Millefeuille, or a thousand layers. (I think. I have the excuse of being on an aeroplane and not able to look things up on the internet. So I make them up instead.) But who wants to try and pronounce millefeuille correctly when you can just call it Raspberry Malfoy, as if you were teasing Draco at Hogwarts? I can't help but think that Jo Rowling missed a great opportunity there.
My favourite part of this recipe? It's almost impossible to mess up. (Until you get to the end, at least, where the slightest shaking hand can cause the ruin of all.) That, and the fact that it calls for orange liqueur, "e.g. Grand Marnier." Ha! I'm not made of gold, Gordon. You'll get triple sec and like it.
As if the orange liqueur wasn't enough, we need orange zest too - and there's nobody better with our weird zesting implement than Christina. Look at that harvest!
Step 1: Unfold pastry. Dust with sugar.
Step 2: Bake pastry. Seriously. We're just about done already.
While that cools let's make the whipped cream. (If you're wondering what the catch is here, there really isn't one. Bake pre-bought pastry and whip cream. That's it.)
A little sugar and some freshly scraped vanilla seeds add some depth of flavour...
...and the orange zest and triple sec add even more. Delicious.
And now the fun part. Or the stressful part, depending on if you have guests or not. Time to slice up the pastry and build your raspberry fort!
Some skilful piping bag action here, along with very careful rationing of the raspberries. Layer and repeat.
The final product: impressive artifice distracts you from the fact that ultimately there's nothing to it. It's all smoke and mirrors really, magic. Take that, Raspberry Malfoy!
It doesn't get much better than spending a summery Sunday morning nomming home-made crumpets with one of your best friends (we have Irene to thank for most of the following scrumptious photos).
Crumpets start off like most other batters - flour, salt, sugar, baking soda (or bicarbonate of soda, if you want to be technical).
Sift!
For a twist, add yeasty milk.
And drink mimosas to kill time while the batter rises.
You'll know it's time to start the quick strawberry jam when you've run out of champagne. Spoiler alert: Quick jam is really easy.
After caramelizing the sugar so it's syrupy, just cook down some fresh strawbs and throw in balsamic vinegar and lemon zest. Now back to those crumpets.
I always thought it was more fun to make one really big pancake than a bunch of small ones; that's how Gordon rolls too.
Bubbles! And butter! Paula Deen, represent.
Whip that cream. Whip it good.
Ok, so the plating of our first giant crumpet didn't go so well. The jam turned out really tasty, though.
Much better. I think we have Irene to thank for that, as well. Even though I didn't grow up eating crumpets like Robin did, I have become a big fan of The Crumpet Shop here in Seattle - family and friends, remind us to take you next time you're in town - and our home-made crumpets did not disappoint. Everyone likes a Sunday crumpet!
"Can has crumpets?"
Dan dan noodles! We were hoping to make this for Dan, because obvious, but best laid plans and all that. Instead we got to make it for Irene, whose Chinese ancestry didn't add any pressure to making this right. Nope, none at all.
Standard stuff here, all your classic Asian flavours. Note especially the Shaoxing rice wine - it clearly states on the label that it is not for drinking, but to some of us that's just a challenge. Turns out it is definitely not for drinking. Yikes.
Oh the wok. We're terrible at the wok. I blame the stove. Unless you have one of those crazy jet engine stoves that the wok rests inside so it can all get hot, it just never works right. Oh well. Here goes. Garlic, ginger, pork. Go!
Told you! Look at that colorless mess of pork! That's supposed to be being browned! Instead it's just sort of poaching in its own water content. Sigh.
Action shot! The benefits of having a guest. Thanks Irene!
Final assembly: kind of boring, to tell the truth. The pork was pretty bland, thanks to the lack of browning. Distinct lack of spice; the recipe called for chili bean paste or chili oil - we threw both in there, and then some. Still nothing. Disappointing. Sorry Irene!
I've said it before and I'll say it again: I don't like fish. I think I've been a pretty good sport about it all year, and I'll admit that I've been pleasantly surprised once or twice. This, however, is not one of those occasions.
Chili and spice whitebait was, without a doubt, the recipe I was least looking forward to. The idea of eating a whole fish, head and all, grosses me out to the point that not even battering and frying it will help. Hey, check out this disgusting photo of shiny silver fishies in a pot!
Unable to find whitebait, we opted for much larger smelt. FYI, bigger is not always better. Pan did not share my opinion and I would have gladly given him my portion (Isn't Pan cute? I would much rather be blogging about kitties right now).
On the plus side, we did get an opportunity to use the lava rock to grind up the peppercorns, coriander, and chilies.
After dredging the fishies in a flour and spice mixture, it was straight into the fryer.
I really, really tried to give these a chance but I was barely able to choke one down before wandering into the kitchen to find something else for dinner. Robin says whitebait would have been crispier and less fleshy than smelt, but I don't think it would have made much of a difference.
Gross.
Just when you might have forgotten that this was a British cookbook - there is a recipe for chili dogs that uses store-bought hot dogs, I kid you not - along comes something like this treacle tart to drown you in nostalgia. And delicious delicious treacle. Although that would probably be a fairly horrible thing to actually drown in.
First, we must make the pastry! It's a sweetcrust pastry, which normally I can do without - especially when your pie filling is essentially liquid sugar - but I am all in for this recipe.
Making rare use of our food processor - the vaguely creepy 70s-era beige food processor that we discovered in a kitchen cupboard after we bought the house - the pastry quickly comes together.
And now the important stuff: the treacle. Gently gently heat the golden syrup...
...and melt the butter into it. This is what dreams are made of.
Dreams which only get better when you add cream, egg yolks, lemon zest/juice, and panko breadcrumbs. We're reaching the tipping point between dream and fantasy here.
Meanwhile, we have pre-baked our crust and it's getting a dash of today's secret ingredient: lemon curd. Full disclosure, I've always been prejudiced against lemon curd because at first glance (and sound) it always seems a little gross. So I was worried! Oh, how wrong I was.
Pour treacle mixture over the top of the lemon curd, and bake until you can't stand the wait any longer.
It may not look like much - one day we'll take that course in presentation, honest - but this is a slice of heaven. Well played, Gordon. Well played.
