Wrap the log in cling film and refrigerate for half an hour. Rub the butter in the flour, sugar and salt with your fingertips, then squidge the dough together and roll into a log. If you do fancy some biscuits with this (they add a welcome texture), plain shortbread is a good way to go. Top with more zest and some crumbled biscuits, if you like.Ĥ. Spoon the syllabub into chilled glasses and serve immediately. Take your time, halting often, especially once the cream starts to thicken, to check it.ģ. Doing it by hand allows you to keep an eye on it I'm notoriously good at turning cream into butter, so need to be particularly careful here. You can use an electric hand whisk for this, but a syllabub is at risk of curdling. Whisk by hand until the cream is soft and falls in ribbons from the whisk. Once the sugar, booze and citrus have had time to mingle, add the cream. An hour or so in the fridge will still be useful, so give them a stir and pop them in.Ģ. If you've thought of doing this in advance, leave them together in the fridge overnight. Zest and juice the blood orange, and put these into the bowl with the brandy and sugar. ![]() In summer, I'll be making this again with elderflower, honey and prosecco.ġ. This week, brandy and blood oranges were the ticket. The recipe below is a simple one, not straying too far from this concept. The flavourings here are gloriously adaptable too, so go with whatever you have in the house, or whatever looks good at the greengrocer. So there you have it: add cream to alcohol, and then drink it. (The Cooks and Confectioners Dictionary, John Notts, 1723) "If it be in the Field, only milk the cow into the Cyder, and so drink it" ![]() Syllabub has been made in England for hundreds of years, sometimes with egg whites, gelatine or - as in what is perhaps my favourite ever recipe, just combine two simple ingredients: Rich and yet light, and tasting worthy of a much warmer day. Later this summer, there will be watercress soup and fresh strawberries that smell warm and damp and sweet. But we're not there yet.Īs I wait patiently for the approaching spring, my eyes fell on this on the bookshelves, on its sweet floral cover, and the tales of mice making cheese and celebrating weddings. I have plans instead for food from Sarah Perry's After Me Comes the Flood, Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited and Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows - tales that take place in the height of summer. I've had my fill of stews and soups and crumbles, as much as I enjoy them. I've spent weeks eagerly anticipating spring and summer - the produce they will bring and the joy of eating out of doors. They're so wonderful precisely because of the changing seasons, the way one flows into another. You see, it's all part and parcel of the same: the long sunny evenings, the crisp winter mornings, the grey, rainy March days. ![]() I love it, just as I love spring, autumn and summer - not as defined as they used to be, I'm told, but more defined than the 'hot and wet' or 'less hot and less wet' that I grew up with. I remember standing on a train platform last winter with two friends, hoods pulled up, eyes shielded, declaring my adoration for drizzling rain. The truth is that I love this winter weather. The type of weather that induces even more people than usual to question my living here on this cold and blustery isle, rather than the semi-tropical one I left behind at 21. Predictably, now that it's (technically) spring, the mercury has finally dropped. It's the type of weather that makes me want to draw my mittened hands inside my cloak and fold them up in my scarf. Our winter this year has been even milder than usual - the daffodils were already in bloom when I came back to London in February. There was cold watercress soup, fresh dandelion salad, honey creams, syllabubs and meringues. ![]() The kitchens of Brambly Hedge were full of activity.
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