal quantities of orange juice and water, using the otherwise abandoned egg yolks perfectly. A splash of orange blossom water adds a shade more orange. The brown meringue is baked on a sheet of rice paper for reasons unknown, but also why not. It emerges so fashionably brown, all it needs is a seventies swirl of the orange custard. And a whole mandarin orange plonked in the centre. With a bay leave decoration. And freshly released citrus segments to trim. It tastes wonderfully caramelly and orangey. It tastes like the 70's. There are no other descriptions. It's brown. It's orange. It is the 1970's.

Recalling Appalling Tarpaulin

There's one pudding (yes, just one) that I have really never liked at all, ever. Loathed it. We had it a fair bit when I was young but the thought of it made me feel ill with dread all through the meal. Back then it was a case of 'you are not leaving the table until you've eaten it' so you can imagine me sitting there for hours and hours, wishing and hoping that it would magically disappear, slowly shovelling the smallest amounts into my downturned mouth, trying to force it down. Even today, I shudder when I think about it, such was the horror of the... Rice Pudding.

It was the really thick, absolutely black tar-like canvas-feel topping it had as it emerged from the oven that made me quake. I've heard other people say for them, this is the best bit, but it made me want to heave then, and now, just thinking about it! I didn't want it anywhere near my plate, or my mouth. There's no rhyme or reason for it I suppose. Thankfully Fanny seems to share the repulsion, with her recipe for a colourful, fruity alternative which does not have the 'tarpaulin top' that gives me the heebeegeebees.

Fanny makes her version by mixing Patna Rice with sugar, vanilla, fresh (or tinned) orange juice and ordinary tap water before baking under a light covering of ordinary domestic foil in a medium oven. Fanny doesn't specify a time for this, just until 'it reaches the consistency you like.' Clearly she hasn't been listening, I don't like the consistency at all. I struggled to find pudding rice in the supermarket - clearly I've never searched for it, ever, but I'd assumed it would be easy enough to find. Perhaps the whole world shares my feelings about rice pudding? I did spot some Thai Sticky Rice which said it was ideal for puddings though... Rats, there was no escaping this one!

To spice up the rice a little, I added a few drops of luscious Cardamom Holy Lama Spice Drops which I was very kindly sent recently. Orange and Cardamom are a celestial match. The drops are divine, really intense and as the name suggest, you only need a drop or two. For a pudding like this it seemed to make sense rather than adding ground spices. The heavenly smells coming from my kitchen are making me think that perhaps Rice Pudding might not be so bad after all?

Nothing with Fanny is ever that straightforward, so while the pudding is baking I whip up an accompaniment in the shape of Fried Breaded Bananas. As their name suggests, they are bananas cut down the centre ('because they look prettier'), rolled in beaten egg and enclosed in breadcrumbs before frying. Fanny arranges them in a fan display with a nut on the end, for no apparent reason. They taste like you'd imagine. They don't distract me long from the dreaded rice pudding though - but I needn't have worried. It surfaces without the dreaded tarpaulin top, and retains its orange glow - no black in sight. It's like a jammy marmalade-y risotto consistency, and with the kick of warm cardamom is, erm, lovely really. Just don't make me have that black-topped heavy duty tarpaulin stuff ever again.