There's no logic in Christmas puddings.

I won't bother writing the recipe down, as I posted it last year, but here are a few photos of this year's Christmas pudding making.

 Old trusty recipe. Half made up, half copied from various books. Thoroughly imprecise. Vague quantities. 

 This is what we use for sugar: the gunk at the bottom of last year's pekmez bottle. We buy it in Cappadocia from a friend of a friend who makes it with white grapes, which is nicer than the stuff you buy in the markets and is made with black grapes. Apparently.

 Fruit, spices, more fruit, candied peels. The sherry is mine. I've nearly ran out and forgot to order more supplies. I'm worried I won't last the winter.

 This year I had to do without the mango amchoor powder as we'd run out. Instead I used what may or may not have been mace. It smells like pepper. I put a lot in. Just to see.

 Diogene asked that I put in this photo of him, as opposed to one when he was trying to nick the fruit, stick his paws in the mix, or knock down jars.

 The traditional family stir up. Efes dark in the background. That's Guinness substitute to you.

Glass bowls, some grease proof paper and a bit of string.

 

We decided to use one and a half time the quantities, for some reason we ended up with twice as many puddings. There's very little logic in puddings.

The proof in the (Christmas) pudding

A week late, as always, we stirred the pudding.

Our ingredients:

750g mixed dried fruit, bought at the market in Urgup, Capadocia, including currents (i.e. 'Corinthian' grapes) Sultanas (or 'Smyrna', i.e. 'Izmir grapes'), black and white raisins, that had to be seeded, prunes, soaked in Jameson so they're soft enough to stone (yes, not because I want to up the alcohol content. No, not at all), figs, dates, black apricots. Then there's the usual: sugar, bread crumbs, a bit of flour. Some butter (I'll be f****d if I use beef fat or margerine), eggs, black beer, our own limoncello imbibed candied peel, some white grapes pekmez (molasses) bought in Urgup. And spices: allspice, cinnamon, and, my favourite, mango armchoor powder. Don't ask.

So now it's boiling. It needs to be in for ten hours. We'll do five tonight and another five tomorrow. Then it sits on a shelf till Christmas day when it has to be boiled again (only three hours, though).

But before wrapping it (greaseproof paper over the bowl, tied with string, foil covering it), it had to be stirred, by all the family.
Starting with the youngest: our very own (very literal) Jamie Oliver:

And of course you have to have a sixpence in the pudding. They're not that easy to come by here, so we use a nazar boncuk: a bead for chasing away the evil eye.

So now, as they say, the proof is in the pudding. But the nice thing about traditions is that you do the same thing over and over again - so we're not overly concerned about how it will come out. Now all we need is for our friends from Istanbul to get going with the brandy butter!

Too early for Christmas... part II - the candied citrus peel.

We normally do our Christmas Pudding on the last weekend of November. We normally manage to miss the real Stir up Sunday by a week. Don't ask how that works.
That means, we normally chop up our dry fruit (and make the mince meat) and make our candied peel on the day before. It's usually a rush. A panic, even.

This year Charlotte has been asking to start proceedings early. She's generally been pestering people about Christmas since 1 October. Yesterday I finally gave in, because she's right, she's annoying, and I saw a Pomelo at the supermarket.

A pomelo is a huge, slightly misshaped citrus fruit. 'Im indoors reckons it's a prehistoric Citrus fruit, before they started the kind of genetic manipulations that led to the tangerine and - I believe - most of the citrus fruit we actually eat. He's in fact been buying them for Christmas for two years running. The first year, it just rotted on the balcony. The second year, we got around to using some of the peel for the candied peel. Then we planned to use it for some mythical thai dish that 'Im indoors had seen on the internet, and it rotted in the fridge. This year, we've used the peel, and I'm planning on juicing it. We'll see what comes of that.

Anyhow, here it is (next to a lemon so you can see how big it is):

Yesterday I set my daughter to work. I juiced three oranges, two limes, one lemon, two grapefruits, and she took off the remaining flesh and the pith. 'Im indoors and I have a running dispute as to how much pith should remain. He thinks it tastes nicer with some. Quite how he knows that, seeing as I've always removed most of it, is a mystery. Anyhow, I say I'll leave some, I don't, and that's that.

Then I got her to slice it. Small. (Again, 'Im indoors reckons bigger is better. Same principle as above applies).

Next step is the syrup. For that you need equal quantities of water and sugar (how much depends on how much peel you have. Duh.) And some limoncello. Even Charlotte reckons it tastes better if you add alcohol. She'd like not to go on record as having said that.)

If you want to know how much we used here's our measurements.
First we decided to try measuring out 150 of something called Haferflocken. Then as it didn't seem to be enough, we added 125 of GrieB. (Yes, we have a German measuring jug.) For the limoncello, I put in a bit. Then, as the bottle was nearly finished, I decided I might as well put the rest in. Don't worry, we have another bottle in the freezer.

Bring the syrup to the boil, bang the peels in. Stir, and basically stick around until it looks right - or until you get bored, whichever comes first. Another possibility, one I'm currently exploiting, is to leave your daughter in charge - after all, she was the one who wanted it done today! That's not panning out quite as well as I hoped though, as she keeps calling out to ask if it's done yet.

Once the peel is in the pan, she complains a little less: it's sort of fun watching the colours become more vivid and the peel more transparent as it cooks.

When you feel that it's done (it looks and tastes right, you're bored, your kitchen elf is getting bored) you put the fruit out to dry on some grease proof paper. For an hour or two, maybe. Either until you remember to do it or need the space in the kitchen. The you put it into jar.
How long does it last? Well, I've just found some of last year's batch in the back of the fridge. It's fine. Want some?

Oh, one last thing. If you liked this post, would you mind terribly clicking on the RSS feed, here, or the Google connect buttons (top left)? And if you didn't like it, you might still want to look around. There's three of us, you know, so you're (almost) bound to find something you like. And then, if you've still got time, you could share this post or stumble it, or both and get in touch with your local tv station to sing our praises. We'll love you forever.

Pumpkin pie

We had way too much pumpkin.

Our local supermarket sells it sliced. Last week, we made soup. 'Im Indoors, as he likes to call himself - maybe as a reflection of the fact that he'd like to spend a bit more time indoors instead of running after Max's scooter all the time - found a recipe involving lentils, and chard stalks. Yes, chard stalks. It turned out lovely.

Then this week, he bought another batch and roasted about half with herbs and spices to use for risotto. I made one risotto last night, with one slice of bacon, chopped (we have to economise our bacon here), some peas, and a few leaves of reyhan, a deep purple basil. I got some duck stock out of the freezer and, of course, the pumpkin. The other roasted bits are sitting nicely in the freezer, waiting for more risotto opportunities.

So that left me with a biggish quantity of pumpkin to use up - it doesn't keep well once it's sliced up.

Serendipity

This was originally a guestpost over at Belgravia Wives. She has taken a break from blogging, but go and have a look at her stuff anyway - it's well worth it.

The first time I heard the word serendipity was in London, somewhere South and not very glamorous. I was listening, wide-eyed, to some boy pontificating on the topic, nodding at his every word, hoping he would like me if I did. I even let him sing me a very whiny song called 'Serendipity'. I can't remember who that was by. I tried to like it. But looking back, I didn't feel very serendipitous at the time. I felt like a right idiot.

How to make apricot jam

Yesterday we found an apricot tree on campus, one whose fruit was ripe and hadn't been picked dry.

Guest post: Serendipity

I am absolutely thrilled to say I have been paired with Sandrine   to submit a guest post. By great good fortune, it became clear as we exchanged email ( and Sandrine explained to me what to do, it's my first time ! )  that we're a great match. We have similar interests, ideals and feeling on what is appropriate content on our respective blogs. We agreed to write our posts on the theme of 'Serendipity.' 

I thought about it a while, then as is often the case, the universe intervened.

How to save your marriage (and Mary Poppins) in the kitchen

BIG APOLOGY TO THOSE MEN WHO DO ROUTINELY COOK FOR THEIR FAMILY AND DON'T MAKE A MESS! THIS ISN'T ABOUT YOU.


Yeah, yeah, yeah, we've all heard it, men don't cook. At least not everyday cooking: they won't have dinner ready on the table when the children are hungry. Or if they do, they've cooked something entirely inappropriate and made such a mess in the kitchen that Mary Poppins' frantic finger snapping and spoonful of sugar singing will cause her to have a heart attack. Then you'll have a messy kitchen and a dead Mary Poppins. Great.

Week end Charter : Marianne's version

Our theme this week was suggested by Irem:

Fastest yummiest recipes for real life working people. Bonus points if men can enjoy being involved in their preparation.

In my experience, there are not many ways to involve men in cooking. That is, except if you married Mr. Perfect who’ll cook for you way after the honeymoon period is over– the honeymoon period being the first three years in a couple’s life. If you did marry Mr. Perfect, then go away. I mean it. Now.*

OK, now that we are amongst normal women, let’s go on. I was supposed to write fast and yummy recipes, but I’m only interested in the bonus points. By the way, what do I get for that?Nothing, I guess. This blog thing is totally useless, but that might also be the reason I like it so much. 

I love lists, so I figured I’d make one for you ladies, a very important one, drum roll:10 ways to involve men in cooking. Ha, I knew you’d be interested.

Marianne's famous Lemon Tart recipe, translated.

Due to popular demand (not in the comments section, I grant you – note to all the non-commenters out there, I wouldn't draw attention to myself if I were you. Let it pass!) we are now offering an English translation of Marianne's lemon tart recipe. We are working on the Japanese translation and it should come any time soon now.


Pastry:
250g flour
125g butter
2 eggs
30g sugar
salt

Translator's note: you'd probably worked that one out. It's the grammes vs ounces thing that bothers you. Or the grammes vs cups if you're American. Well you'll just have to work that one out. Basically you take some flour, some butter a bit of sugar and a couple of eggs and you mix it all up. I'd leave the eggs out if I were you – do you know how much harder it is to make pastry with eggs? It's really hard to spread it afterwards. I think M. is trying to trip you here. Author's note : I am so not. If you don't add the eggs, it won't be as good.



The lemony thing on top.
2 lemons
2 eggs
75 g butter
20 g corn flour
230g sugar
4 tablespoons brown sugar
(TN: the tablespoons aren't American measures. They're just tablespoons.)



1-Take off your rings.
(TN: unless you're baking a cake for a Prince Charming and hoping he'll find the ring and want to marry you).
Mix all the ingredients for the pastry into a ball. Hit the damn thing! Get it before it gets you! Cover it with cling film, or gladwrap depending on which hemisphere you're cooking from, and bang it in the fridge for a while.
(TN: some freedom of interpretation here, but I think I got the general spirit. AN : She did).

2 - Pre-heat the oven at 180C, but you cannot go and have a coffee while it's heating as there is plenty more to do.
(TN: 180C = X F. You work it out. It's also gas mark something, again you work it out. If your oven is like mine and only has on and off settings, it doesn't matter much anyway. Also, if you're not French you may not be wanting to go out and buy a coffee, you may think you have time to nip down the pub for a quick pint, or to the mall for a latte – you don't. And also if you're cooking in the morning the pub might not be open).

3 -Grate the skin of the lemon (mind your fingers: you could hurt yourself badly, and also, it's a lemon tart, not a finger tart), and squeeze the fruit. It's best to use a juicer for that. Or ask someone who didn't just cut their fingers with the grate.
(TN: you can ask your children, they like squeezing lemons. Or even better, ask them to grate the lemon for you, that way you don't hurt your fingers).

4 - Beat the eggs and the sugar until fluffy; add the melted butter, the corn flour, and the lemon juice, and beat them all together. (TN: that should be pretty straightforward!)

5 - Roll out the pastry, and pierce it with a fork.
(TN: Ah, that's where you realise it's just not going to work because it's so damn hard to roll out egg pastry! I would love to know how many a cook has committed suicide because they could not roll out their egg pastry. Or gone out to buy the ready rolled out frozen kind, or a cake from the patisserie – just leave out the eggs I tell you! AN : Do not buy ready rolled pastry. Just do as I say for Christ's sake and ignore the translator!!)

6 - And the cherry on top (no, there is no cherry, it's just figure of speech!): the meringue. Once the tart is cooked, beat 3 egg whites very firmly together and add 50g of very fine sugar, while beating. Cover the tart with it, and draw a pretty picture with a knife, and put it in a very hot oven for 5 minutes. You can have your coffee, now, but drink it IN FRONT of the oven.
(TN: So M. didn't actually say we had to cook the tart did she? I don't think it's a trick, as it would be a bit gooey raw. So I'd bang it in the oven for half hour or so. AN : Oh my! I forgot!! Cook it for 40 minutes!!Or until it smells cooked – which is what it smells like just before it starts smelling burnt. If you've got one of these ovens with a proper seal on the door you might not be able to smell it. In that case, better be scientific about it and ask Marianne how long it takes. Also, the advice re:coffee only works if it's an expresso. You won't have time to drink anything bigger and then it will get cold.)


7 - Leave the tart to cool now ( you can go out for your coffee/ nip down the pub for a quick one / go to the mall and buy a latte) and bang it in the fridge.



So now you know exactly how much work is involved – how good does it look? A bit scary? Or are you the kind of person who thinks very little of beating egg whites and rolling out egg pastry? Let us know!

The Weekend Charter

Each weekend, you'll be getting a joint double post on a single theme – there and back, as it were. And there'll be extra features: in-flight menu, and in-flight movie, where we share our brilliant recipes and our unique cultural insights.

Once a month our flight will have a correspondence: that's you! We want readers to suggest themes – the sillier the better - and we'll pick one to write about. Not that we don't have plenty of silly ideas of our own, but we like a challenge!

So we're counting on you, in the comments or on facebook or twitter!

This month's Charter brings you Maternal Instinct.

There...

A mother's love is irreplaceable (sigh)

I'm sorry to be harping on about these things in a particularly non-humorous way, but seeing as I'm writing a book on Wollstonecraft I can't very well avoid thinking about it. And if I have to suffer, I don't see why the rest of the world shouldn't. So here we go. The other day in class, we were playing around with one of those utterly senseless thought experiments: you wake in a hospital tied to a man who's in the next bed. You find out he's a world famous violinist suffering from a terrible disease and only you can cure him, by sharing your blood with him for nine months. Do you have an obligation to stay? The students all seemed to think that yes, you should stay, except if you're a woman who's a mother. So I ask whether the father of the children could not equally well take care of them, at which point they go all misty eyed and say that a mother's love is irreplaceable. Of course they can't tell me why.

I tell them I don't think my love for my children is irreplaceable just because I'm their mother and not their father. I don't think that's ever the case in families where the father is as involved in the children's life as the mother. But then again, there aren't that many of those around.

The students' eyes are no longer misty by then, they're becoming harsh, and they start talking about maternal instinct, which I clearly lack.

Well, it's not even clear that human beings have instinct. Used to, but that died out along with being hairy all over and painting in caves. Except for infants. When you hang your baby up on the washing line by its toes and it holds on, that's instinct. (Ok, so maybe my students had a point and I do lack maternal instinct). It's to do with the bit in the middle of the brain getting covered up, I think. Something wierd, physiological and complicated.

Ok, so some people, probably psychologists, would say that I'm taking the word instinct too literally. Nobody is saying that mothers haven't made it passed the prehistoric stage (yeah, you bet that's exactly what they're saying!) Instinct is something more subtle than that, some internalisation of popular wisdom, an ability to respond immediately, in an unreflexive way, appropriate to the situation. Fine, I don't deny I've got that. Many is the time when there's been a situation involving the children and I've responded quickly and unreflexively. Usually, that's when I'm trying to watch something on tv and they break something, or get hungry. You can imagine the kind of instinctual response I'm talking about.

In-flight movie

So I know every one is talking about it on the web, and there's pages and pages of 'lost theories'. But there's a couple of things I feel really need saying. First Sawyer is way hotter when he's on the right side of the law. Secondly, Richard, Ricardus, or Ricardo, whatever his name his, turns out to be a bit of a wimp. What's with all the mysterious non-ageing if he's only Jacob's servant? Does he eat bugs?

Just when I thought streaming couldn't get any better, I came across SKINS, a British show about teenagers in Bristol. It's called Skins because they get naked a lot and they, well, you know, skin up. (That just means rolling your own cigarettes, really). One good thing about it is that the principle actor is the little boy from About a Boy and he's all grown up. Put that together with information you've already got and that is plenty good enough reason to watch the show. Plus it's all gritty and humorous and deals with really issues and stuff, so you don't have to hide when you're watching it, like when you're watching Gossip Girl (oops, sorry I let that out).

That's all for now, as I don't want to let out any real spoilers.

And back...

On Maternal Instinct. Or not.

I love my children. I utterly adore them. Aside from the usual “no”, “shush” or “don’t bite your sister/brother”, I also say “I love you, but I’m not just your mommy, I had a life before you got here and I intend to keep some of it”. When I say this, my kids (6 and almost 3) have that dead fish stare and start asking why, or even better, just shrug and seem to think that it’ll pass and I’ll go back to normal anytime soon.

On the other hand, when their dad tells them to go see me or do something else because he’s busy, they’ll just do it. I was talking about this to someone the other day, and also complaining a little (OK, a lot) saying how I was doing all the children-related work and that I couldn’t understand how I was the only one to hear them scream at night, and here’s the answer I got : “Well, of course, you’re the mother”. I am going to say this once, and once only, so listen up: there is no such thing as maternal instinct. It does not exist. The survival instinct does, yes, that’s true. But maternal, nope. The fact that my kids think I’m all for granted and not their daddy just means that he drew the line way further than I did. Mothers are not more patient, they don’t have Bionic Woman’s hearing abilities, and they don’t need less sleep. They just deal with those things because society makes them. Instinct calls for natural, for action deprived of thought. Does that mean women stop being human beings and turn into animals when they have kids?

I’m not saying there’s no special bond between a mother and a child, I’m saying it is as special as the one he/she has with the dad. Different, sure, but just as special. You see, when people tell me about maternal instinct, a real instinctive reaction comes and urges me to punch them in the teeth. But since I’m not an animal and I can control myself, I don’t hit them. Why should I be any different towards my kids? Wouldn’t maternal instinct be something worrying if it existed?

Last night my little girl decided her bed was lame and ours was cool. She was pretty stubborn and ended up screaming, yelling, crying, waking her brother up who threatened to move to another house to get proper sleep. Now, instinctively, I would probably have told her to go sleep in the hall or kicked her in the arse or yelled like a mad woman. But since I’m a mother, and not an instinctual animal, I just told her endlessly that she had her bed, that it wasn’t lame at all and that I needed my sleep and my space at night. She fell asleep at 2 a.m. and woke up at 6 a.m. and said “I want my bottle now. I think my bed is lame and I want to sleep with you tonight”. Having no maternal instinct obviously does not make me good at this mother thing either, it seems.

In-flight Menu:

Recette de la tarte au citron meringuée : (if you want it in English, please post a comment and I’ll translate it. Also, you could start learning French. Or Japanese, for that matter. But it wouldn’t help you for the lemon pie.)

Pour la pâte :

250g de farine

125g de beurre

2 oeufs

30g de sucre

Sel

Pour la garniture :

2 citrons

2 œufs

75g de beurre

20g Maïzena (farine de maïs)

230 g de sucre

4 Cuillérées à soupe de sucre roux

1. Enlever ses bagues. Pétrir les ingrédients pour la pâte et faire une boule. Attention ne pas y aller de main morte, c’est sportif. Recouvrir d’un film alimentaire et mettre au frigo pendant une heure.

2. Préchauffer le four à 180°C mais on n’a pas le temps d’aller boire un café en attendant qu’il chauffe, y’a d’autres trucs à faire.

3. Râper le zeste du citron (attention aux doigts : d’abord parce qu’on peut se faire très mal et ensuite, parce que c’est de la tarte au citron, pas de la tarte aux doigts) et presser les fruits. Là c’est mieux d’avoir une machine. Ou quelqu’un qui ne s’est pas coupé les doigts avec la râpe.

4. Faire mousser les œufs et le sucre ; Ajouter le beurre fondu, la Maïzena, le jus de citron et bien mélanger au fouet.

5. Etaler la pâte, piquer le fond et garnir

6. Cerise sur le gâteau (non, non, y’a pas de cerise, c’est une expression) : la meringue. Une fois que la tarte est cuite, battre très fermement 3 blancs d’œufs puis incorporer toujours en battant 50g de sucre très fin. Recouvrir la tarte, faire un joli dessin au couteau et mettre au four très chaud sous le grill pendant 5 minutes. Se faire un petit café si on veut mais le boire DEVANT.

7. Laisser refroidir tranquillement (là on peut même sortir le boire, le café) et mettre au frigo.

We wish you a pleasant flight!