Reverb 10, Day 6 – Make

December 6Make
What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it?
Author: Gretchen Rubin

Sauce According to Dr G the last thing I made was… a mess.

"And before that, another mess! And another mess before that!".

I'm the grot in the relationship, and he is the fusspot who can't sleep at night unless the remote controls are lined up perfectly facing east on the coffee table.

Recently we bought some tomato ketchup in a glass bottle. After years of plastic squeeze packs I'd forgotten their charm, all that impatient slapping of the upturned bottle.

"There's a correct way to pour, you know." I explained, "When I was a kid we'd get in major trouble if we didn't follow the procedure."

"There's a procedure?"

"Yeah, once you've poured your sauce you have to quickly twist the bottle to make sure the excess goes neatly back down the neck of the bottle. If you spill any over the sides you are in DEEP SHIT BABY!"

"So is that why you're so messy now? Still rebelling against fascist neat freak parents?"

"Could be!"

I'm trying to be neater, just like Gareth tries to contain his OCD and not twitch when the couch cushions get wrinkled up. Marriage is about compromise, so they say. I want to be neater because a) life is admittedly more pleasant when you're not screaming where's my freaking BUS PASS every morning, and b) because Gareth is so not a jerk with his neat freakishness. He doesn't lecture about the apparent correct way to sweep up crumbs on the kitchen floor nor does he chase after guests with a feather duster like some parents I have known. He just quietly goes about being tidy. Although possibly secretly wants to strangle me.

My friend Ginger was talking about The Happiness Project recently (the bestseller written by today's prompt author), in particular something called The 1 Minute Rule. The idea is that you don't delay a task if takes less than one minute to complete. I'm giving it a go at the moment and, derr, it really does feel pleasant if you don't hang up your coat on the floor, quickly answer a work email instead of ignoring it for months and take your empty tea cup to the dishwasher instead of leaving it on your desk to fossilise.

If these reforms continue, I'll have a different answer for this prompt next year. Instead of making messes I'll be making something beautiful like toilet paper dolls or tyre swans.

How to make a Christmas cake

How I did it: After years of banging on about making a Christmas cake I finally made one for Xmas 2009. I'm not much of a brandy or mixed peel fan so I went for a recipe that had neither – this Walnut and whisky Christmas cake from Delicious magazine.

It was fun to put together and whiffing the big bowl of fruit and booze. I couldn't find the dried pear so used dried apple. The only mistake was mine – I misread my oven thermometer and set the oven temp in Fahrenheit instead of Celcius. Didn't notice for about 90 minutes when I wondered why the house did not reek of Christmas and spice.

But I whacked up the oven, left it for another hour or so and it turned out well. Maybe it was more moist than it should have been but I didn't know any better..

I didn't bake until early December so it only got three weekly feeds before the big day. Instead of feeding it with just whisky I used the whisky/hot tea/sugar combo from this Hot toddy fruitcake recipe on BBC Good Food.

The icing was amazing. The golden icing sugar is the businesss – caramelly and rich. Will definitely use it for other cakes. I subbed water for the whisky as I think I'd overfed the cake already. You definitely need to blast it with a hand mixer to get the proper spreading consistency.

Verdict: very tasty… love the walnuts. I'm not really a fruit cake lover but this one is less of smack in the chops – not too spicy, not too fruity.

Lessons & tips: Read your oven thermometer properly :)

School of Cake

Recently Sister Rhi and I went to a Cupcake Decorating workshop at The Make Lounge in London. The teacher came armed with two boxes of cupcakes and what must have been at least six litres of buttercream in a gigantic plastic tub.

I'd not beheld a sight so beautiful since the mega Nutella of 2006. So rich and fluffy and apparently bottomless. As the teacher slowly ripped off the lid, Rhi and I growled in unison, Awwww yeahhhh lookit thaaaat.

It took us awhile to remember it was supposed to be a fun day. It's that Perfection Or Death mentality so often found in the offspring of school teachers. Who knew it was so freaking stressful to make a piping bag?

"All you have to do" is take a triangle of baking paper. Then "simply" hold one point of the triangle, wrap it around your left hand, then make it meet the opposite point, then gently pull your hand out and wriggle it back and forth until it makes a very pointy point. Got it? Right. EASY.

Mine was utterly rubbish. Rhiannon's looked perfect first go. I was overcome with resentment and would have stabbed my eyeballs with my bag except the point wasn't pointy enough to do so. Then Rhiannon's bag sproinged open and she got cranky. Then came ten minutes of rustling and rolling and swearing until we finally realised everyone else was having just as much trouble and the teacher had to demonstrate the whole process again, except slower.

"I guess we should relax," said Rhi.

"Yes," I said, "They can't expel us from Cupcake School, surely."

We loaded the bags with buttercream and I resisted the temptation to squirt the whole lot straight into my mouth because we had to practice piping. If you are thinking of quitting your day job to make cupcakes, just hold it right there. This shit is not easy. I've always prided myself on neat handwriting but when your pen is made from paper and the ink is 90% butter it's very hard to make it smooth. My letters looked like little farts of mashed potato.

Next we were allocated seven cupcakes each (six to keep, one to screw up and scoff). Then out came the wacky food colourings and our own! individual! tub! of! icing! I managed not to lick it straight off the palette knife. Oh baby.

Then we loaded up fresh piping bags and got ready to cover the cupcakes. Again, this is not as easy as it looks. It is really hard to make a neat circuit of the cake. You get one side looking decent then your hand cramps up so you miss the edge of the other half. But that's okay – you can just photograph them for their good side!

Here's my wee fellas all iced and waiting to be adorned.

 Cupcakes
(forgive blue cast in that pic)

Next we learned some jazzing-up techniques, such as colouring bits of marzipan, making shapes with little plunger thingies, and how to shower your mistakes with edible glitter.

Cupcakes3
Here are the stars of my Winter 09 collection: the Girly Christmas Tree and the Valentine's Special.

Cupcakes4

(You're supposed to dust the icing sugar off your marzipan shapes but I couldn't bloody do it without crushing them.)

The aftermath of our marzipan shapes…

Cupcakes2
Here's Rhiannon's delicate creations…

Cupcakes5
And my amateur sugar bombs nestled in their box. The 7th was a shambles and went straight into my gob.

Cupcakes6 

So glad I took this photo as an hour later me and my cupcakes got wedged between a wall and an overloaded Christmas shopper outside the Tube station. Splat!

Nigella Returns

Draft entry from last September when I was addicted to Nigella Express and Gareth tried to contain his disdain for poncy food programmes.

Notes

  • Nigella still foxy
  • Has abandoned suggestive deep-throating of runner beans
  • Still does "Spontaneous" Midnight Fridge Raid at the end of every episode.

SHAUNA:  I wonder where you get that garlic oil?
GARETH:  From London.

SHAUNA:  I can never find those mini chocolate chips.
GARETH:  That's because they're in London. You can only get them in London.

NIGELLA:  I love making quick and easy food for my friends after they've had a stressful, hard day's work.
GARETH:  Get down a pit!

NIGELLA'S DINING COMPANION:  What is that delicious flavour with the chickpeas?
NIGELLA:  It's a bag of rocket, darling.
GARETH:  That's preposterous. What a tosser. Everybody kens rocket. I come fae Fife and even I ken the taste of rocket!

(I love how when Gareth gets irritated about poshness his speech suddenly turns all Fifer-like, eh.)

That’s A Good Pud

chef.jpgHow do we carry on now that Masterchef is over?

For those not in the know, it's basically American Idol with foie gras and fancy knives. It's hosted by two strangely endearing blokes who don't understand the concept of Inside Voices, so they constantly bark at the contestants, I WANNA SEE A NICE PLAYDA FOOD and NOW THAT'S BEWDIFULLY SEASONED!

The contestants are mostly earnest Former Bankers or Ex-Barristers who gave up high-flying careers to pursue their Passion for Food. This intrigues me as I don't think I could sacrifice even my low-flying career until I was 100% certain that the Passion was 100% secure and paid near enough to the low-flying career that I wouldn't need to live in a cardboard box. But on the telly, Passion RULES and people can chuck their jobs with gay abandon.

The final episode was both compelling and insane (and beautifully live blogged by Anna Pickard) Shouty Aussie was reduced to tears by Emily's beetroot tagliatelle and Shouty Bald insisted that EVERY YEAR THEY. JUST. GET. BEDDA AN BEDDA! Curly James was eventually declared the winner of the suitably curly Masterchef trophy.

It was so easy to be swept up in such culinary drama but Gareth brought some perspective to the table:

shouty_oz.jpg  "Whoever wins… IT WILL CHANGE. THEIR. LIVES"
shouty_bald.jpg  "It DOESN'T get any TOUGHER THAN THIS"
shouty_g.jpg  "They're just COOKING THE DINNER!"

Cheers, Big Ears

Thanks everyone for all the rockin' comments lately, whether it be New York tips, computer expertise or book-related kindness. Now here, have a Mutant Cookie!

Mutant Cookies

When I walked through the door after work on Monday I was smacked in the gob by a wonderfully melty chocolate smell – Gareth had been baking! What a gem. He said he didn't space the cookies out on the tray so they turned into a conjoined megacookie (cf my megaAnzacs of 2005!) but they were heavenly. Crunchy on the outside, chewy in the middle; just the way I likes 'em.

Anyway… thanks again everyone for your supreme helpfulness. Now I've got to blast the cobwebs off this blog. I was running around like a mad chook last week with New Job Freakouts and deadline angst but I'm determined this one is going to be Calm The Hell Down Week. Hope you have a goodun, too.

Be Proud of Your Teeth

The seaside town of Arbroath is famous for many reasons:

  • For the Declaration of Arbroath
  • For its beautiful and incredibly history-riddled ye olde Abbey
  • For being the home of the Arbroath Smokie, a tasty smoked fish that has Protected Designation of Origin status (just like Champagne, Parmesan and Newcastle Brown Ale) and its very own tartan!
  • For being the toon where Mothership-in-law Mary is from!

When visiting Arbroath recently I found the above was the mere tip of the tourist iceberg. There was so much more to see, like the sandwich shop called Goodfillaz and the Macdougall Dentist Surgery:

dentist.jpg

We wandered round the town admiring the buildings, many of which were made from local red sandstone. Behind the Abbey was a bustling red sandstone bowling club.

"I cannae wait to be old," Gareth said almost wistfully as we peered through the fence, "I'm totally going to bowl. Grey trousers and everything."

bowl.jpg

I took a few photos of the Abbey itself but didn't go inside. It was £4.50 to get in and we only had a tenner on us. If we went into the Abbey we wouldn't have had any money for dinner. When choosing between stomach and brain there can only be one winner.

To me the jewel in the Arbroathian (?) crown was Peppo's fish shop. In my humble and gluttonous opinion it just may contain Scotland's deep-fried Holy Grail – the Best Fish Supper in the land! In my 4.5 years over here there have been two major contenders – the famous Anstruther Fish Bar (as graced by Tom Hanks and Prince William) and the fanbloodybrilliant Ben Ledi Cafe in Callander, but I think Peppo's has the edge. Long-term lurkers may recall I moonlighted as a fish and chip shop lass during university, so whenever we're in line at a chippie I can't help provide Gareth with annoying commentary and analysis on their business practices.

  • There were good signs right from the start – a queue of pensioners halfway down the block waiting for the place to open, and a gang of seagulls loitering across the street. If anyone knows good chips, it's pensioners and seagulls.
  • When the doors opened the two charming fellas behind the counter greeted customers by name (except us two strangers, of course)
  • There were framed poems on the wall written by satisfied customers. Poems with a dozen stanzas! Now that's devotion.
  • Everything was cooked to order. Big deal! you may say, but in sooo many places over here the goods sit in a warmer getting all soggy then get resuscitated in the fryer upon purchase.
  • Most places cook chips by putting them into a basket, then lowering the basket into the oil. These chips were free range! The basket was tipped out into the fryer so they could swim about, instead of being squashed up in their metal cage. They splashed and dove then fished out once they'd floated back to the top, all crispy and perfect.
  • Once the fish came out of the fryer they stood each piece up vertically for a couple of minutes to let the excess oil drain. Such innovation!

It was bloody delicious too. Clean light crispy batter on succulent fish and chips that seemed the marry the best of Australian and Scottish chips – crisp on the outside but tender in the middle. Hubba hubba!

Fish supper at Arbroath

Resolve

Earth-shattering events of 2007 thus far:

  1. Chopped off my left thumbnail while wrestling with this stupid pumpkin. I knew a serrated breadknife wasn't the right tool for the job but persisted regardless
  2. Broke a mirror
  3. Fell asleep pants doon on the toilet after a big night out
  4. Was violently ill for three days straight

The last one happened because I was trying to stick to my twin New Years Resolutions of Saving Money and Keeping In Touch With Friends. I was in the post office in the first week of January sending a whole bunch of cards to Folks Back Home. I was straddling the space between old bad habits and fresh resolve:

  1. Wedding Card for wedding a month earlier
  2. 2 x Baby Cards for babes born in November
  3. Birthday Card for a birthday the next day
  4. Anniversary card for February

So I was writing on my cards there in the post office and feeling good about the ones that weren't late and also because I'd bought a roll of Christmas wrapping paper on sale for £1. The Mothership used to buy all her cards and paper in the January sales and I felt proud to be following in her footsteps, rather than disturbed.

When I joined the queue there was two Australian girls in front of me. They were about ten years old and holding postcards. Australians are always running amok in Edinburgh but you rarely see them out here. It's like seeing a tiger in the supermarket or a nun in a strip joint. A truly novel occurrence.

"HELLO CANNOIVE SOME STAMPS FOR SENDING THESE TO ASTRAYA PLOISE?" Girl 1 bellowed to the cashier.

That melted my heart and made me all the happier for my renewed attempts to keep in contact with the Motherland.

I floated smugly all the way home and it wasn't til I got to the front door that I realised I'd left my bargain wrapping paper in the post office. Oooh I was cranky. But far too lazy to walk back all that way for a pound.

So I started making my lunch, which was poached egg and a salad as I recall. Something thrifty befitting my resolution. I was still fuming about the wrapping paper as I took the egg out of the carton. I noticed it had a dent in the top, you could even say it was somewhat… pre cracked. Somewhere in the back of my mind a wee voice said, You're not supposed to eat broken eggs, dickhead but I said to the voice, "I can't throw it away! I'm trying to save money!".

I ended up spending the last three days of my holidays kneeling before the toilet and Ctrl-Zedding every meal, which proved far more costly that that one little egg. I'll try harder next month.