Its butter! But not just any kind of butter. And no, not sticks. Its real butter. Homemade butter. Le beurre fait maison.

And I’ve only recently happened upon it. It was only a matter of time though….wasn’t it?  A natural, organic progression from whipped cream to soft cheeses to beurre. And even buttermilk.

Saying that, I have a thing for beurre noisette and that’s twofold. It’s something in the taste, but also in name, the origin of the name. Nutty, caramel notes of browned butter, paired with flair and sophistication in verbally puffing out the ‘beurre’, left shoulder lifted and neck arched upwards.  Boy, do I love French loan words - produit du terroir, faux pas, beurre noir (black butter), italicized in English and making ladies and gentlemen of any, who with confidence say the words.

But back to homemade butter.

A discovery.

See the last two months have been HARD months. You might have noticed my infrequent and sometimes short posts.

That’s because for the first time ever in my almost-10 year career (or job – and yes, there is a difference but more on that some other day), I worked 80+ hour weeks. Do you know what that means? It means I went to work at sun-up and didn’t return till sundown. It means exhaustion has left a faint trail in my bones. It means I worked Saturdays and Sundays and it means that now when I read about doctors in the US working 70+ hours per week, or chefs having no time to rest, I know exactly what it means.

But that’s not all.

Though those weeks were hard, I learnt a lot.

I learnt that I am much stronger than I think. That a glass of mint tea can change everything. That just by ‘chanting’ positive messages, I can re-inspire, revive and even re-invigorate myself and find the courage and strength to go on. I learnt that when I commit to do things, even difficult ones, I can actually follow through. In this case that included eating right and drinking a lot of water. I also learnt for a fact that the hold of ‘food’ over me is permanently gone.

Through it all, I promised myself that life would go on as ‘normal’. I would go out to lunch with my friends, I would cook and bake, spend time with my children, and live.

And I did. ish. Sure, I didn’t watch as much TV as I wanted, or sleep as long as I desired or cook as much as I wanted to but for the first time, I didn’t let stress, work, fear keep me under. And the result,  ladies and gentlemen? Lots of wonderful discoveries.

First there was butter, and buttermilk. Totally easy and completely delicious. Whip butter into a frenzy, watch it curdle under the pressure of whirling blades, see buttermilk step aside and separate itself from curds. Strain and there you have it. Butter. And who cares that its 11pm and everyone’s asleep. Does it make that creamy delight any less desirable? No. A pinch of salt, some stirring and smoothening, and then the whole thing is piled into a small freezer-proof bowl and is frozen.

I liked the buttermilk, and while not as thick or as tart as I know it to be, it was wonderful to be able to recreate it and have it form a pool for chicken strips, subsequently rolled in a trio of flours & crumbs  (rice, semolina and bread crumbs), for the most delicious chicken tenders you’ve ever tasted. Totally Southern Fried.  With a quick and easy mango sauce? Heaven.

And then over the weekend, I taught my friend to make butter. When we strained off the buttermilk, I grabbed the closest thing to hand – it was a double-walled insulated food flask, for one of the kids. I tipped the buttermilk into it not even thinking it would ‘incubate’ as I tend to see pasteurised milk as ‘dead’. Anyways, the following day, I opened it up to decant the milk and it had thickened, almost to the consistency of (not Greek/thickened) yogurt. Another tick, plus for UHT milk. UHT milk is definitely not dead!

And the butter? Unbelievably good, lightly salted, fresh cream colour and a smooth velvety texture.

Everything this butter touches turns to gold. dust. Disappears in a cloud of deliciousness.

Think Vanilla pound cake – the moistest, finest-crumb cake I’ve ever made. My second attempt at this pound cake, with store-bought butter was a failure – dry.

But it’s my Swedish Summer cake that takes …’the cake’. Literally. A delicious cream sponge, topped with crisp meringue and served with cool, whipped cream and strawberry sauce.  Part tart, part cake, part summer and lightness.

Recipe to follow, but in simple terms – sponge mix, topped with a meringue mix. Bake. Set. Eat. Any problems with that?

Then there were doughnuts, which I’ve always been afraid of making but finally conquered on a Sunday morning, when my nieces were here for Brunch and before I left for the office…… They were so good, and I’d only made a small batch….terrified of first time failure.

Some were stuffed with a poor-man’s version of my strawberry-cardamom jam (using store-bought jam, with freshly crushed cardamom pods).

To the demand of my kids, I made some more a few days later, exploring other kinds of doughnuts, to their delight.

The dough shapes up nicely when the hole is cut out

I finally got with the ‘doughnut holes’  program, after making ringed doughnuts, and finally made jam-filled ones. I still have a desire to make custard-stuffed doughnuts, my absolute favourite!

Donut holes tossed in cinnamon sugar

Funny enough, my kids didn’t like the chocolate glazed ones(????). They loved the sugared and orange-glazed rings. So much for being chocolate lovers.

Donuts glazed with chocolate and topped with Dutch Hagelslag

And all this goodness, fathered by a pack of whipping cream. Wonders will never cease.

And I wouldn’t dare leave without sharing a recipe. At least one.

Swedish Summer  Cake

My version is one that my former Swedish neighbour shared with me in 2010. Her version was a tray bake, topped with fresh strawberries and lemon curd whipped cream. I BEGGED for the recipe afterwards.

Fast forward to 2012 and I made this for my neighbours at a small party we held on Worker’s day. It literally vanished off the tray, served with a homemade strawberry sauce (from saved, frozen strawberries) and whipped cream. I’ve reduced the sugar in the original recipe and am still tinkering with it.

Your version is up to you! Think coffee flavours, garnish with chopped nuts, make the meringue that lights your fires, and feathers your tongue.

Ingredients

Sponge

Meringue

Notes

• This makes two ’9 inch’ cakes.
• You can freeze the leftover egg whites or make small meringues to bake

Directions

Part 1: Meringue

Whisk the egg whites until stiff in a clean, stainless steel bowl. Add half the sugar, whisk again until stiff, then repeat with the remaining sugar and vanilla extract. Set aside while you make the sponge. The result should be a glossy, white meringue with body.

Part 2: Sponge

Pre-heat the oven to 165C.

Grease 2 x 20cm loose-bottomed sandwich tins or two brownie trays and line the bases with baking parchment. Grease again.

In a large bowl (with a hand whisk/stand mixer), combine butter and sugar and whisk till pale and creamy, light and fluffy. Gradually add the egg yolks, one at a time, combining well after each addition.

Serve with chopped fruit and whipped cream if you like.

Have a great weekend.

Glass jars with metal gingham covers, in a variety of colours and sizes.

My collection began 3 years ago, with the easy to find red covers, that are the lids to Bonne Maman’s Strawberry Jam. The jars are currently filled with dried curry leaves and sugar candy sticks.

They were followed by a blue lid, which currently tops a jar of homemade redcurrant jelly. Two years old…..and still waiting to be opened. I’m going to seek out some lamb chops to serve this alongside.

The tiniest member of the family I picked up in London on a trip and it was full of honey. I love the ‘refined’ deep blue of the cap.

And the kids had fun with still life ‘compositions’

The purple one I absolutely love – infact I bought the jar, and then made up a Raspberry Bakewell tart to use up the jam. Crazy, right? Wrong. Just loving gingham and all things check.

And the green one, pretty close to a jar of foie gras was a gift from a wonderful French friend, on the eve of our departure from The Netherlands.

First he gave us the Foie gras and then he brought out a jar of fig jam, made with figs from his own fig tree which he planted in France 20 years ago! Amazing, aye?

I love collecting things and this jars are amongst my favourites. And I’m always on the lookout for more.

Oh well. This is me, joining in the fun with Celia, of Fig Jam and Lime Cordial who does a monthly feature called ‘In My Kitchen’. Thanks for the inspiration Celia.

Fish tail, Fish tail, what's not to love?

‘Ha, gotcha’,  it thought but it was I…who had gotten it!

See, a few minutes before I sat down to ‘wack’ (eat, in Nigerian parlance) with washed hands, I had all the necessities corralled by my side – roll of tissue paper, plastic blue bottle of cold water with tiny bubbles of condensation beginning to gather, creating a tiny pool of water on my ‘pine’ table.

Also, I’d gently extricated my warm self from my peach shawl which kept me snug…and helped ward off the ‘air-conditioned’ cold.  I was certain I would stain it.  And then I debated with myself – let the shawl get stained, or remove the protection and take a risk with the clothes? I did the latter, confident that if at all the clothes soiled themselves (with no help from me whatsoever), there would be a blanket to cover up the crime.

And predictor of success and failure that I am, all I desired thought about came to pass. A piece of fish landed on my white top. Was retrieved and properly managed aka eaten.

I smile. And tuck in to my lunch of Bole (pronounced like ‘ball’ with an e or i at the end) and Fish. Roasted Plantains and Mackerel. My lunch that cost me two hundred and twenty naira ($1.50/  less than €1). For that amount, I got a whole ‘just-ripe’ plantain, five small pieces of yam, roasted; a long, delicious fish tail and some peppery sauce. More lunch to be honest than I could eat in one go!

Most days, I take my own lunch in but on the occasions I don’t, I worry not as good, (street) food is in plentiful supply. Sometimes, I get my lunch myself and other times, a couple of colleagues are so kind as to go get lunch for us all. (We pay, they buy).

The first lunch time order I put in, garnered laughter in our open plan office. See a lot of my Nigerian friends and colleagues tease me about my ‘western ways’ – my love for Spring gets rewarded with ‘there’s only rainy season in Nigeria, no spring’…..Some suggestions I make are brushed off as being too ‘foreign’  but I persist. And nowadays, I say to them ‘You’re just jealous’, when they start turning up eyes and nostrils at me!

Scary? Not to me

And so when the boys return from their afternoon outing to buy ‘bole and fish’, I get ribbed. Hard.  ‘Don’t give her any, except you sign a medical note’. What they mean is my stomach, with 4 years of eating ‘European/Western food’ has become delicate and unable to stomach the oil and spice, thus I might have to see a doctor.

‘Imagine that’, I say, sneering…my bottom lip pursed together and raised up to meet the upper, with a slight hiss. ‘You guys are not serious’. If they knew that for the four years I was away I didn’t abandon the motherland, they would retract their statements. They would think again if they knew that my deep freezer always had blackened, dusty discs of iru (known as one of the World’s 12 smelliest foods), for my soups, pressed together like the flattened skin of an alligator and smelly like its fresh counterpart of locust beans. And crayfish and spices. You don’t get more traditional Nigerian than that. But they don’t know, and I’m too busy settling down to tell them.

Bole and fish is quintessential Nigerian street food. Like Suya.

The Bole refers to ‘roasted’ plantains and the fish is almost always ‘affordable and plentiful’  Mackerel.

In the West of Nigeria, roasted plantains are a snack, paired with peanuts (known as groundnuts) and sold sauceless. Bole and Epa (Plantain and Groundnut).

But in the South…..roasted plantains are a meal. Rarely made at home. Best purchased on a street corner where wizened old and young women, sit beside blackened bowls with fingers of lead, facing red hot coals. Where plantains, green and yellow say their last rites, and mackerel segments itself.

Where sweet hot sauce, orange with palm oil and reddened with spice makes happiness its home. And where every and anyone is free to cart off a ‘black’ plastic bag full of lunch.

Capable and efficient hands. Hands of steel, or lead?

It is simple, the fish is glazed with spiced palm oil before roasting and the plantains and yams go on grill sans any dressings. Roasting commences while a huge pot of fried ‘special’ sauce, made with lots of onions and peppers stays warm. To the side. If balance is important to you, you may observe the shredded Uziza leaves, worshipped by some for its bitterness. But not me.

This is a point and choose game. You request for a ripe plantain, and watch with hawk’s eyes, as the lady selects one….and then you say. ‘No, not that one’. You point to the fattened, yellow-ripe plantain, burnt and burnished bits smiling at you. Welcoming you. You say, ‘abeg, gimme this one’. Please, give me this one. Please can I have this one.

She picks it up, or her helper does. Whoever it is cleans up the plantain or the pieces of yam– they remove the really burnt bits, scraping with a knife and getting it ready for you.

A small black plastic bag is set aside for – the Nigerian equivalent of a brown paper bag. Or a plate if you’re eating ‘in’. And the layering begins.

In and on go the plantains, torn into small pieces. If yams are to follow, they are crushed lightly by the tightening of the fist, and then sauce is ladled over the top. Did I forget the fish? Head, middle or tail? The choice is yours. No fish? That’s also acceptable, if questionable????? Fish goes in, more sauce. Some people say ‘no put plenty oil o’….imploring the lady to serve up the sauce and not so much of the tasty oil. This could be the final touch, Except if you like some greenery and garnish in the aforementioned bitter, Uziza leaves which I personally can do without.

You pay and that’s it. Deed done. You either stroll off, bag in hand or you sit down on a wooden bench, shaded by a red umbrella, eating out of an aluminum plate and enjoying the whizz of taxis and the buzz of street conversations.

So what does it taste like?

I’ll begin. The plantains are the way I like them – soft and sweet. Not mushy, or sugary just a pleasant, chewy sweetness that is matched by the savoury, hot sauce. Food with substanc

The fish is nice. One of the nicer ways of having Mackerel I must say. The sauce has enough heat and spice to cut through the oily fish. The white flesh is gorgeous in contrast with its blackened skin. But by western standards, this fish is overcooked in parts. It changes character across its fishscape, from areas of tough (for fish), chewy flesh….almost reminiscent of chicken, to moist and juicy and just how fish should be.

It isn’t over spiced, or under. Some salt brings out the tastes and the smoking heightens the nuances of flavor.

The sauce is the tie that binds. That hold all things together. Without which, nothing is gained and everything is lost. I like lots of sauce. Or ‘Plenty stew’. Pidgin English. It is thick and flavourful, and lately the lady we buy from has begun to add texture with chunks of red onions…and I’m loving it.

These days, more and more, people are making bole at home. The plantains are roasted in the oven or on the grill and a chunky sauce that’s more onions and peppers than tomatoes is served up on the side. A bit like my Nigerian stew but chunkier.

And in the way of popular and well loved foods, real experts can be found and brought home, to cook up some. Like at a neighbourhood party we had back in December. We enjoyed delish Bole, and Tilapia. And lots of great conversation.

Stay well and lots of love. The journey continues.

PS

I was really pleased the owner of the stall let me take all the photos even if she didn’t understand my fascination. I tell you, I got many strange looks but…..I left happy on many accounts X X X

decorum |diˈkôrəm|

noun

behavior in keeping with good taste and propriety : you exhibit remarkable modesty and decorum.

• etiquette : he had no idea of funeral decorum.

ORIGIN mid 16th cent. (as a literary term, denoting suitability of style): from Latin, neuter of the adjective decorus ‘seemly.’

Mango, Melon & Mint salad with crushed pink and black peppercorns

So now we’ve established what you ought to remember, I can tell my tale.

I ate my first mango of the season on the 21st of February and if you are lauding my wonderful memory, its because I read it off my dental bill. For on that fine day, which began bright and clear, sunlight warming my heart, I had to make a trip to the tooth doctor for the extraction of an ‘impacted’  wisdom tooth which left me with throbbing head and a fine measure of pain.

On that morning, as I head to the dentist’s office, a warm, inviting smell awakens my senses. Considering I haven’t slept well for 4 nights, this might all be in my subconscious. It is the sunny smell of custard – clear as day in my mind and nostrils. Bird’s sunny yellow ‘pap’, to be exact. I imagine pools of evaporated milk, with sugar crystals drowning  and  then my mouth open, glad to receive spoon after spoon of pure delight. I understand why Sally loves her custard pie! And I think, perhaps that this is a sign of the dental treatment that will follow – I don’t know if I should be happy or sad. I’m already in pain so there’s not much to worry about there.

Lots of fruit are sold in wheelbarrows....aka mobile stalls!

Fresh from the dentist and on the way home, with a warning not to eat anything ‘hot’, my hopes of having custard are squashed. I opt for mangoes instead. I know this might not be the logical next choice but…… the mango and a bowl of custard have many a thing in common. Bright yellow hues, some liquid to their name and most importantly, both are loved by me.

I see the first batch of the season – piled high on enamel trays in yellow and red pyramids and I decide this is a worthy substitute. But I’m not thinking about making a delightful mango salad, or drying them, or even whipping up a lassi.

All I can think about is eating one, for want of a better word. Washing it, tearing the thick flesh away from the juicy pulp and chomping that down till my teeth hit stone. And so I stop by a lady, sitting quietly on a wooden stool, haggle a bit and leave with a black plastic bag, heavy with 6 mangoes.

L-R: Sweet Tamarind, Avocados, Pineapples, Pawpaw (Papayas)

I smile. Its interesting how obvious things in ‘season’  are to me in Nigeria this spring. As crocuses and tulips and daffodils sprout in the Netherlands, and across Europe. As cherry blossoms carpet tree bases in Japan.

In Nigerian everything is ‘open air’,  from mechanic workshops to roadside stalls and umbrella-shaded food stands – you see everything. You notice the changing seasons from street corners and roadsides, without even meaning to. You see when the bean-shaped mangoes partly replace oranges, you smell the sweet, mint of pepper fruit in late March when trees are ripe with pods.

L-R: Green and Red Pepperfruit, Black, velvety Sweet Tamarind

You often see small pyramids of hot, yellow peppers and so the landscape changes. Pears, african cherries, sweet tamarind, piled high on thin stalks when I walk down the street, or drive by and I’m reminded, this is the time, to eat and enjoy them, the best time when they are at their peak.

At home, I sit myself upon a wooden stool, one washed mango in hand as the skies turn grey.  I marvel at the way the rain approaches like a noisy freight train, passing through the night. Its intrusion welcome but still its arrival is like that of a welcome stranger. One minute thundering, the next whimpering….and then a repeat. Make up your mind how you want to fall I’m almost tempted to shout back but I don’t. I sit comfortably in my chair instead. And stare at the rain and the mango trees. The mango strees stand, towering in their leafery and greenage, roots and trunk dug deep and spread wide! Every now and again, the skies belch and fart as the air thickens with misty water

My back garden, with my neighbour's mango tree shading...

The rain beats down hard, with such fury that I can do nothing but stare at it, its warmth encased in the long columns of water. The harder it falls, the more I am reminded of algebra and mathematics as the drops form columns. The heavy ones come down hard…and straight, hitting the floor with measure, while the thinner columns sway with what little there is of tropical breeze and thus form the perfect hypotenuse to the straight drops.

When the rain is done venting its rage and frustrations, filling gutters and turning roads to rivers, the skies go calm and the leaves shine with a polished green, ready to garnish the earth.

My mango is waiting. And I waste no more time musing about the weather and its vagaries.

When I eat a mango, I often begin by chewing on the edible skin but more often than not, I tire of that. It becomes too hard work when I know juice awaits me. And before long, I tear off strips of skin, port them in the bowl that I have to hand and finally, the meat is exposed. I bite, pull of pulp, chew and swallow. And as I do so, I admire the yin -yang qualities of this fruit. I coast from one sweet side, enjoying the fruit sugars and before long, I’ve arrived at the tart  side and then back to the sweet, the not-so sweet and then sour. In the end, the pulp is all gone and I am left flossing my teeth with the fibrous things that remain, that cling to the flat stone.

All this while, orange juice streams down my arms. When I notice, remember, care, I lick the juice. I wipe my mouth.

And here in comes the decorum bit. Yes I could finely slice cheeks of my mango. And then make a fine grid out of them, ending with perfect squares of fruit. And yes, that has a place in history.

Yes I too, could use the three-slice plan to ‘eat’  my mango to avoid getting juice all over me. And I may try that someday.

But its the way I ate mangoes growing up that remains the ultimate in satisfaction for me. No cares, no concerns, no airs, and yes, no grace (sniff, sniff). This is all fulfillment. This is nourishment after a game of hopscotch, skipping rope, jumping in mud. This is pleasure direct, from cooking with hibiscus leaves and tin cans. Swimming in the rain and catching tadpoles. This is childhood. This is perfection.

This is my mango and me. And I’m still a lady…..me thinks!

Not that I’ve attempted them recently……but I still love ‘em, with heart and soul.

Click on each photo to get to the ‘relevant’ recipe/post

Dutch Queen's Day Macarons

In Paris, where holidays are done right, it’s Jour du Macaron, and about eight hours ago, hundreds of thousands of schoolchildren woke up singing a lovely song about pastel-colored magic then promptly flooded les rues with their best patisserie-heat-seeking game in tow. 

This is a reason to believe, there’s room for everything in this world, a space, a slot, a worthy corner for cupcakes, and whoopie pies, tray bakes and macarons too!

Mexican Chocolate Macarons with Chillies

I say ‘God created the world, But Ladurée  and Pierre Hermé  ‘created’ Macarons’

This crazy holiday of all holidays was created by the Yoda of the modern macaron, Pierre Hermé. 

I doff my heart X X X

Matcharons

Did I say Happy Spring? Lots of beauty, sunshine and laughter….and rain to refresh things a touch!

For many years, I endured a certain person I saw almost every day speak of the apparent commonness of vanilla – plain Jane, no thrills, no fancies. In all honesty, there was no venom, no poison in his comments but each mention left me perplexed as he would say ‘Vanilla bland’, then go on to mention how its blandness though was not a bad thing, but merely, the ‘standard’, the average, normal…..state of being.

In the plan? ‘Redefining’ vanilla bland; a fly by to the Reunion islands (with Bourbon vanilla pods) and a fine chicken recipe. Game anyone?

Why, oh why have I all of a sudden become a raving loony, talking vanilla? First of all, if you made plain cream cakes without vanilla essence and your new world (aka Nigeria) proclaims them mighty fine, yet you…the baker, sense something seriously lacking….and traceable to the very absence of ‘bog-standard’  flavoring…..that could send you on a spiral path. Like it did me.

And so, if you, desperately seeking vanilla start your search for stray pods, at way past your bedtime, say 11pm, tired, hungry and ready to drop. If you, while on this hunt, send your jar of Turmeric flying…..your glass jar of yellow spice, with innate staining ability……you would understand where exactly I’m coming from. But this is me – I’m my midnight crew, working alone in the long (not lonely), dark hours of the night.

‘Vanilla has a PR problem. As a noun, vanilla refers to our most fragrant and complex flavor, the one we use to improve everything from cheesecake to chocolate.

But as an adjective, it is a pejorative, employed to describe anything common, generic, or bland. We say “plain vanilla music” to indicate the mind-numbing elevator variety …….

It wasn’t always this way.  For centuries, vanilla was considered exotic, luxurious, and rare.

Vanilla’s lackluster reputation stems in part from its particular history in America, where most people initially encountered it as a flavoring for ice cream. Today, the many candied and cookied ice cream flavors that use vanilla as a base reinforce the notion that vanilla is basic: merely the starting point for flavor, not flavor itself; (Slate)

See, my kitchen disasters are numerous but I have never been bullish and outspoken about them. This time though, I can hardly keep quiet. And I appeal to you, in all your niceness and warmth to listen. Kitchen disasters cannot be limited to singed eyebrows, pink palms, dropped turkeys and any of the other ‘common’  happenings that give each cook a tale of their own.

No sir, Turmeric dropping is in a class of its own. The first sign of this is the sound of shattered glass. My head is stuck in a cupboard some feet above while all around me, broken glass plays confetti magic with the tiled floor. Shattered glass on stone. All I say…..silently too is ‘Oh no’.  This is so not the time to clean up….anything. For a few minutes, I have no way of knowing what spice lies sprawled on the floor, jar broken. Ever so gently, I turn my head southwards and when I see yellow, metallic powder spread like sand…on a beach, my heart almost fails me. Why? Because I know Turmeric. She leaves her mark in colour. A yellowish tinge which permeates everything, stone included. I need no bidding to avoid this. Sponge. dishcloth. Soap. Bucket. Bowl. I carefully pick out the glass shards and send it all into the trash.

My white Philips toaster has been touched. It belongs to me, I’m fine with it taking on a close-to-sunny hue. Unlike my landlady would be…..if she came round (not that she does) and saw four of her countertop tiles slightly colored.

I begin my scrub. It is going to be a long night. We didn’t have to pay a deposit on our rented house so there’s no fear of losing that bit but we would like to keep the rent at an affordable level now, wouldn’t we? So I get washing, scrubbing, cleaning….multiple times till I’m sure I can only see a sheen, some slight fluorescence that remains. Actually, Im no longer sure if its my eyes, heavy for sleep that starts seeing ‘yellow’.

In the end, I throw my sponge down and head to bed. Satisfied that I’ve found my vanilla pods, but sad that my turmeric is no more.

Satisfied that vanilla is back in the running, I decide to venture out.

Having mostly used it in sweet recipes, I turn to my gorgeous book ‘Chicken & Egg’, a great find of recipes and pictures glorifying chicks and chooks from around the worldl. The recipe on page 19 features Bourbon vanilla pods (tick) and a whole chicken (tick). There’s also fromage blanc (no ticks on this but I have an alternative in mind) and your regular salt and pepper.

This time when I reach for the vanilla pods, high up…I do it with utmost care. I watch for glass jars that are eager to get broken, spice boxes that want to lose their contents and other wayward belongings in my stuffed-to-the-brim cupboards. I gingerly bring the kilner jar full of rich, fragrant pods, down.

It is night time when I wash and dry my bird, season it with salt and pepper and smear rich and sticky vanilla seeds all over it.

I lay it to rest. And then I begin making my fromage blanc alternative. I take some whipping cream which is thick. I season it with kosher salt, sprinkle lemon juice over the top and stir in chopped vanilla pods. This too is laid to rest.

On the day, back from work and ready to drop (with exhaustion), I nevertheless set about making my stuffing, assured in the knowledge that all I have to do is pop the bird into the oven, baste every 15 minutes and eventually it’ll all be ready. Fresh bread was chopped up to make crumbs, which were stirred into the ‘made-up’  fromage blanc……

…and this went into the cavity of the bird, which was then sealed shut with some fine needles.

An hour and a half later, numerous bastings too….we ended up with a fine bird that I was ready to tear into.

The bird was bronzed and flush with warm fragrance.  Tender too. I tore bits off the bone as the children lined up, ready to devour some with roast potatoes.

And I snuck a bite. It was ok, nice. Interesting even but it lacked the strength of vanilla flavor that I expected, longed for – both out of desperation to experience vanilla in a new way but also in defense of it, to prove the vanilla-bland naysayers wrong. The chicken wasn’t likely to do either for me.

What emerged though was the absolute stunningness of the stuffing! Unbelievable. In my husband’s words ‘the stuffing is great’. Simple words, I know but if you knew him like I did….you would consider this high praise. The stuffing is perfectly balanced – creamy, soft and best of all, fragrant with the warmth and romance of vanilla. Yet the slight tartness of the ‘cream’ is complemented by the flavor of the chicken. the bread crumbs hold it all together, providing a spreadable stuffing that would be wonderful on bread. Yes, bread on bread….but I’m thinking chicken sarnie, with some crisp green lettuce, frilly at the edge, yes. Then stuffing, followed by torn strips of chicken and freshly made celery salt, all capped with a fine slice of crusty french bread. What do you think?

For this singular fact of a sandwich, I think it might be worth making this again. BTW, the kids LOVED it….

And me, I’ve recovered from my turmeric disaster, and my tiles have reverted back to normal.

..But vanilla is essentially a supporting actor. It is a sociable flavor, at its best when bringing out the best in other distinct ingredients, softening their acidity, drawing out their intensity, helping them to cohere.

This is why baked goods made without vanilla lack depth and dimension, like music without a bass line.

And it also explains why we associate vanilla with all things plain: Because vanilla rarely owns the spotlight, we’ve come to think of it as the wallflower of flavors, retiring and easily overlooked. Of course, like many wallflowers, vanilla has a lot going for it. It’s at once simple but sophisticated, familiar yet mysterious—and not at all bland; (Slate)

Chicken with Bourbon Vanilla, adapted from Chicken & Egg by Laurence and Gilles Laurendon

Ingredients

Method

Day 1

Prepare the chicken:  (the day before). Split the vanilla pods and carefully remove the seeds, using the pointed end of a knife – reserve the pods.

Make slits in the chicken and slide the vanilla seeds underneath the skin. Rub the skin with the pods, set pods aside and wrap the chicken in cling film. Allow rest overnight in the refrigerator.

Cut the vanilla pods into four parts, saving 2 pieces to garnish. Mix the other two with the real/made-up fromage blanc. Cover and store in the refigerator overnight.

Day 2

Pre-heat the oven to 220 degrees C (425 degrees F)

Prepare the stuffing: Combine the breadcrumbs and the fromage blanc. Blend well, still leaving the vanilla pods in the mixture.

Remove the clingfilm from the chicken. Season the cavity with salt, black pepper and red pepper flakes. Then stuff with the breadcrumb mixture. If you can find oven string (I couldn’t…though I did find it the very next day!!!), truss up the bird, otherwise close the cavity, with baking pins.

Place on a roasting tray and set in the middle of the preheated oven. Cook for 1 1/4 – 1 1/2 hours, basting the chicken with its juices and giving it  a quarter turn (just reading this, obviously I didn’t do it then!) every 15 – 20 minutes (most tedious part of the task!), until the chicken is cooked and tender.

When done, allow it rest for 15 – 20 minutes then carve….or tear apart, serving with dollops of the stuffing and some tatties….

All trussed up with nowhere to go?

And so it is that I, I….am still in love with vanilla. Plain and simple. No fatigue, no taking for granted, no abuse. Just plain ole-fashioned love. I want all my cakes and bakes and even roasts to be infused with warmth and depth and romance. And vanilla is just the thing to do that for me! I will try again. Who knows what a vanilla pork roast would taste like? I can’t give up now!

Are you a cook who has delicious savoury vanilla recipes? Share them please!

Read the entire Slate article on vanilla

Recipes and stories from Patricia Rain, aka ‘The Vanilla Queen’

More on vanilla: all about it and how to make vanilla powder

International Women’s Day (IWD), originally called International Working Women’s Day, is marked on March 8 every year. In different regions the focus of the celebrations ranges from general celebration of respect, appreciation and love towards women to a celebration for women’s economic, political and social achievements. 

Celebrating us as women, as mothers, daughters, sisters, friend, partners and the multitude of roles we play – this is something important to me and I’d like to say thank you.

As a working woman, my greatest support and encouragement  has come from women.

The colour, energy, warmth and the authenticity that continues to inspire me is something I am thankful for.

Thank you to my female (and male) readers and friends. And yes, this is still a food blog , and I’m still here…..lots of foodie stories to read from you and some to share, were it not for time.

Lots of love ♥♥♥

But in the dead of that Friday night, I imagined I was Buddy, The ‘Cake Boss’, working in a small kitchen in Hoboken, New Jersey. Creating wonders of fondant to amaze men and women.

I am always amazed at how I make bakethroughs (and breakthroughs) in my life.

One suggestion, a challenge, timing and suddenly, confidence arrives and fear of failure disappears. Sometimes I resist with all the might I’ve got – I refuse, run scared but when my mum suggested I bake a cake for my brother-in-law’s Fortieth birthday, I said ‘Yes’. But mentioned I would only be able to ‘rough-ice’ it to which she said ‘No. I’d like ‘proper icing’. To which I responded, ‘I don’t know how to make Royal icing or fondant’.

It was as though she didn’t hear me. She just went on and later said ‘So the cake will be ready when I come back’ (we live in different cities). And I said ‘I can’t commit, I haven’t agreed to anything’!

But it triggered something. A desire to finally conquer rolled fondant. Sugarpaste. Gumpaste.

Tip #1: Rolled fondant is best made the day/night before you use it so it gets a chance to ‘rest’  before being rolled out (kind of like leaving bread dough to ‘rest’  and its gluten strands to relax!)

I sent a text message to a friend of mine saying ‘Help, I need to make fondant’, and she replied almost immediately with the list of ingredients. Then I called her for the ‘method’. The wonders of technology, right? No more cookbooks in the kitchen, only phones and the like .

There were so many great discoveries along the way – the short ingredient list but also the fact that in my city, there are so many gorgeous cake shops – a fact that I was completely oblivious to!

Tip #2 – Sprinkle the granules of gelatin over the surface cold water or liquid. Use 1/4 cup, 60ml, or whatever quantity is called for in the recipe, per envelope. Do not dump them in a pile, as the granules in the middle won’t dissolve. Let stand for 5 to 10 minutes.

I made the cake in advance, and let it ‘bloom’ a bit and then the night before set out to make the fondant. Phone on counter.

The instructions were easy. Too easy in fact.

Let the gelatin powder bloom in water then make a liquid syrup of  liquid glucose, gelatin mixture and stir that into bags of icing sugar and some CMC powder.

Then form a ‘dough’  and colour as needed!

Fondant

Makes enough for Two (2) 9″ inch cakes

Ingredients

From The Sugar Lane: CMC Powder or sometimes referred to as Super Gum and  CMC Gum, and the technical name  Sodium Carboxymethyl Cellulose Gum, or just Cellulose Gum is frequently used as a thickener and a texture ingredient in many applications throughout the food service industry. Food grade and industrial grade CMC Gum is also known as cellulose gum. It is derived from purified cellulose such as cotton linters. CMC Gum helps products retain moisture. CMC Gum is a man-made gum. CMC produces the highest cohesiveness (such as sticking together).  CMC is frequently used as a thickener and a texture ingredient in many applications used in the food service industry.  Also CMC gum helps products retain moisture.

Method

In a microwaveable bowl, or another that can withstand heat, sprinkle gelatin over cold water and let stand for a 5 – 10  minutes till it becomes thick.

Then combine gelatin with liquid glucose and microwave or heat up in a bain marie, till the mixture becomes liquid. Allow to cool till t is lukewarm.

Put the icing sugar in a large bowl, and add the CMC powder, stirring/whisking together to combine. Then make a well in the centre.

To the well, add the liquid glucose-gelatin mixture. Stir with a wooden spoon, from the centre out, pulling in the icing sugar bit by bit to incorporate till it starts to come together and the stickiness disappears. Knead in remaining sugar and continue kneading until the fondant is smooth, pliable and does not stick to your hands.

Tip #3 If fondant is too soft, add more sugar; if too stiff, add water (a drop at a time). 

On my friend’s advice, I stored my fondant in a ziploc bag overnight. However, some recipes suggest it can be used immediately.

Tip#4 Do not freeze (don’t ask me why) – if not using it immediately, store it in an airtight container at room temperature until needed.

If storing longer than 1 week, refrigerate.

Bring to room temperature before kneading and then knead again until soft.

All this while, my fondant was ready and I decided I was going to make a ‘marbled’ cake.

Tip #6 If fondant becomes dry, either by adding too much sugar or air drying, add a small amount of solid vegetable shortening (like Crisco) and knead thoroughly. 

I rolled my fondant into strips, twisted them together and was about to roll it out when my 4-year old strolled into the kitchen.

I’m sure it resembled playdough and I could not say no to his offer of help.

So we rolled it out.

Then I cut it out with a special circular cutter, and attempted to lay it on. It failed – it was too small so I decided to take it off and re-roll again

Such that this…

….changed to this – which you can’t see but take my word for it, blue and yellow changed to green….

So then I changed my ‘speech’ about the ‘reason for the cake design’.

When I presented this to the brother in law who loves all things military and war, I was going to present it as a ‘Camouflage cake’! And I did! Everything must have a story, mustn’t it?

Tip #7  Colours in fondant act as liquids so the more you mix, the more the changes in the palette.

Trim the excess fondant off the base of the cake.

I should have covered the cake board with a bit of fondant first, as my friend advised but I was so scared I would run out that I didn’t. And the signs are obvious. See the patched base?

Tip#8 You can use the ‘pie-dough on rolling pin trick’  for fondant too. So when you finish rolling out your fondant and cutting it to the desired shape, gently roll it on to the pin, lift and then position over the cake. starting to release the fondant from one end to the other.

Anyhow, by this time the daughters were awake and keen to do something for their uncle….. so we got to making some roses which same friend had taught us to make with play dough last year!

In the end, I decorated with 4 buds, each representing 10 years. See, 40 is a special number! Like sticks of butter!

The cake was wrapped in transparent ‘foil’ and presented.

My mum loved it, my brother-in-law appreciated the story and the party was great and I? Well….I knew I had arrived. Know again that I am able to do ALL things (that I need to do), that there is sufficient grace…and courage if I believe. That fear can’t hold be down…or back! And that, another item on that list bites the dust! Yipee ya yay!

Next stop might just be that gingerbread house, any tips?

And are you a fondant lover?

I am confused as to exactly what chemical reaction has gone on with my ultra-pasteurised whipped cream and reconstituted buttermilk.

Something has definitely happened. The mixture is thick, thicker than the double cream consistency yesterday. It looks dollopable…… and at the bottom of  my glass some liquid has collected – whey to the initiated.

But the results are rather unpleasant – the creme fraiche smells sour. Looks weird and tastes….ok. Nothing close to the French or even remotely like forebearer. Considering I used ultra-pasteurised cream and sweet buttermilk powder when the recipe called for fresh, fresh, fresh, disaster was almost guaranteed – I hear you!

But one swallow doesn’t make a summer. Losing one battle doesn’t  mean you’ve lost the war. Doesn’t stop you from winning the war.

That was just one test. And when I employed the dodgy creme fraiche in a sweet ‘quesadilla’ by Sasha of Global Table Adventure (the recipe is from El Salvador), it proved not bad at all. The quesadillas were to die for, perfect gluten-free treats, rich and buttery and perfumed with lemon zest. I enjoyed them best on the day, and continued eating them over three!

The best part – the crunch around the edges and the beautifully browned ‘bottoms’.

So what if the batter overflowed….a good reminder for next time though we did eat every nugget/foot of ‘cake’!

My mascarpone turned out much better  and was very close to the Italian mascarpone – thick, creamy  with an almost sweet fragrance. I enjoyed it, with strawberries most especially! And will definitely make it again.

Don't you like the food caps? They look like shower caps but are not!

But the absolute winner was the version of ‘ricotta’ I concocted. Adapted from a recipe by Jennifer Perillo on food52 that had only fresh ingredients on its list, sans lemon juice. Actually, I can’t make so bold to say ‘Ricotta’, which means ‘recooked’ because I didn’t actually ‘recook’ any mixture. Lets just describe it as making cheese curds!

Ricotta is Italian for “recooked” because it is made by “cooking” whey which is produced when the curds are separated for cheese

The end result not only looked good, it tasted the part too.  And all with a mixture of 4 cups of fresh pasteurised whole milk, 1 cup of powdered full cream milk and 1 cup of powdered buttermilk, (available at Wholefoods). Did I forget to say ‘and the juice of 3 lemons’? When the curds formed, I scooped them out into a cheesecloth lined sieve and waited for the whey to drain out! It was perfect – sweet, creamy and fully formed curds!

With the ricotta I had, I enjoyed some strawberries in a pink cloud,

Made with love, and eaten with the same!

And a most delicious cake simply called Louisa’s cake. A very proud Italian. And I too am proud….of her! So good was it, that when I offered to make a cake for my boss who was leaving, he requested it, haven tried it the week before!

So  why am I thankful? For three reasons:

1. The fact that you think it can’t be done, doesn’t mean it can’t be done – I must keep my courage and continue to try. To this end, I will try to make another batch of creme fraiche, with said cream but ‘real’ buttermilk which I hope to concoct myself. We shall see.
2. Ultra-pasteurised milk and cream can work for soft cheeses – both mascarpone and ricotta ruled.
3. Never give up. Not now, not ever. Why should you? Hope is around the corner, standing on your doorstep, banging on your door. Never give up. I say NEVER!

What reasons do you have to believe today?