Food On A Shoestring Four: Terroir du Toulouse

There is a word in the french language that has been in the wine canon ever since the french told everyone French was the wine canon: terroir. With its root in 'terre' it links flavour to its place of origin. The soil of the vineyard, its weather, the grapes all contribute to the complex savour of the resulting wine. It's a fine, exacting word for the inextricable relationship between ingredient and its land, figs in the south of france, sardines in Algiers, olives in Greece. The sunlight that warmed them, the land and waters that nourished, all leave an indelible mark that the senses can trace. It's a wonderful concept, and has a ring of truth to it. But it also can be the smug reasoning behind the bullying food snob. 'Terroir' has an air of exclusivity: there is the right soil and the wrong soil, just as there are those who love to tell us we drink the wrong wine, use the wrong balsamic or make bread the wrong way (I like the 'needless kneading' thank you very much). Terroir has those in the know in and the rest of us are out.

I don't really see the point of exclusivity in food. It's beyond banal to point out that everyone eats, it's more interesting to see that everyone has a favourite food, a favourite restaurant, a meal they always cook in company or at weekends. We link food to our childhoods (my first memory is of grated cheese in Canada. Never mind I was in Canada, the cheese is what stuck.) we treat ourselves with it for an emotional boost, we share it with our friends and loved ones, whether they like it or not. The food memories I cherish most are of their time and place: I look back with childish enthusiasm for sandwiches on white bread with flora, kraft cheese slices and iceberg lettuce. I remember Lincolnshire sausages, runner beans straight from the garden and carefully separating the strawberry from the vanilla and chocolate in neapolitan ice cream. I remember the yellow light on my grandparents' kitchen in the mornings where they ate brown toast, the way the aga in my childhood home filled my bedroom with heat in spring, my mother's quiet satisfaction in her shiny new kitchen. I also to my chagrin remember Good Friday fish in pink sauce, the miserable smell of my prep school dining room, the feel of the hard benches and the dread in my heart at least once every school mealtime. Every human has matrices of food memories, domestic, pleasant or otherwise.

Last week I found a book in a Books for Amnesty shop on Gloucester road that probably shouldn't have taken me by surprise. Toulouse-Lautrec was a well known gourmand, eccentric and experimental, as devoted to food as he was to art, indeed to all aspects of life, but I was still amazed by The Art of Cuisine, a collection of recipes, both original and classic, collated and published posterously by Maurice Joyant, a gallery director with whom the artist shared a passion, not just for eating but for cooking and entertaining. The book's introduction notes one particular evening:

'In 1930, Vuillard (fellow painter and friend) told the story of a memorable and succulent feast held in about 1897 at Lautrec's home in the Avenue Frochot- a feast somewhat mysteriously cut short at the cheese course: "Follow me," the master of the house ordered his guests, and led them a short way to the apartment of his friends, the musicians Dihau. Hanging on the wall was a then unknown masterpiece of Edgar Degas, inspired by the orchestra of the Opera where Dihau played the bassoon. It hangs now in the Louvre.

'"There is your dessert," cried Lautrec, showing them the painting.'

This has put me in mind of the current foodie craze for supper clubs. Bristol is teeming with them, with bloggers, editors and punters all tweeting, texting and generally clogging up media with their accounts and opinions. I haven't been to one myself, though I am sending The Blonde to The Montpelier Basement later this month, part birthday present, part reconaissance mission. The mystery, the excitement of strangers meeting over food, the different locations emphasize the all round experience of eating, and not in a concept restaurant way. There is nothing elitist in a celebration, and the setting may heighten the experience (watch Olly Smith in The Secret Supper Club, it's genius. I must admit to a bit of a foodie crush) without the intimidation of a chichi restaurant designed by a Zen motorcyclist or whatever works right now. We are taking 'Terroir' and making it a stage set, and M.Lautrec is invited to observe, if he's available. I think he'd hold the greatest supper club of all.

The recipes themselves range from how to make the simplest sauces to cooking an entire leg of wild boar to the best way to cook squirrels. The latter is too good to miss from this post, as you shall see in the last sentence:

'Having killed some squirrels in autumn, skin them the same day and empty them. Roll them up in a piece of lard and let them brown with some good quality butter in a copper saucepan. When they are a good golden colour, salt them, cover, and let them cook on a very gentle fire.

'One must use no spice of any kind which might entail the risk of taking away from the animal its exquisite nutty flavour.'

I know. Recipe books don't come better than this in terms of reading. tempted though I naturally was by the squirrel recipe in April they quite simply aren't in season, so I allowed myself to be drawn to the slightly more accessible Leeks in Red Wine, or Poireaux au Vin Rouge. Here is the original recipe in full for those of you with several hours to spare:

'Peel a dozen or two leeks, leaving scarcely any green. Wash them, wipe them and dry them with a cloth.

'Into the bottom of a saucepan put a pound and a half of bacon cut in pieces and arrange the leeks on top.

'Moisten thouroughly with three quarters of red wine and a quarter of water. Above all don't blanch the leeks beforehand or else they will be soft. Add only salt, pepper and cloves. Let them cook gently for at least two hours, having covered the saucepan with buttered paper. At the end of this time the leeks will be cooked, rosy, and firm and the liquid will be reduced.

'Now in a long heat-proof dish arrange the leeks. Take some of the liquid which you will bind with an egg yolk. Garnish the dish all round and in the middle with rounds of Toulouse sausage previously lightly cooked and sprinkle all over with bread crumbs lightly worked with parsley.

'Let it brown and go on reducing in the oven so that the dish has a creamy appearance and the leeks don't swim about.'

'Do not add any onion, garlic, scallion etc., but only ordinary and cayenne pepper; strengthen with cloves.

'Use large leeks, 3 cups wine and 1 cup water. Use 3/4 cup of skimmed cooking liquid for sauce. About 1/4 cup bread crumbs and 1/4 cup finely chopped parsley. 300(F) oven about 20 min.'

Probably one of his simplest dishes, simplified further by me to make wine braised leeks and chicory, baked with Toulouse sausage and breadcrumb topping. Here's my version:

I trimmed, washed and halved three large leeks and threw in a spare chicory. Having fried up streaky bacon in the bottom of a deep, non-stick frying pan i added the leeks and chicory and let them brown on each side.

Then I added a 1 part water, 3 parts red wine, salt and pepper, brought the liquid to the boil then let it simmer for half an hour with the lid askew. In this time I put the oven on and cooked the Toulouse sausages, £5 for six from The Bristol Sausage Shop in St. Nicholas Market, and marvelous specimens of Toulouse sausage they are too. Use them in the classic sausage cassoulet for authentic south of France peasant food.

After the half hour was up I took out the sausages and removed the leeks, chicory and bacon to a small heat-proof dish and checked on the cooking liquid. The wine had reduced but I wasn't happy with the overall flavour so I cheated and sweetened it with 1 tbsp sugar, then reduced the wine right down on a high heat. When I was happy with the reduction I poured it over the vegetables, then arranged the sliced sausage on top. I know M. Lautrec uses the sausage as a garnish but i wanted this to be a full dish for hungry people.

Then came the breadcrumbs, enough to cover (leftover from the last batch of bread, sometimes I feel very grown up) with a small handful of chopped parsley. Into a 160 degree oven (150 fan) it went for an hour and out it came bubbling gently beneath the sausage and breadcrumb layer.

Served with lightly buttered new season asparagus from Source it was full, rich and delicious. I admit it wasn't entirely seasonal but I reckon I've found another comfort food dish . M. Lautrec would have approved of the setting as The Blonde and I sat at the table with wine and chatted about the day and life. A pleasant reminder that that every moment is an occasion depending on how you treat it.

Next week I shall go veggie, as this week I have most certainly contravened step 5 of Shoestring's laws, so do stay tuned.

TTFN

Food on a Shoestring Three: Seasons Treasures

I love this season, some of my favourite English ingredients are sneaking into the butchers shops and grocers: peppery watercress, the first spears of asparagus, jersey royals and (drum roll...) lamb. Isn’t it lovely? It speaks volumes of Sunday lunches, celebrations and company, cooking juices and clinking glasses across a sunlit table. And despite my budget I’m not going to miss out on one of spring’s greatest ingredients. Luckily for me on monday I found the compromise too delicious to be called a compromise at the table.

Source is a newish company in the St Nicholas Market, originally known as Taste (and still called that on the St Nicholas website, tsk), the owners were hit hard by the recession and had to pull out. The management team (Joe Wheatcroft, Ross Wills and Liz Carrad), loath to see this great business disappear from the Bristol food scene, took over and have been running it ever since. Inside it’s well lit and spacious, the counters have a gorgeous selection of meat, charcuterie, fish, cheese and cakes, not to mention fresh local vegetables. The Stokes range of chutneys and sauces look very inviting and as for the jars of crab bisque, well. Clearly I could go on but lamb was my quest and I saw only ‘Salt Marsh...’ on the chalkboard before I dashed to the meat counter.

There were the classic cuts of course, and a very tempting brisket but then the breast cuts caught my eye and I realised I’d never cooked or eaten this cut. And at £5.50 for one whole breast now seemed the perfect time. I could have asked the butcher (or Joe, as I now know from the website pictures. It’s research, not stalking, okay?) to take the whole cut off the bone and roll it, then roast it quickly with some herbs and garlic, but Joe’s suggestion of marinating the riblets in spices and slow cooking them made us both hungry over the counter. I grabbed a bag of Wiltshire new season watercress, handed over my tip fund and headed home post haste.

Having shown off my treasure to Harriet I made up a marinade, toasting 1tsp coriander seeds and 1tsp cumin seeds, crushing them with the mortar and pestle. Then I added 1 heaped teaspoon harissa paste, 4 anchovy fillets, a small handful of toasted almonds, lots of olive oil and a little honey. I left it for as long as I could, in this case about 4 hours, covered, seasoned with salt flakes, ground pepper and whole garlic cloves. While the main marinated I made a loaf of bread for mopping up juices later, and for table decoration.

Dinner was set for 8.15 so at 6.00 I browned the riblets in the faithful Le Creuset, then drained the fat and scrubbed off any burnt excess.

Then the riblets went in layered with finely sliced red and white onions. At the last minute I remembered the apricots (one packet dried whole apricots). After an hour I added a sliced lemon and some young thyme.

After a further 30 minutes the riblets were tender and delicately flavoured. Company arrived, wine was opened and dinner commenced, with a little honey served at the table for a quick glaze and the watercress.

The lamb was juicy, the fat had rendered out well and the honey offset the gentle spices. The apricots had soaked up some of the meat juices and matched the savoury meatiness of the lamb. Add the peppery watercress, light bread to mop up the juices and conversation flowed in the way that simple food cooked well encourages. For me the payoff is in the happy, well fed people at the table, chatting happily over the quiet clink of cutlery and glass.

Dinner was finished off with small squares of chocolate brownie, from Tristan Welch’s recipe for Delicious Magazine, an intense little brownie best served fridge cold so it resembles fudge.

As for the leftovers the lamb held up well in the fridge and kept its flavour, though I had to trim the meat from the bone and fat and shred it. This is going to sound prissy but it’s lovely in chicory leaves with a little oil and balsamic. The leftover apricots I blitzed up with some white wine vinegar and put in jars, I look forward to using it as a sweet chutney with a mature cheddar.

a roaring success for spring food and a happy indicator of the coming months. Next week will almost certainly involve asparagus, I simply refuse to be left out.

TTFN

Food On A Shoestring 2: New Kitchen

I have a new home and am settled in to the new waitressing job. The former gives me more pleasure needless to say, but waking up to natural light pouring into the elegantly furnished sitting room more than prepares me for the trials of the latter. My first days off in the flat had to be spent baking, just so I could break in the kitchen and get my culinary bearings for a summer of food.

Having wound my way through a new supermarket (hate that lost sensation, and why doesn't ASDA put all its baking items together? It's nuts) and having found a cute little recipe in Olive Magazine which flavours the pastry with thyme and smoked paprika I set about my first quiche Lorraine.
Ah, pastry. Very satisfying to make, not always a dream to cook. A tip for first time bakers, don't use a spring based tin for your first quiche. Use a proper tart tin and avoid the leak that happened with mine! Still it was caught in time and hurriedly encased in foil which held everything together. Not my most attractive dish but the filling was wonderful. Turns out you really can't go wrong with cream, eggs, gruyère and pancetta gently baked. The pancetta came from Jamie Oliver's range, looks like his world domination plan advances with confidence. It works, light, sweet and piggy, perfect for this dish. And at £2.38 for 180g it's good value as my one meat purchase this week. It passed the roommate test (going back for seconds) and tasted many times better than that which can be purchased in a supermarket. Make the real thing and you realise that satisfying, filling sensation you're getting is from the cream. Replace it with milk or water or whatever these places are using to thicken the eggs and you've got an omelette set in pastry. Not bad, but lacking the rounded flavour needed for a satisfying dish. I made a six portion piece and I'm having the last slice two days later and it's just as lovely. Not a success for the eyes but a winner for the taste buds. In the end I had enough ingredients leftover for cheese biscuits.

I used roughly 70g leftover gruyère, finely grated, 100g butter chilled and cubed and 100g plain flour. For seasoning I added 1tsp thyme leaves and 1/2tsp smoked paprika. I rubbed the ingredients into a breadcrumb consistency and brought the dough together. Then I rolled the dough into a sausage shape, wrapped it in clingfilm and left it to firm up in the fridge overnight.
Next morning I took out the firm dough (half an hour will do, I just made it last thing) and set the oven to 190/fan170/gas5. I sliced the dough into thin rounds, about 3mm and baked them for 5mins. The result was crumbly, warming and very, very cheesy. Not quite breakfast material but a lovely late morning snack. speaking of snacks I'm a little peckish. Back in a moment...

That's better. Now, where was I? Ah yes, Tuesday.

Tuesday I woke pleased with my success and hungry so I went back to the supermarket (with tip money, I must add!) and bought more bread flour and tinned cherry tomatoes. There was leftover mozzarella in the fridge from last week's pesto/pasta (I was moving, had little cooking time) and had pizza on the brain.

Once again, if you make your base from scratch it will taste better and be more cost effective. It costs about £2.00 for a large margherita pizza from asda. £1.00 for bread flour and you've enough dough for six pizzas, which you can chill and even freeze in advance. 50p for a good tin of Italian tomatoes and you've got a sauce base. It's proper passata if you strain it afterwards but I prefer to stick blend it for a very quick, thick sauce.

Finely slice a medium white onion and four fat cloves of garlic. Fry them off in a deep saucepan slowly and gently until caramelised. At this point I chuck in 1/2 tsp chilli flakesfor a little kick and fry for another minute or so. Then add two tins tomatoes and two tinfuls of water (gets out all that juice from the tin and makes it a sauce). Season well and bring to the boil, then simmer with the lid askew for at least an hour, more if you have time. If you're making a dough base it'll take roughly as long as proving the dough and warm up the kitchen which encourages the yeast. Essentially the two actions dovetail into your day with ease. When the sauce is nearly done get your seasoning ingredients out, line them up and taste. I usually add a little red wine if I have it and a tbsp balsamic. If it's too acidic I balance it with a little caster sugar. You may not believe this, but ketchup also works, just don't tell your foodie friends. They'll never know. For a fine finish strain it or if you're not fussy just blitz it. Set aside enough for pizzas and store the rest. I like it with grilled polenta, and pasta will do. Or just toast homemade bread for dipping after a late shift.

Okay, the pizza dough I used was lovely but the ingredients ratio (1kg flour, 650g water plus oil, sugar and yeast) was far too much for my kitchen, which is best described as bijoux. Yeast water went everywhere. Jamie's a nice man but he's clearly never worked in an apartment kitchen. I salvaged enough dough to continue but Jamie's method works far better in a small space with 500g flour and 300ml water mix, as I did this morning to make a loaf of bread. You can add more water if the dough's a bit dry. Also make sure to make a very large well in the flour, much bigger than you think you need.

After that all it takes is toppings and ten minutes in a hot oven. Don't drown the base if you want it crisp. Just 1tbsp sauce, a little mozzarella and some flavourings scattered and dinner is served!

Food on a shoestring: it happens.

As I prepare to spend less time acting and more time waitressing I'm also holding my breath in anticipation of that horror that is minimum wage life. I love eating in restaurants and even more than that I love wine so times like this bring a sad sigh to my lungs as I drag myself past delis and favourite haunts of the city, promising them and myself that it's not forever. So I've decided to do that really irritating thing and put on, not just a brave face, but a cheerful, can-do one for all to see. I shall make a virtue of budget cooking, and by doing so prove that life on a shoestring is not about cup noodles. Well, it can be if that's what you like but if that's the case you probably aren't reading this entry, but if you are don't go away! Let's see if I can convert you instead. I don't want to be patronising and most of you probably know all this, but I shall get all the obvious point out of the way now and then we can enjoy ourselves:

1: Make use of your time.
Primarily I bake because I find the process relaxing, and the results are so friendly. But another virtue is that the money spent on a baked good from a shop or even a supermarket will buy enough for at least double that in store cupboard ingredients. Of my two days off I tend to spend one food shopping, cleaning etc then the next I lie in, make plenty of coffee and at noon start prepping for the week's meals. To feel less cheated I bring the laptop into the kitchen and catch up on my week's viewing and radio.

2: Get out your calculator.
We've all had that student moment when we've suddenly realised we've only a fiver to make it through the week. Avoid that moment by assessing your monthly expenditure in advance and don't cave in the supermarket, no matter how lovely the pastries or in my case the cheese and wine look.

3: Use your freezer.
It's not just for pizzas, peas and chips. Buy some sandwich bags and use it for meat, fish, pastry, biscuit dough, soup, veg, bread, butter, the list goes on. Keep things like mince in individual portions so nothing is wasted. If you're a recipe hound like me most recipes online will point out if and at what point a dish can be frozen.

4: Shop around.
Not so easy if you live in a more restricted area but most small towns now boast at least two supermarkets. Compare your prices and try shopping online. But please don't forget markets, proper greengrocers and butchers and specialist shops. A small quantity of good quality produce cooked cleverly will keep longer and it will go much further. If you live in a city try oriental and asian supermarkets, you can bulk buy dry goods, pastes and sauces, not to mention garam masala, curry powders and other spices.

5: Cut down on meat.
Don't leave! Stay with me here it's not the end of the world! I know us English have a mania for meat and two veg, but let's face it, the doctors say we don't need much protein, environmentalists say raising the livestock is a strain on the planet and it costs so don't argue with with a blogger, go shout at the news. If you need persuading then use Madhur Jaffrey recipes, proper indian cooking that shows you how much flavour and texture you can get without meat. What meat you do buy make use of, make stock from sunday roast chicken for sauces and soups, put leftovers into pies. Decent mince goes a long way if you've lots of people to feed, as do any cured or seasoned meats, so hams, bacon, sausages and in particular chorizo. Just one 225g sausage in a dish will easily feed four. With fish there are usually cheaper alternatives to the old favourites, pollock instead of cod, langoustines instead of prawns. Look for special offers and stock up your freezer.

There, was that so hard? I've not bothered mentioning ready meals only because it's been so long since I bought or ate one I'm not really in a position to comment. As for takeaway, forget it. You'll feel better for it, I promise, and I'll try to put up some homemade versions that will give you that fix.

Recipe one comes straight from Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall's River Cottage, a simple white loaf recipe. Click on the link for the recipe and on the Channel 4 website you'll find the original episode so you can see how Hugh does it. 1.5kg Allinson Strong White Bread Flour costs £1 and 125g Allinson Dried Active Baking Yeast costs 64p to make two loaves and enough yeast to last you for months. One Tescos Finest Farmhouse loaf costs £1.30 and doesn't fill your home with the smell of freshly baked bread. Have a go and tell me your results, better still send pictures!

TTFN

Guinness? No, I'm grand, thanks.

I feel kind of duty bound to comment on this day. I'm naturally opinionated and, with Irish 'roots' on both sides of my family, one closer than the other, I'm very much the diasporic demographic today. So, hmm, Saint Paddy's day and all that...

Right, first things first. I'm not Irish. I am English. I was born here, so were my parents and my sisters for that matter. We all speak in a Mary Poppins accent (my Dad in a lower octave of course). So that's that out of the way. I have no illusions about my immediate state. However I cite my Irish grandfather as a powerful influence on me, I cheer for Ireland in the Six Nations (this wasn't an easy spring for me) and have worn a claddagh ring on and off ever since I knew what it was. I have told as many people as would listen about the time at school I was asked if I was in the IRA and being at a loss as to how to reply. I should have just said: 'Yes. Now feck off before I call my contacts. Can't play football without kneecaps, eh champ?' But to my significant regret I kept quiet and wondered why prods were so intense.

Obviously a little Celtic blood was a bit of a novelty in a very old, very C of E public school so as I grew older and became a little more confident I played up to this, wearing something green on St Patrick's day, referring to things or people as 'grand', just little things to remind myself that if I had to be a posh English person at least I had a twist of green in my personality. Looking back it was probably terminally naff, but given my options as a teenager I guess I should be grateful it placed me somewhere in between the hockey players, musos, nerds and the 'Who Crew' (think about it, remember that bunch of kids in school, if someone said their name everyone else looked puzzled and said: 'who?' Yeah, them).

After school I channelled this into a love of stand-up, that most marvellous method of communication, gazing in wonder as a series of Irishmen (nearly always men admittedly, if anyone knows of a good Irish comedienne please, please tell me) hold forth on what it is to be Irish. My heart went out to them. They were funny, articulate, clever, charismatic and if I was going to relate to anything or anyone I wanted to relate to them. They reminded me of my grandfather's ability to make the girls in Morrissons fall over themselves to help him, way he could charm his way into and out of any social situation. In the warmth and laughter I was taken back to a very simple time where the perfect Sunday meant listening to jokes and music, a warm nostalgia that stays with me, and frankly I'm unwilling to let that memory go. It's a very rose tinted view of an extraordinarily complex man whose family history is entwined in the foundation of the Ireland that exists today, but it's the view I choose to remember and I think he'd probably be quite relieved, though he'd struggle to understand how I can draw comparison between him and Dara O'Briain.

None of this, however, has anything to do with wearing Guinness hats, painting Shamrocks on your face and getting sick on a drink you only consume once a year. I've never liked Guinness and I'm fucked if I'm going to be forced to drink the stuff simply because some Roman slave got dragged over to a rainy island and was so shocked by its pagan ways that when he got the chance he came back to civilise it with Christianity. Not really an uplifting tale from my point of view. The shamrock is a pretty enough emblem that links back to the saint demonstrating the Holy Trinity to Irish clan leaders, evidence that good teachers really are timeless, but it doesn't explain why, even after twelve years in practising CofE schools, most of which I sang in the choir, I still trip up over the Anglican Lord's Prayer and forget the funny little extra bit.

The little tugs at the back of your mind bring you back to where and, more significantly, who you came from, and inform the people we have chosen to become since. I learn far more of a personal diaspora from the poetry of Louis MacNiece than from diddle-dee-dee muzak twiddling away in the background of a bar filled with scrap metal. At the right moment a Pogues song can raise the hairs on the back of my neck but it has that effect on many people because the music is so good. If you can understand every word Shane McGowan sings I take my hat off to you, but the passion is unmistakable. A long storytelling tradition is fascinating to a people culturally hamstrung, ironically by the same Cromwell that tore through Ireland in a storm of religious fundamentalism and bigotry. While we lost much of our folklore theirs became a badge of defiance, it is a fine thing to be Irish because it means you are be default not English, and the English may have taken this more to heart than they realise. We struggle without a cultural grounding, and we know there must be more to our history than mead and Morris dancing. Stout, cider and whiskey with songs sounds much more fun.

So I can see what brings people in their hordes to the streets tonight to annoy the bartenders of the nation, blocking the bar with their silly top hats and flags tied round their shoulders, enjoying the green tat begrudgingly strewn about the place and pretending to like the bitter, heavy stuff in the pint glass. But I shall give it a rest. Tomorrow night I shall celebrate my little diaspora in my own way by sitting down to dinner with my family, drinking wine and talking, laughing, and, if we've drunk enough, singing.

So I leave you with the Irishmen that give me joy: Dara O'Briain, Ed Byrne, Dylan Moran, Andrew Maxwell, Jason Byrne, Brendan Grace, and the reigning king of Irish stand-up, Tommy Tiernan Have a great evening and do whatever raises your spirits. But be mindful of the bar staff. It's not an easy night.

Burlesque and cake: a match made in heaven.

Oh how I enjoy mucking about in the kitchen. Even my kitchen, tiny, cramped and messy though it be. As an actor in between a contract and casual work I have a horror of that long stretch of time between daybreak and sunset and find a useful way to avoid alcoholism is to bake. It's cheap, time consuming and there are seemingly endless diversifications to be found online, on't telly and in't books. Not to mention the ability to turn up with homemade confection is a very useful way for a naturally antisocial member of our species to appear warm and fuzzy- particularly in the acting world where new colleagues tend to put the word 'unemotional' alongside 'sociopathic.' When the Daredevil Divas performed in November it was casually suggested I put this hobby to use and so produced a couple of items that I'd found in Nigella's book Kitchen: a chocolate orange loaf cake (one of the easiest recipes possible for the cake novice and tastes grown up enough to offer an important guest with tea), and a raspberry bakewell slice (little more time consuming but far easier than making shortcrust pastry and takes minutes to prepare if you've a food processor and mixer). As a wheat free option I slung in my famous rice crispie cakes in camp muffin cases and sprinkled with edible gold dust. As a finale my excellent friend and soon-to-be flatmate/landlady Harriet De Winton came up with pretty in pink cupcakes that updated my rather homely selection. All went well and were eaten with gusto so for the Gallery evening it was suggested I make a few more, the emphasis this time on the cupcakes.

I had a little more time to myself on this occasion so decided to really explore the cupcake as an artform. It's easy to turn one's nose up at the little cupcake, as anything in the thrall of fashion what's cute as a button one season is facile the next. The high street is still enjoying the consumer demand for these pretty, brightly coloured treats but fashion has moved on to the macaroon (fiddly at best, needs a large, accurate oven and an electric whisk), the whoopie pie (don't get me started on that bland thing) and now cupcakes in jars are all the rage. At least they were last month, god knows what the fashionistas are pretending to eat this week. But in terms of home baking I think the humble cupcake is the perfect starter item for a nervous baker, the sponge is so very simple that all the fun can go into decorating it afterwards, putting a personal stamp onto a universal formula which, let's face it, is why we make the effort in the first place. Personally I would far rather eat something with more depth to it, a wasabi cream macaroon or handmade baklava, something tiny with an intense burst of flavour to keep the tastebuds warm for hours afterwards. But we love to look at cupcakes, we love the way they look diminutive on a plate, the way the buttercream seems to pile itself on top, the endless opportunities for decoration and flavours, sugared petals, lime and coconut flavour, chocolate cream and edible glitter. They don't feel like a dietary transgression either, if the sponge is light enough you won't feel the impact of them until after at least two or three with tea.

All these thoughts encouraged me to make the most of my little commission. I had my budget and roughly 50 people to bake for and I wasn't about to be accused of being ordinary. So I dusted off my imagination and bought a great deal of icing.

I saw Black Swan on a weekend in Leeds and was, still am, struck by the beauty of the cinematography. Please don't drag me into a tedious debate on the subject of ballet and body image, whether or not directors are that horrid and the pressures of being a performer. Phooey. It looked marvellous. In any event it struck me as a good subject for cake decoration. The White swan was a favourite on the night, and probably aesthetically the most pleasing of the cakes. The sponge recipe came from the Good Food site, as did the others for that matter. The only tweak would be to whisk the eggs well, get a little air into them, to ensure a light, fluffy sponge. To add a little drama I spooned a layer of seedless raspberry jam into the centre of each cake. Just layer the batter in, one teaspoon of batter, half a teaspoon of jam, then top with a second teaspoon of batter.
. The swans themselves I moulded from wedding cake icing a couple of days in advance and left to set. I reckon in retrospect marzipan would have done equally well but I wanted a unity of flavour
.


Then of course came the black swans, and to make these you must be very brave on the subject of food colouring. Not for the faint hearted in terms of E numbers but I assure you the flavour of the icing is not affected at all. One thing it does do is make the icing rather runny but I loved the way it dripped evilly over the crisp, white cases.

The black swans had a different icing that dried very quickly so I used an origami-esque approach, cutting them out from flat rolled icing and folding them into shape. This required a couple of attempts, and flat the final model actually looked a bit like concorde but it had the desired effect.


Easy and popular were the chocolate cakes with pink buttercream icing- I added a heaped tablespoon of good quality cocoa powder (fair trade) to the dry ingredients to make a chocolate sponge, then piped the buttercream icing on the finished cakes. The nylon bag split on the last cupcake- sticking to proper catering equipment from now on. These were eaten first, gratifying but it certainly showed that the icing is what the people want!

After that rather serious effort I wanted the rest of my cakes to be more 'fun', and I also wanted them to adhere more to the burlesque setting. So I chose Bettie Bruiser and Poppy Von Tarte as my inspiration (frankly they've been my major inspiration in all things artistic for some time). Bettie Bruiser's Vanilla bites were my last bit of icing work, I love her skull and crossbones emblem. I made a cardboard stencil and cut out my little figures with my trusty icing knife (they exist, would you believe, though a craft knife would do).


Then to the cupcakes, a vanilla sponge with blue buttercream icing (spread rather than piped this time as the last lot rather tested my patience. The result was surprisingly sweet, next time I shall try to find a more metallic blue for a more hard-edged look.


Last came a proper bit of baking. I was a bit tired of cupcakes, pretty though they are, and with Poppy as my inspiration I needed a 'Tarte'. I used Nigella's raspberry recipe without the fresh raspberries, using two medium sized round foil cases rather than one large square. To finish I iced them and topped them with icing poppies (oh yeah I made them too. No biggie.). I loved the result, crumbly, buttery pastry, nutty, moist frangipani and smooth, light icing. There are many gaps in the English food canon, but we do on occasion come across some rather excellent cakes.


All credit to Liz and Michaela on yet another successful Diva night. Teensy drama at 6.30 when all the lights on North St went out and we weren't sure how the rest of the night would fare, especially as without power the bar was struggling to continue service. Luckily disaster was averted and power magically went back on. The rest of the evening was problem free: Lottie Psychottie had another supermarket meltdown (if you want to please a crowd of women, tear up a calorie chart to the soundtrack of Rage Against The Machine. It'll go down a treat). There was Lucy's pirate tale and Anita MacCallum's poem My husband's in the freezer. There was my rather tired performance of Brel's Jackie (not doing the backing track thing again, methinks) and Amsterdam acapella (better, in fact I'm rather tempted to stick with unaccompanied from now on, keep things low key. Unless someone frightfully talented wants to join in, that is, and I'm happy to hear from any penniless musicians on that subject, especially if you like Brel, Weil and Waits). There were Opin Yalegs and Kitty Cattrap and Poppy was the peerless compere.

A brilliant night in the company of performers, photographers, sugarwork professionals (couple of tips), a lady with a vintage china business who lent an elegant cake stand (Lucy if you're reading this can you give me her details so I can plug her), Liz and Michaela's costumier and many more. There was a communal feel to the night, and I hope our marvellous organisers could feel the warmth and gaiety of the gathering. I only hope our portraits make quick sales, the profits of which will go to a charity of the DDDs choice. Got home tired and happy and ready to face the rest of my week, which was good as I rather needed the energy.

I shall of course keep you posted on the Divas and hopefully will be able to put up a link to the portraits when they go on Liz's blog.

Share and enjoy.

What will become of Cherry and Paul?

It wasn't meant for me, and I might not have noticed had I not been self-centred enough today to feel sorry for myself, so I hope you'll forgive me for being inexplicably moved by the little series of these notices that were posted up in Stokes Croft this afternoon. I counted four, two up the gloucester road near montpelier and another two up a side street. We so rarely get glimpses into the inner lives of even our closest friends that something so emotional and intimate concerning people I've never even seen makes me yearn to relate. I can't help but wonder what happened between this couple, what Cherry has to be worried about, and what went wrong to for everythig to be 'OK' now. You're suddenly hit with a warped perspective, as if your depth perception is changing before you, as you take in the tiny detail of a life other than your own. I'm not really supposed to know, it's not addressed to me so it clearly is none of my business but I wonder if any of you have ever come across something like this? Unless this is how people communicate in Stokes Croft and I'm amazingly behind the times with all this social media, which might actually be vaguely plausible in this Wonderland city.