Murder, She Didn't Write...

Fanny loved a good murder. Not that I am suggesting she had been in any way involved in one, you understand. No, she loved the intrigue, the mystery and most of all she loved to be able to solve it all and take the glory. She just wasn't always very good at it. She let small things, such as the lack of evidence, and, well, you know trivial things like the truth get in the way. For Fanny, the story always came first, and then any authentic (or otherwise) affirmation could be made to fit. What she really needed was someone renowned for solving murder cases on her side. An assistant if you like. Someone like, erm, Jessica Fletcher would have been ideal. A crack team.

Fanny was convinced that her Victorian gastronomic idol, Mrs Agnes Marshall, had been murdered, possibly by her husband, possibly by someone trying to erase her memory in favour of Mrs Beeton (who Fanny despised and discredited throughout her career), deliberately suppressing her lucrative business and good name 'at the height of her fame'. Her actual cause of death had been carcinoma, which Fanny believed was indistinguishable from good old-fashioned arsenic poisoning. We don't need to ask how she knew this. She had clearly researched this part of the story well...

Fanny planned to write a book about Mrs Marshall and her demise, reintroducing the world once again to her recipes. She tried to get hold of the archives to allow her to investigate further, but they remained mysteriously out of her reach. Or perhaps didn't match her theory. She really needed Jessica to step in. Jessica stumbled across a Murder wherever she went. Jessica never, ever, found herself unable to solve a murder. A rogue clue. A flash of an eye. A misplaced fragrance... Whatever it was, Jessica always uncovered the truth, confronted the murderer and somehow managed to get them to confess (with only a minute or two to spare before the episode ended) everything without much of a fuss. Fanny needed Jessica.

Sadly, the two never came together, but can you imagine what a killer episode that would've been? Perhaps Fanny would not have taken kindly to being upstaged by dear Jessica however, and arranged for her to be 'disposed of' too... We can only guess. She surely, or at least 'allegedly', would have snuck some arsenic into a tempting dish. Jessica loved to eat. So much so that there is going to be a Murder She Wrote cookbook (squeal!) published soon, by the wonderful Jenny Hammerton, and this recipe is one which might just feature there. It's not a recipe by Fanny Cradock, but it is given a Fanny-meets-Jessica twist... It is part of a wonderful #MurderSheWroteCookalong

It's a cheesy ball. It came via an actress by the name of Jane Withers, which seems appropriate as this is exactly what would have happened if Fanny had looked at her. Jane appeared in Murder She Wrote, twice, but most notably in an episode called Who Killed Jessica Fletcher? where Jane pretends to be Jessica, and, well, ends up being murdered. Jane made these cheese balls by mixing together some soft American Kraft cheeses, which I have subbed for available and retro British ones. Jane mixes in chopped onions and Worchester sauce (I'm using the more veggie friendly Hendersons Relish) before rolling it all into a giant ball (not an entirely easy task) and covering it in chopped pecans, parsley, or both. I think Fanny would take complete credit for this, especially as Jane had well and truly withered already. She would definitely do 'both'. She would then convince Jessica to solve the mysterious case of Mrs Agnes Marshall before serving this at the celebratory buffet afterwards... Would Jessica dare to tuck in...?

Horror D'Oeuvres

Fanny Cradock doesn't mention Halloween much. She gives plans, ideas and instructions for almost every other festivity. Nothing for 31st October. It's a surprise as you'd imagine that all the spookery and ghoulishness would be right up her street. Dressing up. Making your food look eerily scary. Over the top, spine-chilling colourings. Putting the fear of god into children. Perhaps it's simply that, in England at least, it's only a relatively 'new' thing. Not on her radar. Growing up in Scotland, it was a major part of my childhood. Perhaps it's just that all this scary stuff was just everyday living for Fanny.

We can only imagine, but my guess is that Fanny's house was one of those doors that the 'guisers' as we call them up here, or Trick or Treaters elsewhere, just walked on by. Not worth the actual total fright that chapping on her door would provoke. Don't make me knock on the scary lady's door. No amount of treats would be a suitable reward for accidentally hammering on her door. Poor Fanny was likely inside waiting expectantly for the bash that never came. Surrounded by her own blood-curdling bespoke blow-out buffet, ready to share them with the local children. Perhaps this was the real issue. What Fanny thought of as treats would have been at best terrifying to many young eyes.

As all the kids skip merrily by, or perhaps run at hair-raising speed, Fanny was inside preparing party snacks just in case. We know her beloved banquet bites were Hors D'Oeuvres that could be easily passed around by the horrifyingly hearty hostess. We know that her favourite party food can be made in advance. It gives you more time to get yourself ready for guests to appear like it's all been an effortless excursion, despite the fact you've been preparing for weeks. We know that Fanny simply loved eggs. So put all three together, add a sprinkle of spookiness and get the Halloween Party started.

Fanny has seven ideas of egg based Hors D'Oeuvres. Seven. All a variation on a theme. All start with boiled eggs - some hard, some soft - and end up usually with something or other being van dyked. Not as in Dick, but as in cut into zig zags. I'm only making three of the seven. You'll see why. For the first ones, Fanny stamps out rounds of puff pastry, bakes them and then hollows out a circle in the centre. The eggs sit in this as a base. The eggs themselves can be excavated, removing the cooked yolks, replacing them with lemon mayonnaise if you like. Then small rosettes of Orange Mayonnaise are piped round the base of the egg. Or it can be a row of peas. The final flourish is a leaf of parsley on top. Maybe a splash of Tabasco. It's like an exploded vol-au-vent, if they ever made vol-au-vents for the film Alien.

You never really see eggs paired with oranges do you? You do in Fanny's world. As if orange mayonnaise wasn't already a step too far, she van dykes a small orange, places an egg inside then pipes more mayonnaise into the gaps. Remember those egg yolks you hollowed out earlier to replace with lemon mayonnaise? Fanny uses them to stuff into hollowed out tomatoes. To disguise the tomato as, erm, an egg, she van dykes some egg white to cap it off. You get the idea. Marry eggs, van dyke skills and orange mayonnaise in any combination for a treat that will never be tricked. Children will give your horrifying home a wide berth at Halloween, which may also be a neat trick, depending on how you view them. You'll be left with the full horror of eating the hors d'oeuvres yourself though, so beware.

Another Brick In The Wall

School's out for summer, in Fanny Cradock's world at least. A little early in the real world perhaps. She is imagining that all over the country harassed mums are being pestered by the cry "Mum, I'm hungry" and just have no idea how to respond favourably to the relentless badgering. There is no need to feel so tormented however, Fanny is on hand. She devotes an entire part-work exclusively to filling-up the perpetually ravenous young folks. Young people, Fanny reckons, are always easier to handle when their stomachs are well-filled. Especially if they are teenagers.

It's not only tumultous teenagers tummies that Fanny is concerned with though. It's their outfits. She simply cannot understand the lack of enthusiasm among the female of the species, in particular, for wearing pretty party frocks. Shockingly the 'gear' they prefer can be summed up as 'The Absolute Minimum'. This normally means, notably in the summer months, 'disreputable' rolled up jeans and equally disreputable bare feet at the end of a day spent incessantly 'trotting about'. Fanny's wrath is saved for skimpy hot pants and gingham outfits, again with 'the minimum', this time over 'the front'. Teenage girls eating habits are like their fashion choices - an inelegant preference for wolfing at the wander and for chomping on 'wedges and wodges' (whatever they may be), particularly in the garden. I don't think Fanny approves.

Fanny still has a suitable snack for them though. She says we should dispense with fancy French names for down-to-earth things at this time (which presumably do not deserve the effort) and simply call them what they are. Bricks. Ones you can eat. That's what she suggests here for those barely gingham-covered reprobates. She borrows the idea, but of course makes them suitable for the English home, from a trip to Tunisia. A considerably conventional ceremony with a cabinet minister's wife showed Fanny how they were made. Presumably Ferrero Rocher weren't around then. The wife was not welcome in her husband's home for the formal occasion (doubtless not because of her chosen attire) but instead was banished to her 'separate and primitive chamber' known as the kitchen. She took three hours to make the 'bricks'.

Fanny says that she is not 'screwy' enough to think that we would spend three hours making snacks for inappropriately dressed teenagers. I am saying nothing. So she has modified the recipe to suit the occasion, or lack of occasion, which ever it really is. Instead of a 'Tunisian paste' made of semolina and water, extravagantly, and lovingly, prepared and cooked on a griddle, she uses shop-bought puff pastry. This allows the 'bricks' to be made at speed to fill the eager youthful mouths, but to otherwise remain authentic. I imagine that this would be the prime concern for the denim-clad teenagers trotting around Fanny's garden.

In Tunisia, squares of paste are filled with freshly milled parsley, minced veal and an egg yolk. Folded into triangles (as surely all 'bricks' are) and deep fried. I switched the veal for some chopped vegetarian sausages, but otherwise I stuck with authenticity all the way. The resulting wedges, or wodges, as indeed they might be, are ideal as hand-held hunger hinderers, especially for garden wanderers in hot pants. Guaranteed to fill up the exposed tummies of teenage girls. And tasty too. No need to be stuck away, shamefully, in the kitchen for hours on end, when you could be outside showing all the shame on your face for the fashion choices of the young. Perfect summer holiday pastime.

Feel the Appeal of the un-Real Meal

Fanny often wants to convince us that she is the undeniable, bona fide, irrefutable real deal when it comes to recipes, techniques, knowledge and skill. This is the entire basis of the partwork series, she is sharing her veritable gifts with us. At times she is blatantly blunt in telling us that her way is the right way. Other times she is, honestly, a little more subtle but absolutely as concrete in her message. For a simple dish of Shepherds Pie she takes us back in time to Old England to discover what this traditional pie meant to our ancestors, but makes it evident that we have been making it wrongly all these years by the simple addition of a single word. This is Fannys' Real Shepherds Pie.

Well it would be if I wasn't insistent on fiddling with the recipe, twiddling out the meat and tiddling it up for vegetarians. Fanny uses a tangible mixture of cold, cooked lamb or mutton and finely minced lean gammon as the base for her pie, I use a packet of ready cooked Puy Lentils. So handy, and I think still valid, still in the spirit of the dish - a quick transformation of so-called leftovers and cupboard staples. It happens to be International Year of Pulses too, whoever knew that such a thing should exist. If Fanny were here in 2016 I am sure she'd celebrate with a special book. Or two. Or three.

Fanny mixes her meat with a grated onion, freshly milled parsley, a little stock and seasoning, so do I with the newly elevated, internationally celebrated, legitimate lentils. I was clearly 'keeping it real' during the preparation too, as the grating of the onion resulted in streams of actual tears in the kitchen that simple chopping alone would not have uncovered. It seems a little odd to grate them in the first place and not cook them, but was we know Fanny is indubitable, so I don't question it.

It's all seemingly fairly standard so far, no hints of the 'real' nature that Fanny promised with the pie. The filling goes into a dish and Fanny urges us to get on with the topping. Surely just mashed potato? Everyone knows that a Shepherds Pie is topped with mashed potato, don't they? Think again, authentic fans, Fanny has some flour up her sleeve. She does mash up her pre-prepared steamed (of course, never boiled) potatoes, adds some butter and boiling milk. Then she beats to a smooth paste before working in the flour to create a pastry paste consistency. She rolls it out and tops the pie with it. I was hoping for piping.

Fanny calls this Potato Crust. She finishes it off by marking it in a criss cross fashion with a hot, wet knife in trellis lines. Then a quick brush with egg wash before the oven. The pie emerges well risen, and quite, well, crusty looking. It's an original texture, both fluffy and crispy and tucked underneath are the simply flavoured pulses, shining and singing among the parsley and the sweet grated onions. All-in-all it's a delightful pie. We only have Fannys word that this is the truly defacto real deal. I'm happy to just enjoy the pie. Who would question Fanny anyway?

Too Cloche for Comfort

If you go down to the woods today, you're sure to be in for a big surprise - especially if Fanny and Johnnie are down there. They are on the look out to pick up a couple of wild ones, they just can't resist them. It's something they've done ever since World War Two when they found themselves in Warwickshire while Johnnie was invalided. Desperate times called for desperate measures. They just couldn't satisfy their needs in town, especially in Johnnies condition, so made regular visits out into nature and amongst the protection of the trees and open fields, where they suspected no-one would disturb them on their mission. That was where it was all happening, and all naturally. Nothing improper going on you'll understand, just a bit of fresh foraging for fungi.

Fanny does concede that mushrooms of all varieties, and especially buttons, cups and large flats, can be found quite easily in greengrocers and supplied by professional mushroom growers. Fanny herself prefers the kind grown naturally, untouched by human hands, and only aided by a spot of horse manure, which of course helps. Fanny says there is a lot of confusion floating around about eating wild mushrooms, which is mostly nonsense. According to her, the skins of harmless mushrooms peel away easily and in large pieces while the skin of harmful toadstools does not. Fanny isn't keen to accept responsibility for our health though, and suggests wisely we check with someone 'who knows' before we pick up any wild ones. I'm not sure if Fanny knows or not?

Fanny once fed her 'tree mushroom' soup to a great society hostess who fawned over the fungi. While complimenting Fanny she told her in an awful tone about the terrible labourers who ate those 'awful tree mushrooms' and then wondered why they were ill. She was unaware that she too was gobbling them up. The mushrooms that is, not the labourers. Presumably Fanny wasn't trying to poison her guest, but she never clarifies.

Fannys recommendation for cooking marvellous mushrooms is to do so 'sous cloche' or under glass. Not only do they benefit greatly from being prepared this was, it is also a simple but impressive way of serving them. It's new to me, and seems more than a little Heston, but what the heck. Fanny says 'cups' are best for this, with their medium size and 'ragged edge of white skin over their accordian pleated brown insides'. Fanny makes a base for the mushrooms of French Toast with a beaten egg and a little milk soaked into a thick slice of bread before it is fried. The chosen mushrooms are piled on, topped with some parsley, salt, pepper and a little cream before being covered with a cloche (or ordinary glass bowl if your purse won't stretch) and baked for 20 minutes or so. I just happen to have a cloche which I have only ever used for cakes and cheese. I never expected it would be heading oven-bound!

The Champignons sous Cloche should be served immediately, still under glass to the table, and presumably unveiled with an exaggerated theatrical flourish. Not so much Heston style smoke and mirrors, but a little puff of steam. The finished mushrooms have retained all their woodland moisture, making them very soft and spongy, and full of flavour. As you cut into them, their juices run darkly into the hot cream, herbs and pillowy eggy toast. It's a magic combination. If you weren't surprised by Fanny and Johnnie in the woods, you will be mightily mystified by these miraculous mushrooms. So, go now, abandon your dreary dinner guests and run off in search of some wild ones of your own.

Could it be Black Magic?

I can't resist switching up this very simple recipe from Fanny Cradock, I wonder if she'd approve? I'm not sure Fanny would want us having our own thoughts at this early stage, but here goes! Fanny continues in this partwork to 'introduce' us to the many wonders of bread, this time making a simple staple - garlic bread. As ever, it seems strange today to even consider a recipe for this as the supermarket shelves are groaning with different garlic loaves either ready prepared or ready to bake at home. It's so easy, how could Fanny make it easier? When this collectIon was published it was a different story, and to be honest even today flavour would win for me over convenience. This looks easy, and will hopefully be tastier too - win/win.

The ingredients are straightforward, with Fanny suggesting I use a standard loaf. Always keen to impress the teacher, I use a home made one. Truth is I've not bought bread for such a long time as I love baking it myself. The other ingredients are butter, garlic and parsley. My own twist is to use some Black Garlic which I found recently and have been desperate to try. Black Garlic starts out as normal garlic, but it's aged slowly in a warm environment and becomes dark, sweet and jelly-like. Sounds perfect for this loaf! Have to admit though that it doesn't look overly appealing when added to softened butter... Have I made a mistake?

To finish off the garlic butter, Fanny asks me to add some freshly milled parsley heads and some salt, but just a scant teaspoon. These are some of Fannys favourite words, so I am hoping 'milled' parsley is finely chopped and 'scant' is less than a full teaspoon? The green is making the butter look more appealing already! 

As with every recipe, there is one part that Fanny gets quite stroppy about this time it's slicing the loaf. She stresses that on NO account should I allow the knife to cut all the way through the base crust at ANY point. Not trusting myself, I use a couple of chopsticks placed either side to stop the knife going 'all the way' and get slicing! 

It worked. Now all that needs to happen is for the black garlic butter to be spread on every cut surface before the loaf is pushed back together, wrapped tightly in foil and heated in a gentle oven until it is JUST piping hot. Fanny gives no indication of timing here, but I left this loaf for 10 minutes which seemed good. The finished loaf smells beautiful, and the black garlic adds a really mellow, sweet taste, almost balsamic. Perfect accompaniment to some hearty Kale soup, another switch up from Fannys suggestions, but mmmm, it's lovely!