Opening the fridge this morning, on what appears to be a very wet and miserably grey start to Saturday, I find some apples my boyfriend has left in the vegetable drawer. It's Guy Fawkes celebrations tonight and I am thinking about toffee apples. Except I don't like toffee apples! Then I start thinking about autumnal cozy-ness and curling up on the couch with something warm. Mrs Beeton's Apple soup with its cloves and ginger seems like the perfect place to start and what could start a weekend off better than a nice bit of cake?
Now Mrs Beeton was either cooking for a army or a family with 27 children, so it takes a little calculating so ensure that I don't end up with 7 gallons of soup (I am exaggerating here, its one of my flaws you will get to know very well) but once I have peeled, quartered and boiled the right amount of apples in some stock I can begin to push it through a sieve. I think I know why I love doing this - it reminds me that in bygone eras - nothing came quickly! And once I have it presented in true Victorian style - my nostalgic brain is screaming 'It was so worth it!"
Except, mathematics has never been my strong point, and I forgot to half the amount of cloves so whilst I pull a funny face after my first taste my housemate chirps ' I am sure it will do the digestion a world of good - its very medicinal!"
Not too sure how Caraway seed cake is sitting on my tongue either - and I begin to feel like this will be a disaster. This reminds me of a story - as a young boy I can remember my grandmother and I preparing a steamed pudding of some variety. However, being a war child my gran had strong values that cooking should be easy and fast, and is best when coming straight out of a tin or freezer packet. So it was no wonder this 'steamed' pudding went straight into a microwave! 20 mins later the kitchen was filled with a sickly smell and when gran pinged oped the oven door - the plastic container the pudding mixture (which was now black) had been put in had melted all over the place - looking like some kind of monster vomit! I stood in amazement as gran opened the kitchen window - hacked most of the burned pudding away from the molten mess and lobbed it into the back garden 'for the birds'! So, I am not going to be discouraged. Onwards and upwards - let the successes and disasters of the Nostalgic kitchen come thick and fast - because as for disaster, in the words of my Gran, are 'food for the bloody birds boy!'
Love Clarence!
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