Viennese Dreams - This Means Nothing To Me

Aspiration. That was what Fanny Cradock was all about. Every television appearance. Every recipe in the booklets. Every magazine interview she gave. Aspiration. She understood that food could be the key to unlocking the otherwise hard-to-climb social ladder. She made everyone feel that by introducing new ideas, combinations and recipes to their otherwise ordinary everyday lives they had some hope of escaping. Changing. Dreaming. Yearning for something that had once seemed completely out of reach.

Pancakes may not immediately spring to mind as the saviour of society, but Fanny had a plan. Her trick was always to take very ordinary ingredients and make them extra-ordinary. Today, television cooks often rely on exotic, new or as-yet undiscovered ingredients. Fanny had eggs and flour. Everyone made pancakes. Hardly anything to shout about, never mind to give you a leg up the ladder of success. Imagine though if you made Austrian pancakes at home. Everyone would be envious. Imagine if they were really more like a cross between crumpets and pancakes. Everyone would be envious. Imagine if they were to be described as 'souffléd'. Everyone would be envious. Stretch your imagination even further and don't even call them pancakes. They are 'puffs'. Everyone would be envious of your Austrian Soufflé Puffs, wouldn't they?

Fanny thought so. She thought transforming two humble eggs, one ounce of flour and one fluid ounce of water would induce a hankering for Vienna at home. She whisked up the egg yolks until they were list and fluffy. She probably got someone else to do this for her, by hand. However I have a passion for my modern mixer at times like these. Next, the flour is whisked in until smooth, followed by the water. In a separate bowl (thank heavens I have two, don't we all?) the whites are beaten until very stiff, before the yolk mixture is gently folded in. The resulting puffy clouds would be happy floating over any well respected opera house.

To elevate them into Austrian Soufflé Puffs however, local chefs are trained to make tricky architectural, cylindrical cuffs from greased parchment paper. Fanny has another idea. Why not make good use of those otherwise discarded tins that we all have filled with Mandarin Oranges that we all enjoy so much. They are the perfect size, and once cleaned and carefully opened and trimmed at both ends are ideal for our Austrian Puffs. Simply brush them lovingly with oil, place on a hot griddle pan ready to dollop your soufflé in. Maybe save a Mandarin segment or two for garnish.

Fanny includes an elaborate pic-strip where Dianne, just 19 and apparently never before tackled these wonders, makes Salzburger Nockerln on a griddle with ease. In the excitement, neither say how long to cook them for, or how to know when they are ready. We are instructed to turn the tins over, with a carefully placed cloth to avoid scalded hands, 'half way through', whenever that might be. Dianne gently eases the Puffs out of the tins and simply dusts them lightly with icing sugar. Perhaps she'd already eaten the Mandarin Oranges. Perhaps she'd suddenly been lifted out of the drudgery of Fanny's kitchen and climbed her own ladder to a more successful life elsewhere. We shall never know. The pancakes, erm crumpets, erm Austrian Soufflé Puffs are light, fluffy and elevated well above the ordinary in any case.

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?

Don't Be A Tosser!

Fanny is very serious about all things pancake, and tries her utmost to pass that gravity on to all her readers. She is on a mission to educate and eradicate any frippery. She does not understand at all why we in Great Britain continue to associate pancakes only with Shrove Tuesday. It makes her flipping mad to think about those 'coarse wash-leather chaps' which people pass for pancakes but which she thinks would be splendid only for cleaning the car with. It's all about being professional you see. Who has ever heard of a great chef laying down instructions that in order to eat pancakes you must first tear along the road like a 'blue-based fly' chucking the poor wretched things in the air trying to catch them? It makes no sense to Fanny at all.

We can heave a sigh of relief however, Fanny is here to propel us all towards the professional way. So if you are tempted to hurl your pancakes high and enjoy a little bit of heritage hilarity, be prepared to sling your batter now. Pancakes are one of the best ways Fanny knows of eking out left-overs and thrilling guests, but in order to please your guests to maximum effect you must be able to lob your pancakes out at speed and without getting hot and flushed in the kitchen as you do so. The key is preparation and preservation. And of course making super thin professional style pancakes in the first place. If your pancakes are thick enough to toss, Fanny says, there is only one place to toss them - into the dustbin.

Fanny discusses many, many variations for pancakes from the very basic higher and higher up her favourite 'culinary ladder' to the summit. The method for making and using them remains the same, but each step up a rung provides a slightly more 'dreamy' result for ever increasing special occasions. For Fanny, no proper pancake batter is capable of holding a smooth consistency when made very runny (the key to thinness) - the consistency of single cream - unless it is made with olive oil. So this becomes the basis for the basic French recipe and all that follow. The basic recipe is flour, eggs, olive oil and enough milk to reduce it to the consistency of single cream.

The more dreamier versions start by bunging in icing sugar, a touch of salt and either some brandy, rum or kirsch. Then they add white wine instead of liqueurs, and then actual single cream instead of milk. For really splendid savoury versions, the icing sugar is slung altogether. I'm going dreamy with mine, but switching it up a little by sticking with kirsch and adding cream. Once mixed up together to the required consistency, Fanny details how to make the pancakes. First step is to lay out a sheet of oiled greaseproof paper for the finished pancakes. Heat your pan and brush it lightly with oil. Pour a little batter in to the side of the pan as you hold it at an angle and twirl to swirl it to completely cover the base. If you pour the batter into the centre of the pan, you will have a lump in the middle. Be warned. As soon as the mixture is set, flip it over for a moment or two with a spatula.

When it's cooked on both sides, launch the wafer thin pancake onto your greaseproof and set to on the next one. When they are all done, it is perfectly easy to snip round each one and assemble them in a pile with greaseproof paper remaining in between. None should have headed bin-wards. Then fold them over with kitchen foil and they'll keep in the fridge for a week, ready to thrill at a moments notice. Clearly Fanny's Personal Assistant, Alison Leach, was not so thrilled as she asked Fanny one day over luncheon, 'why can't you create chocolate pancakes?' So Fanny did, just by adding powdered drinking chocolate to the mix. Her own invention. The only trouble Fanny found was that the more she created, the more some people ate. I can understand it - they tasted great! Some people had been known to eat 48 at one sitting. Fanny doesn't explicitly say it was Alison, but, you know...

¡Ay, caramba! The Cradock Crispy Crêpes Carnival!

There are some things Fanny just gets so excited about in the kitchen - usually soufflés, mincemeat and harmless green vegetable food colouring. They appear to be the cornerstones of culinary heights, at least for the Cradocks. I am sure one day I will turn the pages of the partwork and see next up is a Green Mincemeat Soufflé, and more than likely I will barely bat an eyelid, I've become so used to the Cradock ways already. If Fanny were to add another to her list of 'very favourites' I'm sure it would be the pancake, erm, sorry, crêpes. We must always use the French terms when discussing cuisine. Am I learning nothing? I think I am as delighted as Fanny is to see that part 19 is all about 'fabulous pancakes'! Are there any other kind? Hang on though, are there enough variations to support a whole part?

Fanny teases us with thoughts of 'proper' pancakes to come, just to remind us probably that if we've been making them already, we simply haven't been doing it properly. To start us off though, it's one of her very favourites indeed, Crêpes Carnaval or the simply sensational star dish of the week, Carnival Pancakes. These are no ordinary pancakes, and are not made in any ordinary fashion. We will deal with the ordinary at a later date seemingly, first off is a flourish fiesta-style! Fanny says if you are taught how to make pancakes for the very first time in France you are told that they should be so thin that you could read your lovers letters through them. Fanny doesn't want to discuss French Letters here, smirk, and suggests instead that we lay our pancakes over the partwork and read her instructions. It's practically a love affair anyway, isn't it?

I must admit to being slightly scared when I first read the recipe. I'm no scientist, but Fanny recommended popping along to the chemist to buy some Ammonia Carbonate. I googled it to see what it was and what replacements I could use. I'm expecting the bomb squad to turn up any day. Some suggested baking powder, some bicarbonate of soda, some both, as decent alternatives. Various folks on Twitter suggested using Ammonia Bicarbonate bought online, but no-one was sure it was the same thing. Was my kitchen about to explode? Only one way to find out... This recipe starts by rubbing butter into flour until it resembles minute grains. Then a real favourite for Fanny, beating in eggs until the batter is smooth, thick and extremely difficult to work with. It's now time to add the chemicals.

I opt to play it safe and use a pinch of baking powder and bicarb. Chicken eh? Once worked into the dough it became a little bit like choux paste. We are still making pancakes right? Fanny divides hers into 'very mean' 1oz pieces and shapes them into little balls before rolling them out, without flour, and without lifting or turning them, as thin as possible. I can see Fanny's eyebrows through mine, so they must be ok! Maybe she actually meant as transparent as French Letters? They are then fried in smoking hot oil, I wasn't expecting that! They are lifted gently in with two wooden spoon handles. I use chop sticks. Fanny says to prod them around a bit while they are frolicking in the oil, without breaking them, flip them over and drain them on plenty of kitchen paper.

Fannys finished ones have flutes all round the edges, maybe that's what I was meant to do with all the prodding? Mine don't it is safe to say, but they are lovely golden brown and very bubbly and lively. No explosions, but a celebration nonetheless. Fanny says to stack them high until a 'great pyramid is formed' and slosh them with icing sugar. Her picture shows a tower. Maybe she'd never been to Egypt or seen a pyramid? Or perhaps she was distracted by Johnnies' merrymaking with the French Letters? Either way they taste great - the pancakes - a little like spring rolls without the filling. It's not quite Rio or even Notting Hill, but they are a jolly jamboree all on their own, so let the carnival begin!

You can't get better than a kwik-flipped Fritter

Fanny was far from frumpy in the way she presented herself, or indeed any of the freaky food she hoped to whip us up into a frenzy with by showcasing. She was a fashion and food-trend frontrunner. No doubt she would frankly freak-out if we were to let ourselves go, either in the wardrobe department or in the ordinary domestic kitchen. We'd be a total fruitcake to get on the wrong side of Fanny, so to avoid any sort of fracas it's time to slip on our very best frocks and frolic into the kitchen for the grand finale of the 'exciting winter vegetable' frivolity.

Fanny has chosen some frisky fritters to tempt us, assorted vegetable fritters to be precise, or Beignets des Lègumes Assortis in full blown French. Don't fret, before we all frown at the very basic nature of this, Fanny senses our 'sigh' and points out that this is 'really a composite recipe' as she will give us the fritter batter, guide us how to prepare the vegetables and also provide a framework for the whole procedure. So that'll just be a recipe then. Composite seems a little fraudulent. Tsk tsk Fanny.

Fanny has chosen vegetables to fry which were fairly exotic at the time, but are positively frugal now - fresh Eggplants (Aubergines) and Baby Marrows (Courgettes). Hang on, aren't they both fruits? Don't write me nasty letters. Housewives of the 1970's would be completely frazzled and fraught with frustration trying to work out how to prepare them, but Fanny makes it simple. Slice the unskinned Aubergine thinly, arrange it on a wooden board and sprinkle it liberally with 'proper cooking salt', which is sea salt. Leave it for 30 minutes until a 'nasty brown build-up' has formed on the top. Wipe that off and then they are ready to use, free of all bitterness. I found gorgeous round courgettes which sliced wonderfully and equally with a little crinkle cut addition. Not just because I'm fancy, but to add friction to help the batter to stick better.

For the batter, Fanny takes a few spoonfuls of flour, and heads to the nearest barely dripping tap. She starts to work in a low frequency of drips with a wooden spoon, beating away and dripping some more, until the paste becomes elastic and very thick. There doesn't look like very much of it. I have faith in Fanny though. She takes a single egg white and whisks it up frenetically to a fragile but firm cloud, ready to be combined with the fraction of paste. The resulting batter is chirpy and frothy.

Once whipped together it is time to fry! Fanny suggests dipping your sliced vegetables into the batter and tossing them into slightly smoking hot oil. Then immediately turn off the heat and allow them to brown and cook through in the gradually diminishing heat. The heat should be turned up again for each subsequent batch. Fritters are drained on simple kitchen paper, and sprinkled with a little paprika, ready to be served. Fanny suggests hot cream with herbs on the side. If the herbs are dried, heat them with the cream. If they are fresh, add them once hot. The fried fitters themselves are a delight - well cooked through with a crunchy but well-ventilated fluttering of the lightest batter. Little fringed frisbees of veggie-fruitiness at the frontier of frizzy frittery-ness. I think I need a lie down.

A-Choux!

Fanny was super keen on preserving things - before tins and jars of anything and everything were ready available, she'd be busy all year round collecting up whatever was in season and stuffing it away for another time. Whether it was fruit, vegetables, meat or even cream she'd describe ways to halt its decline, seal it securely and stash it safely. I think it was a habit she continued even after the supermarket shelves were packed tighter than one of her Kilner jars. She'd be horrified now that fruits and vegetables are flown in from far lands whatever the season. Do we even know what's 'in season' anymore? Everything is just 'there' when we want it. It was for resourceful Fanny too, but only because she (or more likely her army of assistants) made it so.

Fanny was always careful to stress in her recipes to use fresh when available, and canned, tinned or jarred when not. She assumed you had also been squirrelling away all your goodies. That way her knowledge could be shared all year round, and any time you dipped into one of her many books, if you found something you particularly fancied, you could have it. No need for daily flights full of food. Her very favourites were always things you could whip up at a moments notice to impress. And nothing more impressive than a fruity dessert in winter using last summers very best fruit.

While Fanny reaches to the backs of her larder cupboard for a jar of her very own peach halves to induce dinner party jealousy, I wander to Real Foods and pick up a jar of organic ones from Biona. Only the best will impress you see. Fanny whips up her favourite fruit, preserved in her favourite way with her favourite pastry (or paste) - the Choux. For Fanny, it's the most impressive, most versatile paste and she was on a mission to convert every housewife in Britain to use it.

For this dish, it's not Profiteroles or Eclairs, but mini tarts. Sorry, tartlets. Fanny of course despises the word tart in the kitchen or the bedroom. I've never used choux in this way before but it's whipped up in the usual way - melt some butter in water, fling flour in until it foams, beat and beat until smooth. Then leave to become very cold at room temperature (never a fridge) and beat an egg in. Normally it's piped into shapes, but Fanny uses it here to line well oiled tartlet moulds. She presses it in with two teaspoons, but I found fingers were best. Well scrubbed of course. They are then weighed down with oiled greaseproof paper squares and baking beans and popped into the oven.

When baked and cooled, Fanny fills them with custard. Sorry, I am taking a hopefully not too horrific shortcut here with Ambrosia, well it is all very last minute and is carefully preserved in the tub. She then carefully places on a peach half and covers with redcurrant jelly. I found some lovely looking (and veggie!) quick red jelly from Greens to use this time tough. It reminds me of the jelly you used to get on strawberry tarts when I was young. Tastes like it too. The tartlets are gorgeous, the choux makes them feel quite light (and deceptively chewy) and with a premature taste of summer with the peaches I am happy. After all that work to preserve the fruits so carefully, the finished tartlets really won't last too long with me!

I am entering these summery tartlets into a new blogging challenge from Jen's Food and United Cakedom celebrating all things pastry... Check out the other baked goodies!

A Cup O' Tea & A Slice O' Cake

Fanny stretches her definitions in the Home-Made Bread part to include a Simple Tea Loaf. Not that I'm complaining, much as her bread has been grand so far, it's nice to have a much 'kneaded' break and a wee slice of cake is very welcome indeed to balance it all out. And well, it's a loaf, so all is well. Fanny says that this particular recipe is the ONLY one in her whole LIFE she has ever found in a leaflet that has been worth making more than once to find out it's quality. Presumably she's not talking about her own leaflets? Which are booklets really, and sometimes contain so many high quality recipes they are more like small books...

Fanny suggests using any mixture of dried fruit for this recipe, just whatever is bulging out of your kitchen cupboards and crying out to be used at the time. I've got a selection of raisins, dried cherries and dried apricots which would seem to fit the bill. I'm lucky that my local fruit and veg shop, Tattie Shaws, sells a great selection of almost everything, including dried fruits. It's like a wee treasure trove in there. It's hard to resist adding some Glacé Cherries into the mix too, no cake of Fannys would be complete without them.

Fanny doesn't specify the tea to be used either. I think I'm being trusted to make more and more decisions all by myself these days. I think I can just about cope in choosing a tea-bag for a loaf. Or can I? Giving myself a shake I head to the kitchen and decisively make a selection. My choice is from TeaPigs, and is a Liquorice and Peppermint, which I hope gives a slightly different flavour to the fruity cake. Fanny would probably raise her considerable eye-brows and remind me that I am among professionals now, and professionals only use blah-de-blah tea but I'm feeling a little rebellious. Also, it's all I have in my cupboard. So kind of rebellious and entirely practical.

The instructions are relatively simple, which is just as well after all these edgy and exhausting decisions. I chop up the apricots and halve the glacé cherries so that all the fruits are almost the same size. Sitting down with a delicate china cup of tea to munch on a gob-full of dried fruit just wouldn't do. A fair amount of brown sugar is mixed in, so much so that I'm questioning Fannys accuracy here, but I plough on. The cold tea is poured on top, and the (self raising) flour, a little salt and one solitary egg is worked in. Very economical. Fanny says the mixture will be very loose, and it is. Reading ahead, I had buttered and floured a loaf tin, so once combined it all gets poured in and baked in a moderate oven for a whole hour.

The finished 'loaf' comes out of the tin very well - that buttering and flouring technique is a good top tip of Fannys. Fanny says if you and your family are able to exercise some self control the loaf can be covered in foil once cooled and left for 24 hours before cutting. My self control is out of control so I take the other option of slathering over some icing glaze, decorating it with more glacé cherries, slicing and getting stuck in. Fanny says if you follow her techniques the fruit will 'stay where you put it' and not sink to the bottom of the cake. Unlike the weather in Edinburgh today though, it is quite dry and a little crunchy (maybe there was too much sugar after all?), but with a cup of tea it is lovely. With butter smothered on it I am sure it'll be even better. If only I'd been able to leave it for a day! Fanny is certainly right (again) - this is one recipe worth hanging on to the leaflet for and making again! I'm sure she meant one recipe not of hers though, undeniably they are well used, aren't they?

Ooh-Aah Just A Little Bit of Mite-y Vege Tim-Tam-A-Bang

Fanny Cradock took part in Eurovision in its first year, 1956. Yes, Eurovision! Before you start to imagine dear old Fanny and Johnnie bopping-and-a-twirling around a stage crooning and-a-cooing to a panel of international judges for votes for their song, I should point out it was a Eurovision Cooking Contest. The European Broadcasting Union encouraged all sorts of competitions between European Nations, and Fanny wasn't one to ignore a challenge. Particularly when the gauntlet was thrown down by a celebrated French chef, Monsieur Raymond Olivier, who goaded her by saying that 'Women, particularly English women, do not know how to cook. They are incapable of inventing a dish.' Fanny stood up to fight for our National Honour against the Frenchman in a head-to-head culinary battle, filmed by the BBC and beamed around Europe. Terry Wogan was not involved.

Fear not Eurovision fans, Fanny did take the glitzy performance aspect of the competition extremely seriously. Well, you wouldn't expect anything less. She made sure her entourage arrived with a paparazzi flourish, and her gown was suitably dazzling. She claimed to fashion the elaborate apricot coloured satin number herself, studded with diamenté and embossed with ostrich feathers. She whipped around the stage swishing her 3ft train in her wake, much to the 'delight' of the cameramen I am sure. Monsieur Olivier wore grey.

In celebration of the 'other' Eurovision's 60th transmission, the EBU have invited long term supporters Australia to participate, highlighting the theme of 'Building Bridges'. Fair Dinkum. (Please read every sentence from herein with a 'high rising terminal' or upward inflection at the end). I think it sounds like fantastic fun. You probably heard Jason from Don't Boil the Sauce squeal at the announcement. For the past few years he has been tucking into tucker from around Europe for his fabulous Chow Down to Eurovision. I love Eurovision, but he's obsessed. This year he's asking other bloggers to create a dish to represent Australia... Just like Fanny I can't resist a challenge, particularly an internationally-camp and flamboyantly-controversial one involving Eurovision and Australia. So, time to slip on that apricot ballgown, polish my diamanté and flick my train into the kitchen.

Fanny showcased perfectly fine English ingredients in perfectly posh French dishes for the contest. Fanny insisted they both create a Soufflé, and the Oyster version she whipped up for Eurovision was apparently a roof-raiser. So, naturally, I'm adapting the recipe with a suitably Aussie twist as my entry. Luckily Fanny included her recipe in her very final book, The Ambitious Cook - A Lifetime in the Kitchen in 1985 and detailed the story in her autobiography, Something's Burning in 1960. I need to incorporate iconically Aussie ingredients, so what better than Vegemite and Tim Tams? Stone the crows, if this isn't what most Australians would hope to be known for, I apologise. I may have Buckley's chance in this contest already.

To recreate Fannys soufflé I follow her guidelines and make a roux from butter and flour. I plonk in a half a tablespoon or so of Vegemite too. While it's still warm in the pan, like Fanny, I add cream and white wine - obviously Australia-tastic Jacobs Creek! I beat in egg yolks and beat again until smooth. My Tim Tams are whizzed up to a powder and mixed in to sweeten before the very stiffly whipped egg whites are folded in. I've already buttered and coated my soufflé moulds with more powdered Tim Tams (you can never have too much) so fill them up with the mixture. I nervously wait for them to bake in a hot oven for around 10 minutes, while an interlude video montage of Fanny in Australia scrolls through my mind, but I needn't have worried. Like Fannys version they rise to the occasion and will hopefully bring me 'douze points' when the voting lines open. Follow Don't Boil the Sauce on Twitter for all the fun. He's a top bloke.

They taste unusually good. I'm hoping the slightly alcoholic, sweet and salty mix will appeal to Eurovision fans Down Under as well as Up Over. Move over salted caramel. I'd be stoked if you'd vote for me if I get through to the next round! The result of Fannys Eurovision was officially diplomatically decided to be a draw. Fanny felt she was the real winner. Is it a sign that we can expect a tie this year too? Apparently the Monsieur tried to get it written into his contract that he would 'win' but he hadn't bargained on the fierce and formidable Fanny. What a drongo. What controversy awaits for 2015? Hopefully you'll be saying 'good onya' to a Scottish blogger for representing Australia with a twist on an old Fanny recipe... Strewth, whatever next?

Yeast is Yeast

Fanny is angry. She's fizzing. It's the state of the nations bread that's got to her this time. Raging. She is 'heartily sick' of the National Loaf which spends weeks hidden in a mystery deep freeze before it makes its way to the bakers shelves. These loaves are depressing Fanny, not only in how they look (which is of prime importance to Mrs Cradock) but also in how they taste. According to Fanny, they taste like inner soles or damp flannels. Neither sound too pleasant, not that I've tried them you understand. Fanny blames the commercial production of bread which is pumped full of water to bloat its weight and fool the housewife. But Fanny is not fooled, and is on a mission to urge us all, housewife or not, to refuse to eat the stuff by encouraging already busy women to find some time somewhere to make their own crusty loaves which are a delight to eat and better for us. Phew.

It all sounds so 'today' doesn't it? A campaign for now. To get us all started Fanny suggests a simple White Loaf, but she has a few golden rules to remember first. Always use the correct flour - Strong White. Fanny reckons we would be 'twitching with frustration' and cross with her (as if) if we tried to use her beloved 'ordinary domestic self raising flour' for bread. These days bread flour is fairly easy to find - just pop into any ordinary domestic supermarket. Back in the early 70's though Fanny had to be more wily. She would put on her 'most helpless' female expression and trot into her local bakers to wistfully persuade him to sell her some. It seemed to work for Fanny. I'm sure the local baker made some equally strange expressions when Fanny rocked up.

While Fanny is in the bakers, she works her charms to get him to also sell her some natural Bakers Yeast, which she prefers. I do too. I love baking bread. I have used dried yeast in the past, and still do when I can't get the fresh stuff, but I've become quite adept at tracking down the local 'dealers'. I'm fortunate that my local deli Valvona and Crolla sell the freshest, yummiest yeast ever, so no need for me to practice my helpless expressions just yet.

Fannys best advice for bread making is to keep everything warm. Warm up the kitchen. Warm up your bowls. Warm your tea towels. If in doubt, warm it. For the basic white bread, Fanny uses a technique I've never used before, which I'm finding is not unusual. She mixes her yeast with a fair amount of sugar until it liquifies and adds it to half the flour. She then adds (warm) milk and water (half and half), stirring it to a thick paste before adding salt. A lot of salt. It's like wallpaper paste at this stage. Fanny leaves it in a warm spot, covered of course to keep it warm, for 20 minutes or so.

It's looking quite bubbly by this stage, Fanny adds the other half of the flour and mixes it well. Then the kneading can commence! Fanny says to be firm on yourself and never scrimp on kneading time - 10 minutes is a minimum. However, worry not, as this very energetic job is simply 'marvellous for the figure'. Which no doubt helps when flirting with the local baker to 'score' some flour. Not requiring this, I use Sarah, my trustee assistant to knead it until smooth. It wouldn't be Fanny if it wasn't baked in an unusual tin though - Fanny uses a Savarin Mould, I reach for my faux-Bundt. Fanny pops it in the mould and leaves it to prove for an hour or so until it's doubled in size. Then, bake! After 10 minutes in a hot oven Fanny brushes it with an egg wash and pops it back in. The finished loaf has a lovely dark, shiny crust as a result. Fannys' loaf is great actually, light and tasty, and easy enough to rustle up. The only effort seems to be in making eyes at the local baker. Don't make Fanny angry though, switch from your flannel-tastic supermarket loaf while you can! If you don't she'll make one of her less feminine expressions in your direction. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Any leftovers left over?

Everyone is considering 'healthy eating' options after the festive season, but not Fanny. Thankfully. Me neither, I want to eat glorious comfort food for quite some time yet. Fanny's more concerned about using up the last scraps of Christmas Fayre in tasty ways and dedicates the entire Part 15 of the partwork to 'Christmas Leftovers', or as the Belgians call them, 'l'art d'accomoder de reste'! According to Fanny, leftovers, like the poor, are always with us and what better place to start than with the cheese board. After all, so many of us have bent over backwards to give our families and friends an impressively cheesy selection on Christmas Day. However, Fanny suggests, our families are then lumbered with an accumulation of bits of cheese which get sadder and sadder as the days go by. I'm sad enough that the Christmas Tree has come down, I don't want sad cheese as well.

Before tackling some cheese recipes, Fanny takes a quick tour of the Christmas Buffet table to suggest, or rather remind us, of some leftover ideas. It's like a blog review of the year really. Fanny admits that it is not possible to predict, without being a clairvoyant, which of her glorious suggestions will remain to be transformed, so she gives some general advice. Any leftover meat, potatoes and bread can be transformed into Pitt-y-Panna, Poor Mans Pizza, Croques Monsieur or Torrijas. Any number of soups can be created with exciting winter vegetables left lurking about. Mincemeat can be transformed into a Soufflé with ease and speed. Potatoes easily fancied up, and anything sweet makes an omelette. Even, if like Fanny, you've made too lavish a fruit basket for Christmas Dinner, those stray pineapples can be frittered. So, no need for clairvoyance, just skip back through Fannys' recipes and all will be well.

Now that that is all clear, Fanny moves back to that poor old Cheese Board. What if you have some sad, neglected hard cheese lying about. What can you do to cheer it up? You can probably hear me shriek with delight as Fanny unveils her Fried Cheese. Yes, cheese, that's fried. In batter. Hurrah.

The batter is a new one on me, but you know, its not a time to hang on to old traditions. Just a couple of tablespoons of flour and an egg, separated. The yolk is beaten into the flour with a spoonful of very cold water and beaten and beaten until smooth but still very thick, with a little seasoning. Fannys only advice is that it should be too thick for a dipping and coating batter. But worry not, just before the frying begins it's transformed into a batter that IS suitable for dipping and coating by whipping up the egg white until its very stiff and blending the two. It looks like a lovely batter in the end, light and golden coloured.

Fanny says the cheese can be Gruyère, Emmental, plain old Cheddar or even processed cheese. Whichever looks the saddest on the cheese board I'd say. For me it's Cheddar. Fanny cuts her cheese into triangles, which seems very jolly indeed, so I do too. It's passed into the batter and slipped straight into hot, but not too hot, oil. This allows the cheese to soften inside by the time the batter has puffed up and has become golden brown. Fanny suggests arranging the triangles on a napkin covered dish and sprinkling with parsley and paprika before presenting it as in her picture. However the photographer didn't get the memo, it's quite a different picture that has appeared. So Fanny includes a side note that it can also be an 'alternative' presentation which I have recreated. The photographer was presumably fired. The fried cheese is gorgeous, I'm almost ashamed to admit. The batter is light and puffed just as Fanny said it would be, and the cheese soft and gooey. I must make sure that my cheese board always has some left over...