’Tis the Season for Apple Pie!

This is the time of the year when I love baking more than ever. I hear the Earth telling me, “Hey you guys, it’s autumn! You must bake!” I don’t how much time Jane Austen spent in her kitchen making pies, but she once said in a letter, “Good apple pies are a considerable part of our domestic happiness.” I couldn’t agree with her more!

Even better than simply slaving away in the kitchen, autumn provides many ways to enjoy your pie-baking weekend with friends or family. Miss Ball, Miss Tarango, and I went apple picking in Sebastopol yesterday (with some wine tasting and found-art viewing thrown in). And today we had an apple baking extravaganza. The menu: apple cake (from Smitten Kitchen), apple pie, and apple puffs (from The Jane Austen Cookbook).

Apple Puffs

(Adapted from The Jane Austen Cookbook by Maggie Black and Deirdre Le Faye)

Ingredients

12 oz–1 lb cooking apples
1 tsp grated lemon peel
1 Tbsp orange marmalade
2 Tbsp brown sugar (more or less to your desired sweetness)
8 oz puff pastry
sugar for sprinkling
Optional: cinnamon

Instructions

1. Peel, core, and slice the apples. Stew them in a little water until tender. (I have no idea what it means to stew. I simply let the water heat up and then let the apples simmer.) Drain well and reserve the cooking juice. Allow to cool. Put the cooked apple pulp in a bowl and mix in the lemon zest and marmalade (and cinnamon, if you like). Add the brown sugar.
2. Heat the oven to 425°. Grease and flour a baking sheet lightly, or cover baking sheet with parchment paper.
3. Cut the puff pastry into 4-inch squares. Divide the apple purée between the squares. Fold the pastry over diagonally to make turnovers, or fold the pastry horizontally to make rectangular pockets. Pinch the ends of the pastry to seal. (Alternately, what I ended up doing—mostly out of sheer laziness—press the square of pastry into a muffin tin, add apples, and add a bit of pastry cut into fun shapes for decoration.)
4. Brush the pastry lightly with the reserved apple juice and sprinkle with sugar.
5. Bake the puffs on the baking sheet for about 20 minutes. Serve warm, topped with a little extra marmalade or vanilla ice cream.

Existential Musings on Gingerbread “Cakes”

We here at Austenacious like to reminisce about the good old days when we were young(er). Men had billowy shirts, women had “om-peer” waists (thanks to Stacy London) and lots of cleavage, fans were often employed in flirtation. Good times for all! But, I have to tell you, the old days were not all about wet shirts and boobs. Other people can talk about Napoleon and the lack of arm movement in old dresses; I am here to tell you that the Regency HAD NO COOKIES! No wonder Mr. Darcy was so pissy.

Or, if Jane Austen’s time did have cookies, Miss Osborne’s head is going to roll. One evening she presented her innocent Austenacious sisters with the aptly quoted “cakes” below. Three jaws chomped thoughtfully. Hmm, we said, pleasant flavors of molasses and ginger (and caraway, if you like that kind of thing). But we can’t get no satisfaction. A texture sort of like dried out cookie dough. And no zing, no happiness, no. . .  sugar, or salt! Our consensus: They were okay if you’d never had a cookie, but here in the 2000s, why bother?

This caused Mr. Fitzpatrick to think about the future. “What do we eat now that in 200 years they’ll think, well, I guess it was okay if you’d never had a — ?” Any ideas, tasteful readers? Will the futurites be like, “Geez, why were they so afraid of genetically modified food? Life is unthinkable without naturally chocolate bacon!”? Or, much as we think “How could the Elizabethans drink beer at every meal and no water?”, will they think “How could they eat so much sugar? Especially so much corn syrup?!” as they munch their gingerbread “cakes”? Count me out, if so.

Martha’s Gingerbread “Cakes”

(Adapted from The Jane Austen Cookbook by Maggie Black and Deirdre Le Faye)

Ingredients

1-3/4 cups flour, plus extra for dusting
1/2 Tbsp ground ginger
1/2 Tbsp ground nutmeg
4 Tbsp butter
1 tsp caraway seeds (optional)
1/3 cup molasses
flaked almonds

Instructions

1. Set oven to 350°F.
2. Sift together flour, ginger, and nutmeg into a bowl. Rub in the butter until the mixture is like crumbs. Add the caraway seeds if you are using them.
3. Blend molasses into the spiced flour. It will make a soft, sticky dough.
4. Dust a work surface lightly with flour, and roll out the dough not less than 1/4 inch thick. Cut dough into rounds, or use simple cookie cutters. Arrange cookies on parchment paper on a baking sheet, and place an almond flake on each cookie.
5. Bake for 10 minutes. Cool on the cookie sheet until cold, then store in airtight container.

Makes 14. Eating is optional. However, you might find yourself consuming them without fully being aware of it. They are a little hypnotic that way.

P.S. Miss Osborne had one genuine Scot try the “cakes,” thinking they might be a culturally acquired taste [cough] Vegemite [cough]. Our scientific sample of one’s conclusion: no go. She thought they were as boring as we did. However, we’d be happy to hear from our lovely English/Welsh/Scottish/Irish readers: was this the treat of your childhood? And if so, why?

Eggs and Onions (or How to Make Hard-Boiled Eggs Complicated, Regency Style)

My friend Maggie recently decided to raise chickens (one is named Big Red, another is Pokey, and the rest don’t have personalities and, therefore, remain nameless). After a slow start, suddenly Big Red & Co. have been popping out eggs at a prodigious rate, so this weekend I was the recipient of a dozen eggs from her flock. I also had spring onions in my veggie box so I decided to tackle another Regency-era food: eggs and onions (also known as “the onion dish,” though you’d think it would known as “the hard-boiled egg dish”).

Eggs and Onions

(Adapted from The Jane Austen Cookbook by Maggie Black and Deirdre Le Faye)

Ingredients

3 hard-boiled eggs, briefly chilled
1 medium onion
salt and pepper
6 Tbsp unsalted butter
1 tsp English mustard
1 Tbsp white wine vinegar (I used champagne vinegar because that’s what was easiest to reach in my pantry)

Instructions

1. Make hard-boiled eggs and chill them briefly. Peel the eggs and slice them. Discard any slices that don’t have yolk. (Or just eat them because your parents will somehow know you wasted good food and remind you that there are starving children in Africa.)
2. Peel the onion and slice into thin, round slices. Heat 2 Tbsp of butter in a frying pan. When sizzling hot, add the onions. Fry over moderate heat, constantly stirring, until the butter begins to brown and the onions are tender. Remove from heat, and drain the onions on paper towels.
3. Discard the butter from the frying pan, and add the remaining 4 Tbsp of butter. Over low heat, add the mustard and vinegar to the butter and mix gently. When the butter has fully melted, add the egg slices, onions, salt and pepper. Toss gently until heated through. (Note: Neither the original recipe nor the modernized version in the book say when to add the salt and pepper, so I just added it to the last step. Use your own judgment.)

Serve as is, on toast, with a side salad for a simple lunch, or as a garnish for winter meats.

Serves 1–2.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick and Miss Ball were kind enough to be my test kitchen guinea pigs. Overall, the three of us approved of the flavor. But eggs and onion don’t make much a meal. They’d be a bit messy on a salad (but perhaps that’s okay because the eggs would sort of blend into the dressing—if I were Jamie Oliver, I’d put the eggs on a pile of rocket, drizzle olive oil on it, and eat with gusto). We settled on the idea that serving them on toast would be a nice snack. It takes a while to caramelize the onions, but the onions are subtle that way and help make the egg dish more interesting than your average hard-boiled eggs.

Photo credit: ©2010 Christine Osborne. All rights reserved.

S is for “Sexy” …and “Syllabub”

As I’ve been reading about food in Jane Austen’s time, I’m amazed at the thought of how a middle class household was fed. Most food items were produced on the estate, and only special items that couldn’t be produced locally (like sugar and tea) were purchased. Unlike my trips to Trader Joe’s, Safeway, and the farmer’s market every few days, they had to live off the land…or make do with whatever they had locked up in the cupboard. Can you imagine locking up sugar and tea? (“Aunt Jane, please please please let me have some sugar!!” “Back away, beeyotch…if you please.”) I, on the other hand, go through many pounds of sugar a year. In fact, I’m downright annoyed when I’m at Trader Joe’s and they only have two-pound bags of sugar. I need at least a five-  or ten-pounder with all the baking I like to do.

After much mocking of the odd assortment of foods cooked in Regency times, we’ve arrived at the beginning of my Jane Austen Cooking Odyssey. Naturally, I’ve started with dessert. And what better dessert than something that sounds utterly ridiculous? Syllabub it is! Syllabub was typically served in a half liquid/half froth format (liquid in the bottom of the cup with cream on top) or an entirely frothy format known as “everlasting” syllabub. How romantic! I’ll go with the everlasting…

Syllabub

(Adapted from The Jane Austen Cookbook by Maggie Black and Deirdre Le Faye)

Ingredients

1-3/4 cups heavy cream
1 cup caster (superfine) sugar
1 cup medium-dry white wine
pinch of dry mustard powder
zest and juice of 1 lemon
1 Tbsp granulated sugar

Instructions

1. Mix the tablespoon of granulated sugar with half of the lemon zest and set aside.
2. In a deep bowl, mix the heavy cream, caster sugar, wine, mustard powder, lemon juice, and the rest of the lemon zest.
3. Beat the mixture with a electric beater until it is thick and peaks form.
4. Arrange the mixture in dessert glasses and chill overnight. Sprinkle some of the sugar/zest mixture on each serving.

Serves 6.

Gentle readers, this stuff is awesome! It’s sweet but not overly sweet (though you might need to get a second opinion on that, as you must have realized by now that I’m a sugar hound). And the wine gives a delightful warmth to the dish. Syllabub is fairly light, so you may want to serve with cookies, fresh berries, or possibly even a simple cake.

Some notes about this particular recipe: I’m not entirely sure what the mustard powder does. (The cookbook states that it “gives body” and that the taste shouldn’t be noticeable. Is that sort of like using cream of tartar used when whipping egg whites?) I doubt it would make much of a difference if you left the mustard out. Also, feel free to serve without chilling. I ate mine right away. Though I’m chilling the leftovers, and I’ll compare the flavor texture tomorrow. Next time I’d like to try using cider (the alcoholic kind of the dry rather than sweet variety) instead of wine.

I also tried this Old English Syllabub recipe from cooks.com, which called for sherry and brandy instead of white wine. Fail. I couldn’t get it to stiffen up properly (that’s what’s in the glass at the top of the photo), and I found the flavor of the sherry and brandy to be a bit too strong. However, if you’re looking for something a little more exotic, you might try Nigella’s Amaretto Syllabub or Turkish Delight Syllabub. (Note to the ladies: I have it on good authority that your husband or significant other would certainly appreciate it if you pretend to be Nigella for an evening. Wear a low-cut v-neck sweater,  and talk in a deep, sexy voice about how rich and delicious your cooking is.) In any case, get whipping and delight your closest friends and family or woo a potential suitor with a creamy syllabub!

If you would be so kind, please pass me the pigeon livers.

As someone who celebrates eating and cooking, I thought it would be exciting to write an Austenacious cooking article or two. But I have to tell you that it’s been slow going trying to put aside my food sensibilities and imagine eating Regency-era food. Fan of Jane Austen that I am, she doesn’t exactly provide any tantalizing descriptions of meals.

Before you start to think of me as Judgey McJudgemental Food Snob, you have to know that I’m not truly a snob. Nor am I afraid to try new things. Yes, I get a weekly organic vegetable box. Yes, I looooooove to bake complicated and artery-clogging desserts. And I (heart) Julia Child. But I also love candy corn, sweet potatoes with melted marshmallows on Thanksgiving, Oreos, and processed cheese. I think, mainly, I’m afraid of animal parts. You know—the pieces that are fatty, stringy, and not particularly meaty.

Here are some ingredients that jumped out at me as I perused The Jane Austen Cookbook to find a starter recipe:

suet My issues here are 1) it’s mostly used to make tallow, and that to me sounds as appealing as eating earwax, and 2) as a prime ingredient in various English puddings, I find it such a disappointment that “pudding” equals something that isn’t a creamy, sweet dessert (that might even have “Jell-O” on the package).

veal knuckle Really?

mutton Whenever I think about Regency food (or any pre-1900s British cooking), “mutton” is always the word that comes to mind. Actually, I’m quite sure that when I first started talking to Mrs. Fitzpatrick and Miss Ball about making an Austen-appropriate meal, I muttered something like, “Good God, am I really going to have to cook mutton?” Why is it that “lamb” just doesn’t sound half as bad? Maybe it’s just that I always picture a morbidly obese Henry VIII chomping away at a mutton haunch and complaining about his gout.

chicken joints Why? I mean, they’re so tiny. And bony. Why bother?

furred game Could we be a little more specific? (Note: I used to be horrified at the though of eating rabbit—poor Thumper!—but I became a convert after eating the most delightful rabbit and pasta dish at Bottega last year.)

forcemeat balls I gather forcemeat is something like a sausage or salami, so that’s appealing. The name is not.

pigeon livers They’re dirty, horrible animals…particularly if you live in an urban area. When I lived in London, there were pigeons that had eyes missing, partial wings, and they were simply covered in grime. I realize that people willingly eat pigeons in France, but here (and in London), pigeons are winged rats. There’s no way in hell I’m going to eat their livers.

sweetbreads Sweetmeats don’t contain meat, and sweetbreads aren’t bread. So confusing. I have to remind myself that it sounds good, but it’s made from the thymus and pancreas. I just have a really hard time with organs.

beetroot This isn’t odd at all. I just added it to the list because I’m passionately offended by the taste of beets. (Yeah, yeah, I know…some people think they’re delicious. I think they taste like jellied dirt. On the other hand, I love Brussels sprouts, so give me a pass on the Beet Hate.)

anchovies It’s funny, for all the horrible blandness that you think of when you think of traditional British food, half the recipes in the book call for anchovies. Sounds promising.

streaky bacon rashers I have no idea what these are, but I liked the name! (“In local news, the Oakland Raiders game was halted for five minutes while stadium security subdued more streaky bacon rashers. This is the second incident in the month.”)

negus This spicy, hot beverage actually sounds delightful! But nerd that I am, I saw it and thought, “Hee…like the Grand Nagus in Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.” And who doesn’t like Wallace Shawn?

Isinglass Fish bladders. I just don’t know what to say about that.

Despite my aversion to organs and stringy animal bits, I will not be deterred! Who knows…maybe I’ll love mutton. Well, I might…if it were fed to me by Jonathan Rhys Meyers. 🙂