For years, I thought I didn't like hot buttered rum very much. An oily smear of butter floating on a thin pool of rum-flavoured hot water - nobody's idea of fun. And then last winter, I saw someone in a restaurant at Lake Tahoe (Ciera at the Montbleu hotel - pricey but pleasant) drinking a creamy, hot, cinnamon-smelling glass of something wonderful. I asked the waiter what it was - hot buttered rum. I ordered a glass: rich and buttery, spicy, full of heat and kick from the rum, and silky smooth. How did they get it to emulsify in the glass like that? The waiter said he wasn't allowed to give me a recipe, but did say that the chef made it with a sort of batter he prepared using butter and ice cream, and kept it in the freezer. It's the ice cream which makes the mixture, butter and all, emulsify so pleasingly and creamily in the glass (or mug, if you're at home); and a tub you've made for yourself will keep for months in the freezer, so it's an excellent thing to have on hand for surprise guests. As far as Christmas/winter drinks go, this one's approximately 100% bad for you (do not do what I did last night and have four of them in a row if you don't want to feel a bit unwell), which unfortunately means it's also about 100% delicious.
I made up a few different sets of batter from recipes I found on the Internet. None of them really hit the spot; in common with a lot of American recipes, I found most of them very, very sweet and a bit bland, relying on the vanilla ice cream for much of their flavour. The recipe below is my take on things, rather less sugary than most of the US recipes. I've also used maple syrup along with soft brown sugar for its flavour; and I've spiced quite aggressively, especially when it comes to the nutmeg, which has a wonderful affinity with rum. Allspice, like the rum, is Jamaican in origin, and works incredibly well here. And don't save this mixture just for dolloping in your hot rum and water: as I write this, I'm drinking a lump of the stuff dissolved in a strong mug of coffee, and it's heavenly.
Things like this make winter a bit less grim.
To make just over a litre of batter to keep in the freezer, you'll need:
Let the ice cream sit at room temperature until it's the texture of whipped cream. (You can also make this once the ice cream is completely melted, but I prefer the lighter texture you can achieve using a half-melted tub.) In a large bowl, use an electric whisk to cream together the butter, brown sugar and maple syrup until you have a thick, fluffy mixture. Dump the spices on top with the ice cream and continue to whisk for about five minutes, until the batter is smooth and light. Transfer to containers for freezing.
When you come to make up your drink, just put a dollop of the mixture at the bottom of a mug or glass (I like about three heaped teaspoons in a small mug - your mileage may vary) and add a measure of rum with a small pinch of salt. The salt won't make the drink salty, but it will act to lift the buttery flavour. Pour over water straight from the kettle to fill the mug, stir until the batter is dissolved, sit down in front of the fire and get drinking.
Are there any two sweeter words than "gin competition"?
While I'm busy in my pyjamas today recovering from Phoenix and its near-deadly lawn chairs (see previous post), I've got another competition for you. This time, you can win a Gordon's Gin Friday Pack, full of everything you need for a Friday night in with friends. The pack will include a bottle of Gordon’s Gin, a set of Gordon’s glassware and a Gordon Ramsey cook book.
The deadline for this one is Friday October 9. To enter, leave a comment below letting me know what you'd do with the gin; I could do with some new cocktail ideas!
Entrants must be resident in the UK, and over 18 years old. And although I think this is nannying you to a degree you don't require - it's not my business if you enjoy drinking gin by the bottle - I am required to display the Drinkaware logo, which I think is meant to discourage you from doing anything that might get your stomach pumped. Here it is - click on it if you want governmental advice on how to deal with a hangover.
A reader from France emailed me a few weeks ago with her own recipe for Crème de Cassis: blackcurrant liqueur for making Kir with. Kir is one of my favourite apèritifs - use one measure of Crème de Cassis or Crème de Mures (the same liqueur made with blackberries rather than blackcurrants) in a glass of five measures of chilled white wine. A Kir prepared with sparkling wine is a Kir Royale, and is also blimmin' brilliant. Thank you very much, Jacqueline - and if you email me again to let me know what your surname is, I can give you a full credit for the recipe!
In this part of the world, blackcurrants are hard to find and very expensive when you do get your hands on them. Blackberries, however, quite literally grow on trees at the moment, and the method and amounts you'll need for a crème de mures will be exactly the same. So if you want to make the most of this year's surprisingly good blackberry harvest, get gathering at the weekend and produce a couple of home-made bottles of crème de mures (or crème de cassis if you have a handy currant bush) to impress people with.
Jacqueline says you'll need:
1.5 kg ripe blackcurrants 2 litres of red wine (NOT the absolutely cheapest plonk) Sugar
Wash the blackcurrants or blackberries, place in an earthenware pot or pyrex bowl and crush with a wooden spoon. Add the red wine and leave to macerate for 48 hours.
Filter, weigh the juice and add the same weight of sugar. Pour into an enamel or stainless steel saucepan (Jacqueline and I both used a Le Creuset pot) and heat to just boiling. Let it boil gently for 5 minutes, stirring with a wooden spoon from time to time. Leave to cool to about 40°C, filter and bottle.
If filtered well, and bottled into sterilised bottles and well corked this will keep indefinitely. Jacqueline says that for a filter, she makes bags out of calico with loops for suspending from the legs of an upturned stool, making sure the bowl can be lifted out from between the stool legs when full! I have a Lakeland jam stand - I'm not awfully fond of it, given that these days it's a bit peely, but it does the job. Don't be tempted to hurry up the filtering process - just leave gravity to do its job.
A quick and dirty one today - I'm in Cardiff to celebrate my sister-in-law's PhD graduation. I am now officially the only Upton of my generation who can't put the word 'Dr' in front of her name. Rats. (And congratulations, Stevie! I envy you the Tudor bonnet you get to wear for the ceremony like you wouldn't believe.)
Cherries come into season just in time for you to lock them up in a cupboard with sugar and vodka until Christmas. Brandy is a traditional medium for fruit infusions; if you prefer to use that, the method will be the same. The five months between now and then will be just long enough for the liqueur to age into something nicely rounded and rich - an ideal tipple for Santa to enjoy with his mince pie. As always with fruity infusions, the making of this stuff is as easy as anything. You'll need:
Halve the cherries, keeping the stones embedded in the fruit for their almondy fragrance (I should pre-empt the inevitable "but you will die of cyanide poisoning!" comment - you won't), and put them in a large Kilner jar or another large, airtight vessel. Pour over the sugar and almond extract, and top the lot off with the vodka. Seal, and forget about the jar for half a year or so, straining into bottles when the liqueur is ready. Note that the colour will leech out of the cherries, leaving them greyish and unappetising-looking in December; some like them with ice cream, but I prefer to just consign them to the bin and busy myself with the interesting part of this recipe (the vodka).
You can use dessert cherries (which is what I've used here), or sour bird cherries. I have a tree full of bird cherries in the garden, but they all grow so high I can't actually reach any - plus, the birds seem to get a kick out of them, so I leave them where they are. If you're using a sour cherry, double the amount of sugar in the recipe.
This hot summer has meant that we've been blessed with some truly gorgeous strawberries this year - fat, fragrant, juicy and sweet. If you have a glut, this lemonade is so delicious you may well find yourself drinking it instead of eating a dessert. A shot of vodka in the bottom of the glass wouldn't go amiss either.
I've used the strawberry variety called Florence here, which is more fragrant and flavourful than Elsanta (the potato-ish variety you are most likely to come across in the shops). This method, though, where you will find yourself macerating the chopped berries in sugar overnight, makes the most of even Elsanta. Macerating somehow makes them much fruitier in flavour, so use whatever variety you can get your hands on.
To make a jug of lemonade large enough for four glasses, you'll need:
2 punnets of strawberries (about 500g) 4 heaped tablespoons caster sugar Juice of 2 lemons Water
Slice the strawberries into four or five pieces each, and sprinkle generously with the sugar in a large bowl. Mix well with a spoon, making sure every piece of fruit is well sugared, then cover the bowl with cling film and chill in the fridge for about 24 hours, until you are ready to make the lemonade.
When you come to put the lemonade together, pour the pink syrup that will have developed in the strawberry bowl (see picture) into a large jug, and transfer the macerated strawberries themselves to a sieve, making sure you catch any drips in a bowl. Use the back of a ladle to push the strawberries (which will have become very soft in the sugar bath) through the sieve into a bowl until you are left with the seeds and a stiff pulp in the sieve, which you can discard.
Add the pureed strawberries to the syrup in the jug and squeeze in the juice of two lemons. Now add between 1 and 2 glasses of water to the jug (the mixture will be too sweet and sharp without dilution) until you reach a level of flavour you find just right - amounts will vary depending on the particular strawberries you have chosen. Stir well and serve immediately with ice. This drink is unspeakably good packed into a Thermos flask for a picnic - give the Thermos a swift shake before pouring if you use one.
Summer in the UK is a fragile, short-lived and unreliable thing (yesterday, in flaming June, we had tornadoes and hailstones), so when the sun shines and the air is balmy, especially here in Cambridge, we tend to overcompensate slightly with garden parties, great strings of barbecued sausages, silly hats, flowery frocks and that sine qua non of chi-chi English outdoor gatherings: a few jugs of Pimm's Fruit Cup. A sweet, pinkish liqueur based on gin, Pimm's is available in every off-licence and supermarket in the country; and we mix it with lemonade and what bemused foreigners interpret as a fruit salad, kick back and proceed to get completely sloshed in the sun. There's a certain class thing at work here. Shakespeare in the Park? We drink Pimm's. Wimbledon? Pimm's. May Balls? Pimm's. Opera at Glyndebourne? Pimm's. We also drink it because it's delicious, potent and tends to render pretty 20-year-old students of both genders delightfully cuddly.
This fruity, aromatic, rounded cocktail base was invented by James Pimm, who ran a tavern in the City of London. He came up with the drink, based on gin with fruit, herbs and quinine, some time in the 1820s, soon finding it was so popular that he was able to produce it on a large scale to be sold to other taverns and clubs. It's been a popular summer drink ever since, although the amount of alcohol in the stuff has definitely been reduced by the company that now owns the trademark (Pimm's has in my lifetime reduced its alcohol percentage from 35% ABV to 25%). You can remedy this by adding a splash of gin to your cocktail.
Pimm's is a substance sadly missed by those who come to the university here for a year or so from overseas. When visiting friends we made at university who have since moved back to America or other Pimm's-free lands, we usually try to bring a bottle for them so we can all spend an evening reliving our glided youth. But I bear glad tidings for the overseas summer alcoholic. You can actually make the base mix for your Pimm's (which we shall now call 'fruit cup' - and indeed, Pimm's is not the only available brand; try Plymouth Fruit Cup for a rather more aromatic option, or Stone's Fruit Cup for a distinct ginger kick) out of a mixture of liqueurs you may well have in the drinks cupboard already - use 2 parts 40% gin, 2 parts red vermouth, 1 part Cointreau (or your favourite orange liqueur), 1 part sweet port and a dash of Angostura bitters. It'll be a bit stronger than the pre-bottled stuff, but it tastes very fine indeed. If you do decide to make your own fruit cup from scratch, Hendrick's gin, with its cucumbery overtones, really comes into its own here - and if you use Dubonnet for your red vermouth, you can award yourself the Queen Mother seal of approval; Dubonnet was her all-time favourite liquid.
You should build your drink in a large jug by gently muddling a small handful of mint in 1 part Pimm's or home-made fruit cup, then adding 1 part lemonade and 1 part ginger ale, with a good handful of soft English summer fruits, some sliced cucumber and fresh mint bobbing about in the jug with some ice. I like raspberries frozen into ice cubes, so they float rather than sink to the bottom initially - this means that you can arrange for some raspberries to end up in everybody's glass, and the freezing makes the cell walls burst, so once the cubes have melted, the liquid at the bottom of your glass will be syrupy with raspberry juice. Borage flowers (a blue flower with a taste reminiscent of cucumber) are a traditional addition, and look lovely in the drink if you can find them. One jugful will be enough for a lovely boozy evening for two.
This is my version of the gorgeous Staff Tisane from Alep and Petit Alep (the restaurants share a building at 199, rue Jean-Talon Est, Montreal (514) 270-6396). I'm eternally grateful to the very nice lady with the stylish glasses at Alep - the more formal of the two restaurants, which is only open in the evenings - who was able to find me a table for 11 people with only three hours' notice on a Friday.
Alep and its little sister are Syrian-Armenian restaurants, and I challenge you to find better Middle Eastern food anywhere outside...you know, the Middle East. There are shish kebabs made with juicy, pink steak tenderloin. Muhammara (a walnut dip) running with pomegranate molasses. Tabbouleh which is gorgeously, correctly heavy on the parsley. We found some of the best prawns I've eaten this year; the food here is spicy, elegant and really, really tasty. Try the Menu Degustation at Alep in the evenings, which is extraordinarily good value at only $28 a head for far, far more than we could finish - dips, salads, spicy little beef sausages, seafood, lamb in a rose petal sauce, those glorious shish kebabs - you'll leave stuffed and very happy. We went back to Le Petit Alep for lunch on the day we visited Jean Talon Market (they're just around the corner) for lunch, and discovered that the spicy french fries, served with a bowl of mayonnaise, are the sort of thing you'd sell a grandparent into slavery for.
Alep's drinks were fabulous. I got thoroughly sozzled on the home-made lemonade and vodka on the first night, then drank several of these tisanes the next day for lunch. I started trying to reproduce the tisane as soon as we got back to England, and I'm very pleased with this version. For every glass (or mug), you'll need:
1 teaspoon orange flower water 1 teaspoon rose water 5 cardamom pods 3 leafy sprigs of mint Slices of orange, lemon and lime to decorate
Bash the cardamom seeds lightly in a mortar and pestle to crack them slightly, and put them in a glass with the flower waters and the mint. Pour over freshly boiled water, leave to steep for five minutes and serve.
I know plenty of books and Internet commentators will tell you strictly that you should only ever cook or mix cocktails with wines you would be happy to drink on their own. I thumb my (adorable button) nose at them. I've made this sangria twice in the last week with two different £3 bottles of Rioja, and I can assure you that using a more expensive bottle will simply be a waste of money - I cringe to imagine you stirring orange juice and sugar into a really good wine. On the other hand, it is worth buying a good lemonade for this drink (lemon soda like Sprite for Americans, not the fresh stuff). I like Schweppes.
You should make and drink your sangria in the same evening. If it hangs around for more than a few hours, the wine can oxidise and sour. The evening you make it, though, your sangria will be delicious: it's a drink full of sunshine and goes very well with some salsa music and tapas.
You'll need a 2 l jug, preferably with a wide neck, to mix this in.
Dissolve the sugar in the juice of two of the oranges in the bottom of the jug. Slice the remaining orange, skin and all, into thick pieces with the lime and the cored apple, and drop them into the jug. Pour over the bottle of wine and the brandy, then add a large handful of ice and carefully fill the jug to the top with lemonade. Stir and serve immediately.
The rhubarb has come into season now. We don't have enough room for a rhubarb crown in the garden, but when I was a kid, my parents had a large patch of it, the centre of which lurked under an upturned metal bucket in the early spring to force the pink stems. Gorgeous stuff, and I picked up a muddy armful at the market to make cake with this week, then found I had plenty left over. What better to do with it than turn it into a gorgeous pale-pink liqueur?
Here, much like the sloes in sloe gin, the rhubarb steeps for a couple months in sugar and alcohol, giving up its flavour and colour. I've also added ginger (rhubarb's natural friend) and the zest of a lemon to the pot for extra zing. I'm afraid you're going to have to restrain yourself for a couple of months before this is drinkable, but it's well worth the wait.
For every litre of vodka you use, you'll need:
600g rhubarb 300g caster sugar 3 inches of ginger root Zest of one lemon
Pour the sugar into the bottom of a large jar (it should have at least double the capacity of the amount of vodka you're using, and be airtight). Clean the rhubarb and slice it into 1-inch chunks and put it in the jar on top of the sugar. Slice the ginger (no need to remove the skin) into coins, and toss it in along with the zest of a lemon, pared carefully with a knife into wide strips.
Pour over the vodka, shake or stir well, and seal the jar up. Leave it at room temperature (it'll be fine sitting on a shelf in the kitchen) for two months, at which point the rhubarb will look disgusting and grey, having given up all its juice and colour to the now pink vodka. Strain the mixture through a sieve lined with muslin into bottles. This liqueur is even better if you leave the finished bottles to mature for six months or so, but can be also drunk immediately.
...because seriously, most of you are drinking total garbage. I spent half an hour today subjecting my digestive system to a foaming, fructose-laden onslaught of bubbles, colourants and aromatic aldehydes, all in the name of helping you, dear reader, avoid some of the worst the world has to offer in sodas and mixers. I am now nearing diabetic coma and peeing for all I am worth.
Those of you who have driven down the Las Vegas Strip before can't have failed to notice the hundred-foot Coca Cola bottle nestling (for Vegas) unobtrusively next to the squatting green mega-casino that is MGM Grand. The giant bottle houses a discount show tickets booth and Everything Coca Cola. This is a place (optimistically referred to as a 'museum') mostly devoted to Coca Cola merchandise - if it is your dearest wish to be clothed from head to foot in Coke-branded nylon and festooned with Coke pins and magnets, Everything Coca Cola will be right up your alley. Up on the first floor, there's a bar where you can order the obvious in something called a Collectible Heritage Bottle and sip it through a straw while watching Japanese tourists take photos of one another in the arms of a fibreglass polar bear. The bar also offers one of America's strangest tasting menus - a selection of 16 'International Flavors'. These are drinks produced by the Coca Cola company and sold in places far away. The sort of places where you should be very, very careful when ordering something wet to go with your meal.
We started with Lilt, from the UK. I'm familiar with this stuff; my Grandma used to keep a fridge-full of it, and it's sweet, but not bad - an orange-tinged soda which tastes approximately of grapefruit and pineapple. Kin Cider from Ireland was also inoffensive. It's essentially what we Brits call lemonade; a clear, fizzy, lemon-flavoured drink; Kinley Lemon from Israel was another lemonade, this time slightly cloudy and sharpy citric. South African Stoney Ginger Beer was also cloudy, with a pleasantly gingery kick - very different from Krest Gingerale from Israel, which was a lavatorial colour, packed no heat and ached with blandness. Mezzo Mix is German, and appears to be a mildly spiced sort of cross between a cola and a lemonade. I'd actually consider buying this to cook a ham in; it was less sweet than Coke and had a really good balance of spices. And Fanta Blackcurrant from Hong Kong is really very good indeed; it's flat, and not too sweet, like a very dilute glass of Ribena (a British blackcurrant cordial which most of us toted around in flasks at school).
Things started to go wrong with the eldritch green Fanta Melon, also from Israel. I don't know what the Israelis are doing to their melons, but they should stop immediately. VegitaBeta from Japan was flat, orange, and tasted of ghastly mystery. China's Smart Apple was a glass of apple-smelling nuclear waste; Smart Watermelon was bright orange and very similar to something I had washed my hands with at Circus Circus the day before while reminiscing about Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Unprompted, I do not think I would have applied the word 'smart' to either drink, but clearly Coca Cola's marketing people know better.
Passionfruit from Argentina was lurid but actually pretty tasty, and reflected its name (amazing, this, given how little some of the other drinks resembled their suggested ingredients). Mexico's Lift Apple was the colour of nicely oxidised apple juice, and was delightfully unassuming when compared to the Smart Apple, which I can still taste somewhere deep in my digestive tract. Central America started to get seriously weird with Costa Rica's Fanta Kolita. I was under the impression (thanks to a bleary night with Wikipedia trying to work out what on earth Hotel California is about) that a colita was the flowering head of a cannabis plant, but the orange stuff in the glass appeared to be much less exotic - a Latin version of Scotland's truly awful Irn Bru, which is advertised in the UK, with good reason, as being made out of girders. Simba Guarana from Paraguay was also downright alarming: a heavy sarsparilla fizz the colour of weak tea.
All this pales into an insignificant froth when compared to the quinine-laced horror which, according to the Coca Cola-clad barstaff, Italians drink voluntarily. I would be unsurprised if they're using this stuff in Guantanamo Bay to force confessions. Beverly looks totally innocuous. It's clear and fizzy, like an alluring glass of Perrier water. It tastes of death. Sugary, but chemotherapy-bitter death, a bit like chewing on the icing-frosted pith of a pomelo from hell. I checked with the staff that our drink had not been swapped out for poison by a humourist in the kitchen. They shook their heads sagely and said that sophisticated Romans drink Beverly as a delicious aperitif, presumably to set themselves up for an evening's pizza, romance and street-fighting.
Today I discovered that the world has still not learned to sing in perfect harmony. Some of us like our drinks overpoweringly sweet. Others like them flat. Others still like violent fizz and medicinal flavours. But the Italians - they're dangerous. Stay away from them and their death-drinks, because if they're habitually drinking something as revolting as Beverly they are either crazed or plotting something brilliant and totally, totally evil.
Disco gin and tonic - yours to make at home with some electronic engineering
Regular readers will be aware of my tragic addiction to all things Las Vegas. It's been nearly six months since our last visit, and I am pining for bright lights and cocktails. Few things make a drink nicer than some coloured lights in the vicinity.
Dr Weasel, ever alert to the causes of his wife's grumpiness, decided to cheer me up by making me an animated, brightly lit drinks coaster.
Here it is under a gin and tonic:
And here it is, glass-free, displaying a spinning galactic ice-cube.
The coaster can be driven from any PC with a serial port and will display any 10×10-pixel video you wish. Over to Dr Weasel for his version of a recipe (100% less lead-free than the recipes you'll usually find here).
The LEDs can be hard to get hold of at a decent price; eBay is once again the friend of the penurious electrical engineer.
Manufacture one or more PCBs using these Gerber and drill files. A double-sided PTH process is required, so it is probably best to use one of the various small-volume professional PCB manufacturers; I have found PCB Train in the UK to be fairly reliable. Assemble the board, taking great care when soldering the surface mount components. I found this one to be right at the limit of my dexterity.
Attach power and data cables to the connector in the bottom right of the board. Seen from above, we number the six pins:
1 2 3 4 5 6
The corresponding signals are:
XVOLTS - drive voltage for LEDs. Connect to 4V current limited supply.
SERIAL_CLOCK - shift data from SERIAL_DATA on positive-going edge.
SERIAL_LATCH - latch 40 bits from shift register to LED control on positive-going edge.
GROUND - common ground.
5VOLTS - supply voltage for control circuitry. Connect to 5V supply.
SERIAL_DATA - input data for shift register.
To scan the display, clock 10 4-bit numbers into the shift register. To clock in a bit:
bring SERIAL_CLOCK low
modify SERIAL_DATA
bring SERIAL_CLOCK high
Once 40 bits have been clocked in, the SERIAL_LATCH signal can be brought high to transfer them to the LED control circuitry. Each 4 bit number selectively enables the red, green and blue LEDs in one row, and selectively disables all LEDs in one column. So if we clock in a string:
0011 0100 0111 ... RGCB RGCB RGCB
This sets all the LEDs in row 0 to blue, all the LEDs in row 1 to green and all the LEDS in row 2 to cyan (green + red). It disables all the LEDs in columns 0 and 2. By rapidly clocking in various combinations of values (typically with only 1 of the 10 column-disable bits low), we can scan the array to build up an image, and use pulse-width modulation to give a range of apparent intensities.
This firmware can be used with an Atmel ATmega644 to generate the required signals in response to serial input from a PC or Mac.
A couple of words of warning. Modern LEDs can be very bright indeed. You could probably hurt yourself pretty badly by dialling them up to full intensity and ignoring your look-away reflex, so don't. Also, when debugging your firmware it is easy to stall the scanning process and burn out the precious LEDs. Use a decent current-limited bench power supply, with the current dialled back to a few tens of milliamps to avoid this happening.
I love cooking at this time of year. Ingredients are quite literally falling out of the trees into my always-ready pan. Elderflower cordial, diluted with still or sparkling water, is the quintessential English summer drink. It's also fantastic in many desserts with gooseberries; try adding some to the mixture next time you make gooseberry fool. It's got savoury applications too, and is good in a chicken marinade.
I've recently discovered a very good Martini made with gin (Hendricks for preference), elderflower cordial, lemon zest and lots of ice. This recipe will make you plenty of cordial, so you'll be able to experiment with it in cooking and cocktails all you like. It's also joyously cheap, especially when compared with the cordial you buy in the supermarket.
Elder bushes are in flower in June, and you'll see them all over the place, their flat, white flower heads on display. (You can also cook the flowers in fritters for a delicious dessert.) Pick, if at all possible, away from roads. Be careful that the flower heads you pick are fully open, but not starting to go brown; the plate-like head should not lose any flowers when shaken. Don't take too many flowers from any one bush. You'll want some in place to make elderberry and apple pie later in the year. Make the cordial as soon as you get home. The flowers lose their freshness quickly, even in the fridge, and start to smell like nothing so much as a horny tom cat. (Don't let that put you off; the cordial itself tastes and smells ambrosial.)
To make around 2.5 litres of cordial, you'll need:
2.5 kg sugar 35 elderflower heads (the plate-shaped mass of flowers) 2 litres water 3 lemons 100g citric acid
Put the sugar and water into a large pan, and slowly bring up to the boil, stirring now and then.
While the pan is coming up to temperature, remove the zest from the lemons and place it in a large bowl (big enough for all the ingredients) or a large pan. Slice each lemon into four and put the slices in the bowl with the zest and the elderflowers. Don't wash the elderflowers, but do check there aren't any little creatures living in among them.
When the sugar/water mixture is boiling, stir it to make sure all the sugar is dissolved, and take it off the heat. (It will be disgustingly hot. Be careful.) Use a ladle to pour the sugar syrup over the elderflowers and lemon. When all the syrup is in the bowl, stir in the citric acid and cover with a teatowel (or the lid if you are using a pan).
A note of warning - citric acid has, for some reason, been very hard to get hold of this year. Most chemists should carry it, and brewing supply shops and Indian supermarkets will also sell you packets. The chemists I spoke to this year said that the suppliers have had a problem, and this certainly seemed to be the case; I only found some in my fifth chemist. You need the citric acid as a preservative, so don't try to make this without it. Tartaric acid (not cream of tartar) can be used instead. (**Update** When making my 2007 batch, I gave up on trolling around all the chemists in Cambridgeshire and ordered the citric acid online from Edict Chemicals, where it's very inexpensive. Take a look - they've got some interesting food and household ingredients on offer.)
Leave the flowers to steep in the syrup overnight. Strain the resulting mixture through a square of muslin in a sieve the next day, and bottle with tight stoppers. This keeps well (especially in the fridge), but just to be sure, I like to freeze some for Christmas, when we all need to be reminded that there is a sun that's not watery, and that the sky is sometimes blue. Drink deeply. It's good stuff.
A quick post today - it's Christmas Eve, and the house is bulging at the seams with family, all of whom want something to eat. The Great She Elephant is also spending Christmas with us. Those readers of her blog who would like me to take photographs of her when asleep or looking otherwise ungainly should send bribes to the usual address.
I'm cooking a ham today (the recipe is here). Everybody else seems to be too, it being a Christmas recipe; lots of friends have been asking for the recipe, and my Mum's doing one at their house tonight. It's a Christmassy dish, but it's made all the more Christmassy (Christmasic? Christmasular?) by a good, large glass of mulled wine on the side.
I have spent years perfecting this recipe. If you leave out any of the spices I will set the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come on you, so don't.
You'll need:
1 bottle Merlot (I got a cheap one from Waitrose, which was discounted because it was a bin end) 1 wine-bottle of water 3 tablespoons honey 3 tablespoons maple syrup 2 oranges 1 lime 1 lemon 20 cloves 2 stars of anise 3 cardamom pods 1 cinnamon stick 1 tablespoon grated fresh ginger 1 grating of nutmeg
Stud one orange with the cloves, and slice the other one. Slice the lemon and the lime, and put all the fruit, the spices, the wine and the water in a large, thick-bottomed pan with the honey and maple syrup. Bring up to the lowest possible simmer, and simmer very, very gently for twenty minutes. Strain through a sieve to get rid of the bits, and serve.
You might want to add a couple of shots of cherry brandy, but I think you'll find you don't need to. It's not that strong, but for some reason it's dreadfully warming and potent, so don't give any to the cat.
**UPDATE** For pictures of the finished gin, pictures of a sloe bush, tips on finding a sloe bush and drinks recipes, click here.
This is, apparently, the hottest autumn on record in the UK. Things are definitely not behaving like they usually do outdoors; the leaves are staying on the trees, the apples and pears came ready early, and there are shoots in the garden which shouldn't be there until next year. Most importantly for the hedgerow foragers among you, the sloes (the fruit of the blackthorn plant - see this post for pictures of the bush) were early, and there has been no frost.
This recipe is much more successful if you pick and use the sloes after they've been subject to a good hard frost. Since Mother Nature was not prepared to provide me with one, I turned to Mother Miele, and bunged a box of them in the freezer in September.
Raw sloes are bitter and astringent, and this drink needs a lot of sugar to balance them and result in a syrupy, deep pink liqueur. Gin is used as the traditional base, and I love the combination of the juniper and the plummy sloes, but you can use vodka or another clear spirit.
No cooking is involved. Each of the sloes is pricked all over once defrosted (you can embed some needles in a cork to speed this up) and steeped in sugar and gin - for every pound of sloes I use 8 oz of caster sugar and 1 3/4 pints of gin. The gin doesn't have to be a particularly fancy one; I just used Waitrose's own brand London Gin. For gin and tonic I usually use Hendrick's, a far more complicated (and expensive) gin, whose aromatics include rosepetals and cucumber. Steeping sloes in gin was historically used as a way to disguise tainted gin, so it doesn't make much sense to use your most expensive gin in this recipe.
I'm using a glass Rumtopf (a German pot for making liqueur fruits, usually made from porcelain) to steep the sloes. Although many recipes say you can stir the mixture regularly and then strain the berries out and make a start on drinking after two months, the gin is much more delicious if you can manage to restrain yourself and not stir it, and then leave it steeping for at least six months before you strain and bottle.
The rumtopf is not completely airtight, so I create a seal with some cling film. (You can use any large container you have for this; my parents use a jar which spends the other half of the year as a storage vessel for rice.) The sugar you can see here will gradually dissolve over the months ahead, and the bright, syrupy juices will leach out of the pricked sloes and combine with the sweetened gin. (For those of you who can't wait six months, Gordon's started selling sloe gin pre-bottled last year. It's not as good as the home-made stuff, but it should keep you pretty happy until summer.)
There's a quarter bottle of neat gin left over. Thankfully, I have prepositioned some tonic water and limes. I'm in for a pleasant evening contemplating my rumtopf.
For years, I thought I didn't like hot buttered rum very much. An oily smear of butter floating on a thin pool of rum-flavoured hot water - nobody's idea of fun. And then last winter, I saw someone in a restaurant at Lake Tahoe (Ciera at the Montbleu hotel - pricey but pleasant) drinking a creamy, hot, cinnamon-smelling glass of something wonderful. I asked the waiter what it was - hot buttered rum. I ordered a glass: rich and buttery, spicy, full of heat and kick from the rum, and silky smooth. How did they get it to emulsify in the glass like that? The waiter said he wasn't allowed to give me a recipe, but did say that the chef made it with a sort of batter he prepared using butter and ice cream, and kept it in the freezer. It's the ice cream which makes the mixture, butter and all, emulsify so pleasingly and creamily in the glass (or mug, if you're at home); and a tub you've made for yourself will keep for months in the freezer, so it's an excellent thing to have on hand for surprise guests. As far as Christmas/winter drinks go, this one's approximately 100% bad for you (do not do what I did last night and have four of them in a row if you don't want to feel a bit unwell), which unfortunately means it's also about 100% delicious.
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