Don't Question the Digestion Suggestion

Fanny has taken an unexpected few weeks off. Not, as you might assume, to travel to fabulous places, rest and eat fabulous food. No, she's been furiously checking over and analysing what she has shown us so far, and has been actively making forward plans for future culinary adventures. She does deserve a break in all fairness. She's been beavering away for the past forty-three weeks solidly producing weekly magazines entirely for our benefit (ok, and for significant financial gain) stuffed full of recipes and ideas to free us from the shackles of domestic drudgery. By making certain we never leave the kitchen.

The reason for this slight pause in proceedings is to ensure that the next half of the part-work is as thrilling as the first. Yes, we are half-way through, by Fanny's calculations. It may have taken Fanny almost a year of non-stop whipping, beating and piping, but it's taken me close to four years. Fanny thinks we're only just beginning to master the basics. Fanny originally planned the part-work to be a glorious technicolour collection of ninety-six. Little did she realise that it would come to a premature end rather abruptly after a more modest eighty. So, in reality, I'm well past half-way, by my calculations. I do often wonder what would be found in those missing sixteen parts, but perhaps that's a concern for another day.

Today, we must focus on observing how the old and familiar and the new and unfamiliar not only start coming together very closely but at the same time lay down fresh foundations for further, forward adventures. The old and familiar Fanny has in mind are digestive biscuits. The new and unfamiliar is making them into a fancy, French-style flan. Fanny does not think the word Tart is suitable for polite company, either in the kitchen or the bedroom. Except here, her Biscuit Based Fruit Flan is also called Tarte aux Fruits d'Eté. Ooo-la-la.

She bashes the biscuits to crumbs, thinking no doubt about someone that she never really liked very much with every mighty blow. She adds melted butter and presses the thick paste 'of moulding consistency' into a flan ring, moulding it into a flan shape. It's a flan you see. While it chills in ordinary domestic refrigeration, she whips up some very thick confectioners' custard to cover the base with, followed by any choice of berry that your heart should desire. Simple. Just a bit of a glaze with a suitable fruit jelly (I use my homemade Bramble) and it's all done.

Fanny hasn't wasted any time on this recipe, proposing instead that we 'repair our memory gaps' on the absolute basic techniques so that we have them at our finger tips for the journey ahead. I think she means, please take some time to read back over my previous blog posts. Thanks Fanny for the plug. We will soon be trying hundreds of new things, and we must be able to depend on the basics. If our foundations are secure, there will be no limit to the magnificent confections which we will be able to achieve working together. I'm excited, and appreciate the opportunity to tuck into this tasty tart(e) in anticipation meantime as I segue gracefully from 'basic' to 'advanced' in the capable hands of Fanny. Are you by my side?

Skools Out 4 Eva

I just can't imagine Fanny Cradock at school. Can you? I can't imagine her being a child at all. She has so expertly crafted her persona and image for our enjoyment, that is hard to picture her in any other way. Especially as a 'nipper'. I can't imagine her impatiently shoving her hand in the air to answer a teachers question. I can't imagine her playing hopscotch in the school yard at break time. I can't imagine her sitting with other children and enjoying a meal at lunchtime. Perhaps she was born a fully formed adult?

I know it's not popular to admit it, but I was simply never a fan of school dinners. I'm not someone to look back fondly on the seemingly strange creations that were served up to keep our little minds active and stimulated throughout the day. I just wanted to get them over and done with. Except if there was pink custard. Everything is different with pink custard. It was probably a result of eating well at home, and cooking and baking from an early age too. The school canteen just held no pleasure.

It seems that Fanny and I shared this view. She wants to re-educate us all, starting with semolina. Before we all panic and make horrid faces, she is very clear that this will version will bear no resemblance to any school or canteen semolina that we would know. She goes further, chalking up in big letters on her imaginary blackboard the words THIS IS A SEMOLINA PUDDING WHICH YOU WILL NOT FIND REPELLENT.

She underlines this by calling this pudding 'Delicious French Version of Semolina' which she translates as 'Flamri de Semoule'. Perhaps she didn't pay much attention in French lessons either. Fanny brings some water to the boil, shoots in icing sugar, stirs, then adds the semolina. Her instruction is to stir it continuously, which I do, until the spoon will stand erect in it alone, which it does. Off the heat, she beats in an egg and when completely blended, some stiffly whipped egg white. This mixture is then transferred to an oiled pudding bowl ready to be steamed. Luckily I always have one at hand, ready.

Two hours later, it's ready to be unfolded. Fanny warns that if you take a premature peek the pudding is liable to collapse. She includes a photo of one, made by one of her naughty assistants who peeked, to hammer home the message. It's flat. It tasted fine, apparently. Fanny says to always remember that you can salvage any mistakes, but of course it is best to not make them in the first place. I take the instruction and leave mine. It's not flat. Fanny demands that it is served with fresh raspberries and raspberries sieved to make a juice. She tells us that no-one will complain if a little gently whipped double cream is also added. So I do. No-one complained. This pudding shares nothing with my memories of semolina, and is indeed delicious. Every day is a school day with Fanny.

Not On Your Nellie

Fanny Cradock is in full-on reflective mood. She wants us to recall the days when London still equalled Paris as the centre of the Gastronomic world. Even readers in the 1970s may not have been able to cast their thoughts back the eighty or so years that Fanny had in mind, but luckily she was able to fill in the blanks. You can always rely on Fanny. Her story begins long before the 1890s, and involves a man who had run barefoot and fished for trout as a little boy in the stream which runs through his birthplace, which happened to be Villeneuve-Loubet in Provence. So, not dear old Johnnie then? Ringing any bells for you yet?

Fanny gives another clue. He reigned supreme at the Savoy Hotel in London and indeed over 'all the greatest chefs in the world'. Shame on you if you didn't guess that Fanny is all a bit dizzy thinking about her all-time hero, and inspiration for everything gastronomic, Georges Auguste Escoffier. As well as footwear-free fishing, Escoffier apparently adored grand opera, and had the pleasure of cooking for Australian Operatic Soprano Dame Nellie Melba when she stayed at 'his' hotel between 1892 and 1893. He adored her and his hotel in equal measure it seems. Probably as much as tickling trout with his toes.

Escoffier apparently famously took a night off to hear Dame Nellie Melba sing Elsa in Löhengrin at Covent Garden. Walking back to the Savoy afterwards, no details were given as to shoes or no shoes, the Swan of Löhengrin merged with his constant culinary thoughts to such an extent that by the time he reached his kitchens the original Pêche Melba had emerged - peaches served on a bed of vanilla ice cream, set between two wings of a magnificent swan shaped out of a block of ice. Thankfully he wasn't reminded of his childhood, or fish would've been a feature. Swans though are totally worthy of a grand night out at the opera.

Or the Royal Albert Hall. Sixty years later in 1957, Fanny recreated an exact replica for 6750 people (exactly) at her sell-out show. That must've been one BIG tub of ice cream. The swan was sculpted from a 30lb block of ice, just to give a sense of scale to Fannys presentation. Presumably Johnnie was set to work on the Swan Sculpture while Fanny performed. Fanny realises that even if we were inspired to, recreating her version of the recreation of the creation (Escoffier added Raspberry Purée at a later date) in this way would not be possible. So she urges us to forget the swan that seemed so central (put down that chainsaw Johnnie) and focus on the simplicity of the dish, which she says, is well within the scope of any cook. Even us.

Provided of course you have an ample purse. Vanilla pods, fresh peaches and 'out of season' raspberries (for nothing else will do for a Pêche Melba) do not come cheaply, but do make a fantastic difference on the very occasional times you can afford them. Do not even consider the 'abominable ersatz substitutes' of tinned peaches, vanilla essence, bought ice cream and 'cloying pink sauce' made with imitation raspberry flavouring and tasting 'quite disgusting'. Which would naturally be choice number one. Instead, poach your fresh peaches gently in vanilla sugar syrup, set them atop a bed of luxurious ice cream, and drizzle with fresh, sieved unsweetened raspberries. This is the Real Peach Melba, the most famous of all ice cream puddings. Simple it is, but deliciously divine. Swans are entirely optional.

A Pile of Crêpes

Johnnie should be worried. More worried than usual. He often looked somewhat concerned anyway, but somehow remained unflappable in Fanny's presence. Perhaps not today. There is something different in the air, a change of mood, a change of intention. Poor Johnnie. He's probably quietly taken himself off and is hoping to remain hidden downstairs in the dank and dark wine cellar. Maybe Fanny won't notice he is absent, or maybe she has devious plans... She's not in a rage, she's not cross and there is no suggestion she will be walloping anyone. Not today. Quite the opposite. She's felling, well, a little fruity to be honest.

Fruit Pancakes that is. And she is not in the mood for hanging around, this potent feeling may not last. She has her crêpes already prepared, layered, wrapped in ordinary kitchen foil and stacked in the refrigerator, so she's good to go. It's as if she has been planning this flush of lustiness. I made mine earlier too, following Fannys instructions but using her recipe which contained white wine. It's all part of Fannys seduction plan, fling in some booze wherever possible. The wine actually makes the crêpes very thin and flow around the pan with ease, making crêpes that look like tracing paper.

The first of Fannys fruity flairs are Crėpes Caramelisées aux Pommes, or Caramel Apple Pancakes. Fanny quickly peels and cores a cooking apple before slicing it into thin rings. These are laid over a single pre-prepared crêpe, sprinkled with sugar and popped under a hot grill until they bubble and brown. Fanny warns not to have it too close to the heat, much as there is hurry for seduction, as they will caramelise before the apple cooks, so she asks that you please remember! Fanny hasn't even noticed that Johnnie is missing, she's engrossed in her next temptation - oomphing up the fruitiness with a Tiered Orange creation, or Gâteau des Crêpes aux Oranges.

These are fairly similar to the Pommes, but are made with layers of pre-prepared crêpes sandwiched with home-made orange custard. Fanny frisks up egg yolks with flour and sugar until they are pale and foamy. Meanwhile she heats a mixture of orange juice and orange curaçao gently on the stove top. There is always room for more alcohol, poor Johnnie doesn't stand a chance. Just before the alco-juice boils, she pours it over the sweetly eggy mixture, stirs until its blended and pops it over a double boiler to thicken up, stirring constantly of course. It should coat the back of a spoon. The custard is spread between the crêpes and then topped with thick orange slices, sugar and grilled until brown. Now, where is Johnnie?

Fanny clearly is not convinced that these two alone are enough to woo Johnnie, so includes a third option. Stuffed Pancakes, or Crêpes Farcies. Soft fruits this time, radiant red raspberries and beaming, burnished blueberries made into a quick jam. With internal temperatures soaring, there's no time for it to set, so Fanny has a little trick. The fruits are heated in a pan, then a mix of white wine (I know!) and a little potato flour is added. It thickens in seconds! Fanny then rolls up some fruit with jam in her crêpes, and tops with more of the glazed, lusty preserve. Johnnie will surely not be able to resist. The whiff of the fruit and sugar would surely be enough to tempt him back upstairs, but I have no doubt that the waft of alcohol will certainly bait him back into Fanny's arms, unable to resist. Run, Johnnie, Run!

We Cannae Call Her Fanny - Irn Bru Jelly

Fanny Cradock wasn't her real name. She chose it, or maybe it chose her. Whichever way, it was a master stroke in ensuring that she was never forgotten. Would her career ever have taken off if she'd remained Phyllis Nan Sortain Pechey? It would be so easy to forget plain, pedestrian Phyllis wouldn't it? Fanny was born into a grandiose world where names were all important, but sadly wasn't given a memorable one herself. Her mother was Bijou (a name she hated 'Like some damned Pekingese') and her father had a variety of pseudonyms, most notably Valentine. So I guess choosing more elaborate and appropriate names was second nature. Fanny chose several. In various guises she was Frances Dale, Phyllis Cradock, Nan Sortain, Elsa Frances, Susan Leigh and even Philip Essex. Friends called her Phyl. Her brother insisted she was Phatti. Johnnie's pet name for her was Jill. She really had a different name for each occasion, and for each part of her very varied career. Fanny was the one that stuck.

Today, it's really a bit of a joke name, or, to some, even an insult to call someone a 'Fanny'. Fanny herself seemed to carry it off with style and grace, it's hard to imagine her as anything BUT Fanny. She WAS Fanny. I wonder if she'd laugh at the Irn Bru adverts which resulted in bottles appearing all over Scotland emblazoned with her name in direct response to the Coca-Cola 'personalised' version. The adverts had everyone talking about the name 'Fanny'. I think she'd find it a hoot. As long as people were talking about her, and she'd believe they were, she'd be delighted. That's what her name has given her, and I reckon she knew it would. It's almost impossible to mention the name Fanny without sniggering and without thinking of Mrs Cradock. Perfect.

Working in jelly allowed Fanny an opportunity to shine. Her aim was to bring a little of the Victorian splendour of enormous jelly structures to the modern dinner table, without the hours of work and the kitchen full of maids. For Fanny, it was an everyday dessert of suspended fruit, and she favoured mandarin segments seemingly floating in an orange cloud. For this one I'm substituting orange juice for Irn Bru. Well why not, they go together like Fanny and Johnnie.

To make the jelly vegetarian, I am again using an agar based powder. The difference with this to regular gelatine is that it needs to be added to cold liquids, dissolved and brought to the boil before leaving to set. There go all the lovely bubbles of fizz in the Bru...

No 1970's dessert would be complete without a tin of mandarin segments, and they are still easy enough to find in the supermarket. Adding some lovely fresh, in season Scottish raspberries for a splash of colour, taste and to add a flourish to the final presentation. I don't think Fanny would've, but maybe Jill or maybe even Frances might've.

So, the Irn Bru jelly liquid is boiled up and ready to go. Fanny says to dribble a little bit in the base of your wetted mould and then to start setting the fruit into it. When that layer is firm, lay another on top and cover again with jelly. And so on until your mould is full. See, no need for the kitchen maids, perfectly achievable in an ordinary domestic kitchen. The veggie jelly sets in around an hour and, with my fingers well and truly crossed, turns out well. It holds it's shape with a very welcome wibble and wobble. The finished jelly is a little cloudy, which I find happens with Agar, but the colour is vibrant and unmissable... Just like Fanny herself. So, stand back Phyllis, Frances, Nan, Elsa, Susan, Philip, Phyl, Phatti and Jill, this one is for Fanny and all the other Fannys out there.