yarnstorm

my pcc

When I go into London for meetings I usually catch a train which is full of commuters and bulging with PCs. I have my bag and book and maybe some knitting, but never a PC. Today, however, I joined the ranks of worker bees and travelled with my very own PCC.

My Personal Cake Carrier. How else to transport Cherry Buns and Marmalade Buns to a meeting to discuss Cherry Cake and Ginger Beer?

This PCC is brilliant. Genius. It's the most simple yet satisfying design I've come across in a long time and I know from the reaction I get when I bring it to meetings, that I am not the only person who agrees that it is wholly wonderful.

 

It holds 24 cakes/buns safely and securely and, just like a PC, it fits on your lap, on a luggage rack, under a desk. It may not do as many fancy things as a PC, but it allows you to travel in style and read a good book at the same time. I have to thank Liza for alerting me to this gem's existence (it's brilliant to have friends who understand just how important a cake-carrier is) and pointing me in the direction of Crate and Barrel so that I could pick one up when I was in New York.

The book? 84 Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff in a lovely new Virago edition - hardback, textile design on the cover, one of the ten special editions published to celebrate thirty years of Modern Classics. Very appropriate that a book about a love affair with books is available in a very lovely format. Rereading this little classic gave me goosepimples on the train. Something a personal computer could never do.

magic

She may not make Queen Cakes, but she is undoubtedly the Queen of Cakes.

This week, Phoebe was put in charge of organising her class's fund-raising through the sales of cakes with a magic theme. So I keep finding shopping lists, lists of girls' names next to responsibilities, promotional material, and cake designs all over the house.

Although she is queen bee at school, it was this drone who did the cake-baking at home. Phoebe couldn't manage to make and decorate after school, so I was drafted in to supply the sponge while she was out. Several dozen fairy buns one day, and yesterday four separate cakes to construct the first prize in the school raffle. I loved the way Phoebe skipped off leaving me with all my instructions for the day, but then phoned from school to check that I was following them to the letter. Would I dare not?

So this is her Magical cake; vanilla sponge sandwiched with lemon buttercream and covered in a fetching shade of aqua frosting, topped with silver and blue adornments and a light sprinkling of iridescent fairy dust. It's a '12 aig cake' as the housekeeper in the Billabong series would say when boasting of how many eggs her creations contain (except her piece de resistance is a mere '10 aig cake'). 

I feel like a brickie who puts the construction together with bricks and mortar, while Queen Phoebe is the architect with all the wild ideas. Long may she reign.

                             ***

And here are some magic tulips. These are 'Daydream'; they come up yellow and then change to a beautifully attractive soft apricot orange on the outside (a colour which reminds me of butterscotch Angel Delight),

but with vividly tangerine interiors. Utterly magical.

   

dove-grey oasis

The pale grey skies yesterday matched the dove-grey exterior

and complemented the spring flowers outside Persephone Books.

The shop is a silvery oasis in London, situated in the wonderfully named and characterful Lamb's Conduit Street (little cafes and delis, flower shop, book shops, pubs and wine bar, and a very imposing undertaker's business), a sort of civilised, homely curiosity shop with a Georgian-style mix of domestic and business (it's both shop and office, but it feels like a large, comfortable room in a private house - cushions and flowers and reference books and wonderful posters all contribute to the atmosphere).

I was there for a stimulating, thoughtful talk by, and lunch with, Christina Hardyment whose book Dream Babies has just been republished. 

I've always been highly sceptical about baby and child advice/gurus; having twins first made me realise very quickly that there was no single babycare theory which could be applied successfully to all babies (especially to two so very different personalities) and I quickly discarded all the books I'd bought. But it's fascinating to hear the historical perspective on childcare, and Christina Hardyment treads a careful path through this minefield.

Going into Persephone Books for a couple of hours is like coming upon an oasis. I go to imbibe the atmosphere of gentle intellectual debate and to meet thoughtful, interesting women. Last time I was there in December, I was the speaker and I made some Persephone fairy cakes for the occasion.

But it was lovely to be spoken to, and catered for, this time.

the final flourish

This is it. The last recipe to be tested for the book. It's also a first as I've never made a walnut cake before and I am relieved I didn't have to go through several versions on this final day. Apart from anything else, levels of icing sugar have fallen dangerously low and I might have had to go out to get some more. How ironic that would have been after six months of having cream and butter fall out of the fridge every time we open it, bags of flour crammed into cupboards, and layers of different coloured sugars on every available shelf.

And now I feel like a free woman. Tomorrow, for the first time in fourteen and a half months I'll be able to wake up without thinking about a book deadline. My calendar has suddenly opened up and I realise there is life beyond 14 March, and yet I feel strangely unprepared for the freedom. Maybe I just need to re-test a few recipes...   

So what am I going to do with my time?

I am going to sort out my office. I have a disconcerting ability to ignore the fact that the whole room has crept up around me while I've been working, and I need to rediscover its real boundaries by moving dozens and dozens of children's books, papers, recipe books. I might even find there is room to swing a cat in here.   

I am going to read some grown-up books without looking for food moments and treats. This will be difficult as I've grown so used to my eyes scanning pages for mentions of cakes, biscuits, eggs, ginger, jam, sandwiches, picnics that I'm going to have to readjust to reading whole chapters again. But I suspect I'll still be thrilled when I meet a scone or a fruit cake.

I am going to knit and quilt. The thing I've been looking forward to most is moving away from the computer screen and having something soft and colourful in front of me again. Life will cease to exist in black and white and will turn into glorious Technicolour rather like one of the wonderful transitions in A Matter of Life and Death.

I am going to soak up some new ideas and inspiration. I have my tickets booked and I'm going to be doing some visiting and travelling.

I am going to get some fresh air. Goodness knows, my lungs need some.

I am going to get some sleep. Goodness know, my brain needs some.

Best of all, I am going to spend time with Simon, Tom, Alice and Phoebe who have been amazing over the last year and have seen me through some pretty tricky moments. And they have been the best treat-eaters a cook could ever wish for. This walnut cake is for them.

   

 

turkish delight au poisson

There was, understandably, consternation in the kitchen last night. I decided to test a recipe for Turkish Delight and, as this meant standing by the stove for an hour, I reckoned I might as well cook a smoked haddock kedgeree for tea at the same time. Mmmmm, fishy, turmeric-infused Turkish Delight, anyone? However, the fears of Simon and the children were allayed as I stirred the glutinous mass of what looked like sticky Vaseline and remembered to change spatulas when moving to the rice and fish.

We've made Turkish Delight before but it didn't turn out well. TD has a very strange texture but this stuff had the wrong strange texture, was too wet and slimy, and the flavour wasn't sufficiently 'boudoir'. As a result, I wasn't convinced that TD could even be made at home.

But I was not prepared to give up that easily and decided to have one last attempt. I found another recipe, stocked up on sugar and cornflour and set to work creating the extra-thick wallpaper paste-like mix to which we added rosewater and fuchsia food-colouring at the last minute.

Turning it out of the tin this morning, I could see that it had worked well. It is beautifully, pinkly translucent and gently scented, and when I cut it up and covered it with snowy icing sugar and cornflour, I could almost imagine myself in Narnia.

And how does it taste? Well, I reckon it's the closest I'll get to the real thing when making it in a domestic kitchen. It's soft and sticky yet firm and yielding. It's sweet and perfumed and it makes you very thirsty. It's not authentic Turkish Delight because I really don't think you can beat TD made the traditional way in Turkey. But I like to think it might tempt Edmund in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

One thing, though. You can cook TD and kedgeree at the same time, but I wouldn't say you'd get any Michelin stars for serving them together.

Or maybe I'm wrong. Now I come to think of it, my rose-scented, gelatinous Turkish Delight and smoked fish combination is not a million miles away from Heston Blumenthal's signature dish of oysters and passion fruit jelly with lavender... And look at the way he's convinced people it's what they want.

no words

Something sweet to look at while I use up all my available word-store elsewhere.

A birthday cake made by P for E.

bun-run

We're having a bit of a bun-run here. The new book includes several recipes for traditional, yeast-raised buns such as sticky buns, jammy buns, currant buns and spice buns, so we've been bun-baking in the morning and the evening (see buns below in the gloaming)...

...and in the middle of the day (see hot cross buns below in the weak afternoon sun - I know it's not Easter yet but the recipe - and the deadline - couldn't wait).

I've never been one for a 'baking day' (unlike Milly-Molly-Mandy's Muvver who always bakes on a Saturday morning) as I think everyday has potential for baking. And we have also come to realise that any time of the day is good. This morning I'd made a big fruit cake and 18 eclairs by 9am, and Phoebe often puts her apron on after school when I announce that something I've been writing about needs to be tested and tasted.

Despite the element of pressure, it has to be said that the bun-run has been most enjoyable. I mean, when you get to eat something like this (a Devonshire split) after slaving away over yeasty dough it hardly counts as work, does it?

one twin

One of our twins is missing. Tom and Alice are fifteen today, but only Tom is here to celebrate. Alice has gone to Spain on an exchange visit (and, unfortunately, to discover that the rain in Spain does not fall mainly on the plain) and has left her twin brother to have a sybaritic day of computer games, chocolate, more chocolate and chocolate birthday cake.

It had to happen one day, and although it feels a little strange not to have the birthday girl here, we know this is only the beginning of a new era of independence. I'm actually really pleased that she is happy fly to Spain on her birthday and not miss us all too much.

So she had a birthday cake, candles and plenty of wobbly, out-of-tune singing last night. Phoebe then put on her apron again today and made this chocolate extravaganza for Tom. Tom, being his mother's son, did not want any wax dripping from the candles onto his cake and devised this clever method of protecting the icing and decorations while the candles burned and we sang out of tune once more. He then lifted off the polythene bag and candles in one go, cut a huge slice for himself, and disappeared upstairs. Something tells me he is not suffering separation anxiety. 

mellow yellow

I'm just mad about saffron, to borrow the words from 'Mellow Yellow' by Donovan. I never liked Donovan particularly, but he was always on the radio, in the background, when I was young. I didn't know what saffron was, and certainly never met anyone called Saffron (still haven't), but saffron stuck in my mind.

Later, I read all about the amazing story of saffron and once visited Saffron Walden half-hoping it would be bathed in a mellow light and have fields of crocuses all around (it wasn't and doesn't). Occasionally I bought a little tube of dark red filaments and marvelled at how such a tiny amount could turn a whole pan of rice a beautiful shade of yellow and completely fill the kitchen with a unusual, strange, exotic aroma.

I also knew about Saffron Cake (more a bread than a cake) but only from reading about it in recipe books. So when I came across a lovely reference to saffron cake in a children's story while researching my book, I had the perfect excuse to bake one.

As soon as I poured warm milk over the saffron strands the colour bled out and the white turned a vibrant shade of yellow which was even deeper and richer after an overnight infusion. I'd just watched Girl with a Pearl Earring which reminded me just how precious and costly Vermeer's pigments and susbtances were; saffron has retained this aura and reality of expense and I didn't want the recipe to go wrong.

Kneading a yellow dough was fantastic - like dealing with grown-up, edible Play-Doh - and it rose beautifully in a gold cloud. The moment of reckoning, though, is always in the slicing, and I was suitably thrilled when the first slice fell to reveal a stunningly yellow crumb, speckled with dried fruit and peel. Eaten with butter it was a taste of old, old cooking; just half a teaspoon (I don't know how much that is in drachms - the traditional Cornish measurement of saffron - maybe half a drachm or 1/16 of an ounce) transformed a sweet, yeast-leavened bread into something which is part of a tradition which goes back 3,000 years.

The recipe will be in the book. Quite rightly. 

yet stands the clock at ten past three?

Phoebe and I are elbow-deep in flour, butter, eggs and sugar as we test recipes for Cherry Cake and Ginger Beer. She is my right-hand girl and the best critic of my draft instructions. She's been there since the inception of the whole idea over three years ago, and I am grateful for her staying power (and baking skills). Tom and Alice help in a tasting capacity while Simon does his best to make sure nothing is wasted. It breaks his heart when mistakes and failures are binned unceremoniously - and we've had to do that a few times. Some things work first time (molasses candy pull, posset, jam puffs) while others require several attempts to get the result I'm looking for (parkin, walnut and honey cake, crumpets).

As we make four or five things on a recipe day, we can't eat substantial portions and the slice taken out of the pineapple cake (above) was enough to tell both Phoebe and me that it had passed the test. And then I saw that it looked a little like a clock face telling the time at ten past three. Which brought me, as any mention of clocks and afternoon tea does, to Rupert Brooke.

I'm taking liberties with his poem The Old Vicarage, Grantchester when I say ten past three, because the memorable closing lines are, of course, '...yet/ Stands the Church clock at ten to three?/ And is there honey still for tea?'. But my cake made me think of the beauty of both Rupert Brooke and Grantchester - where you can still have honey for tea at ten to or ten past three in the wonderful setting of The Orchard.

We went there a few years ago and it was magical. And now I have the times of ten to three and ten past three forever ingrained in my cake-eating imagination.