Heirloom pudding: apple charlotte

My garden apple tree has yielded its best, and there are only a few fruit left hanging. Time to make one of my favourite-ever puddings, made by my mum from a recipe in her 1960s Good Housekeeping recipe book: apple charlotte. Unlike most charlotte recipes, it's not made with whole slices of bread but with a breadcrumb/sugar/suet mixture, and it's irresistible. The only other cookery book that has anything similar is Katie Stewart's Times Cookery Book, but Katie's is a bit more fancy and includes golden syrup. So I'll stick to the original.

I've no idea what variety of apple my tree is, but they're eaters and have a lovely sweetness.

And they have a slight rose blush in the flesh nearest the skin. For the charlotte, if I'm using eaters I pre-cook them slightly tossed in a little sugar and lemon juice. If I'm using cookers, I just slice them and use them straight away as they don't need any help beforehand to cook down to a sweet softness in the oven. Next, make your crumb mix: 3oz white breadcrumbs, 2 oz suet, 3-5 oz demerara sugar and the zest of a lemon for every pound of apples. (The original recipe is pre-metric.)

Gently spoon through the mixture to combine.

Then start making layers in a buttered pudding bowl: the quantities I use give one layer of apple, followed by a layer of crumb, then another layer of apple followed by a final layer of crumb. Dot with butter. Put in an oven at gas mark 4 for around 45 mins, or until the top is golden and crusty. The smell is fabulous.

Serve with double cream - or in my fortunate case, the last of a tub of clotted cream. It's just as good as left-overs over the next couple of days.

I'm at a loss to know why a pud this good and this frugal is so little known. I must try making it with veggie suet to see if that's as good.

School dinners: the horror, the horror

Rediscovering crumble a couple of weeks back put me in mind of all the awful school food I endured in the early 70s. With the help of a scholarship and a kindly attitude towards clergy daughters, I spent a very happy six years at what was then called the School of SS Mary and Anne, Abbots Bromley. The name gives away its very high church leanings, and in my day there were around 500 of us, mainly boarders. Many things about the school were fantastic: it was generally very friendly, it was non-selective and while academic brilliance was recognised, it wasn't the be-all. The music teaching was excellent and the senior school choir, which I was lucky enough to be in, was international standard. But the food was utterly, utterly vile.

Breakfast wasn't too toxic because there's not a lot that can go wrong with cereal and toast - if you don't mind toast that resembles shoe leather. Every Saturday we got All Bran for breakfast (not sure why anglo-catholics should have a thing about young bowels) and on Sundays we got heated rolls in lieu of toast. Supper wasn't too bad either - no teachers around so it was quite relaxed but the baked beans always did taste metallic.
But lunch was my nemesis. I don't quite know what the kitchens at St Mary's did to meat (very little money? poor quality catering staff?) but it was a daily horror show. With a teacher at the head of every table and an ethic of eating everything on your plate because continents away, children like you are starving, it terrified me because I hated almost every main courses that was served up. Top of my hate list was stew: brown gunk out of which you picked through the gristly fatty chunks of nameless meat to try to find anything that didn't make you gag. Almost as vile was bone stew - probably mutton, but full of vertebrae. Every Friday we had white fish: evil little fillets of what may well have been coley. At least we got tinned peas with the fish, which I could eat. We endured four years of this until a new catering manager was employed. One of her innovations was the only meal I liked - a cheese flan, served with packet mash and my beloved tinned peas. By the time I was head of house, my nickname among the fourth formers was, of course, Cheesey Fran.

Her other innovation was a total disaster. It arrived in big bowls and smelled good - bones, yes, but some nice meat. But the Upper Sixth A-level Biology girls were piecing the bones together and the verdict flashed around the dining room: we were eating rabbit. Rabbit! This was the era of Watership Down and most of us were in love with Hazel and his quest to find a new home for his tribe.

And now we were being forced to eat our friends! All cutlery went down and rabbit stew never appeared on the menu again.
Puddings were a good deal less awful, even if crumble twice a week put me off it for 30 years. Floor Polish was the stiff and tasteless red jelly, Pink Rubber was the equally tasteless blamange. Dead Man's Leg was a steamed jam pudding and steamed pudding (again, tasting of metal) appeared at least once a week.

School tapioca really was like frogspawn with spooky globes of wobbly consistency.

My favourite pud was Ganges Mud and tinned pears. The Mud was chocolate semolina. No idea now how we all survived this vile muck. It was only in my last year that anyone went down with an eating disorder. We did once have a food strike, but I can't remember that it made any difference. In the upper sixth we got a tiny kitchen with a Baby Belling, so we gorged on Batchelor's Savoury Rice. Ah, the good old days.

St Margaret's to Hertford

Another holiday day: another walk - this time from St Margaret's to Hertford to meet up with great mate Ian. It was one of those English summer days that seemed to threaten both storms and hot sun, and the platform at St Margaret's was spattered with rain. But the sun came out as soon as I hit the Lea Valley Way just a couple of minutes from the station.

It's all tow path from here to Hertford, and I aimed to complete the five mile walk in around an hour and a half. There are lots of house boats here, all gently swaying in the waters of the canal.

About a mile on is Amwell nature reserve, born out of a huge gravel pit. It doesn't look like much in the photo, but here be otters! Not to mention loads of birds and insects.

Along the banks, I spotted comfrey, horseradish and this orange/yellow mimulus - otherwise known as monkey flower.

Ware was the next town - Ian had alerted me by text not to talk to the people of Ware. He told me later that this was an ancient animosity between the people of Hertford and Ware...but it's a pretty canal side town.

There are all sorts of interesting riverside buildings, and I loved this horse weather vane.

For a few strides, I was joined by this fearless hiking duck.

Just past Ware, the A10 hurtles over the Lea. Old transport versus new, as this narrow boat came chugging by. The navigator and I exchanged snatched remarks about the good weather as he passed.

I loved this scene of cattle at the waterside, which reminded me of a picture from one of my favourite childhood story books, illustrated in Poland, and a gift from my Polish cousin Jenny.

A mile or so more and I was into Hertford, and the lovely allotments at Folly Island. I spotted some mammoth squash and courgettes.

Then I was into Ian's virtual backyard.

Come on round, said Ian, and in a couple of minutes I was greeted by Ian and the mighty Bollinger, ur-cat and superstar.

Here is the star of many radio programmes in full cry.

Ian suggested a gentle coffee and tea at the Hertford Tearooms, a lovely venue for a thoughtful intake of liquids.

Ian's latte and my Earl Grey hit the spot. Then it was on to Farrow and Farrow, Hertford's excellent deli, to stock up on salami and cheese for our picnic.

We found fennel seed scented salami, Stinking Bishop and Beenleigh Blue cheese for our lunch, then headed to Waitrose for falafel, tomatoes and spring onions.

Then off to a wide green space to munch and put the world to rights. A lovely walk and a lovely day. Thanks, Ian!

A spicy supper

The wonderful tomato harvest continues - this is the haul from the allotment on Sunday. In the top container we have the San Marzanos, which have finally ripened, and Amish Paste. Both are cookers.

Setting aside a good number for salads during the week, I got to work on a tomato sauce that would be the basis for a rather mongrel curry. My normal sauce has a base of slowly cooked onions; then in with the toms, some salt and maybe some herbs from the garden. Then I strain the whole lot through a sieve to give a silky texture.

To add heat and spice, I decided to use a couple of spoonfuls of my black (or goda) masala - a wonderful discovery from Anjum's New Indian. It's a mix of dry roasted dessicated coconut, sesame seeds, coriander, cumin and caraway seeds whizzed together with pepper corns, star anise, cloves, black cardamon, chilli flakes, cinnamon and bay leaves. It smells absolutely heavenly. I made up a jar in the spring to use in a biryani, so this was a bit of an experiment...which worked. The sweetness of the masala seemed to suit the toms. I added a spoonful of yoghurt just to balance up the sourness of the curry.

Then in with a couple of hard boiled eggs - I get eggs every week with my Abel and Cole veggie box, and this week's have a particularly yellow yolk.

Accompaniments were one of my favourite rice dishes: lemon and cashew rice. First cook your rice then set it aside to drain. Add some oil to a saucepan and fry a handful of cashews until they're golden. Then add half a teaspoon of turmeric before bunging in the rice. Mix carefully with a fork then add the juice of a lemon and some curry leaves. Let it heat through. To my astonishment, Tesco are now stocking curry leaves, which are up there with kafir lime leaves for aroma. Don't eat them though - they're there to add flavour by scent alone.

In the garden, I discovered an overlooked mini cucumber which had swollen to improbable size, and a recipe from Anjum looked like a good way to deal with it. Chop up your cucumber and remove the seeds. In a pan of hot oil, add cumin seeds (you can add mustard seeds too); then add your cucumber and some fresh or frozen peas. More spices go in - turmeric, red chilli powder and coriander. Let that lot cook for around five minutes, then add a spoonful of yoghurt. Finish off with some chopped mint leaves.

And finally, some coconut and coriander chutney. This is unbelievably yummy and easy. I'd always adored it when it appeared in Southern Indian restuarants, but never made it until I found a recipe in Vicky Bhogul's A Year of Cooking Like Mummyji. In a little oil, fry some black mustard seeds until they pop - then whip them off the heat. Then mix them together with yoghurt, grated ginger and finely chopped garlic, garam masala, half a chopped green chilli, salt and lime juice. Finally, stir in some chopped coriander leaves.

I love this so much that I sneak down to the fridge and eat it by the fingerful. This version isn't very green as my coriander in the garden has bolted, and the new seedlings aren't ready for harvest yet.

Off to Hertford later today: on the train to St Margaret's then a walk into Hertford along the Lea Valley Way.

Ely and eels

I'd planned to go to Hereford today, but in the end couldn't face negotiating a half-shut down Victoria Line. So I took the line of least resistance and had a day trip to Ely, island of eels. Walking up from the station through a park, you catch sight of the magnificent cathedral with its pepper-pot towers and wonderful octagon.

The first holy site here was the monastery founded by St Etheldreda. After an unhappy second marriage, she persuaded her husband to let her leave to go and do good deeds, but he changed his mind and tried to nab her back. She escaped and ended up here in 673. Ely seems to have been invaded by just about everyone - Romans, Normans, Vikings, Saxons...so the cathedral has seen good days and bad. Bits of it have collapsed and after the reformation, it had a bishop who delighted in knocking chunks out of it. But the Victorians started restoring it and now it's a most wonderful building inside and out.

My first stop though was at the busy farmers market. There's a great range of food and plant stalls, including one from Belleau Bridge Trout Farm and Smokery where I was thrilled to find smoked eel.

Eels were the staple food here for centuries, and the city is named for the fishy treat. There's only one professional eel catcher left now, but you can follow the city's eel trail which traces the history of the connection. Sad to say, the smoked eel swam its last in the Netherlands, but it's smoked in Lincolnshire. I sampled the smoked trout pate: delicious, so I'll have a pot of that. Further along, I bought a loaf of dark rye with caraway seeds to go with the eel, and a pot of fenland lime jelly - I love the incongruity of the name. But it has a great limey depth of flavour. As the day was hot, and I wouldn't be home for a few hours, I passed by the venison stall. The farmers' market then morphs into a great general market, selling second hand books, bric a brac, clothes and toys.

I was magnetically drawn to the pottery stall run by Felicity Hoyle, who works in Norfolk.

I find hand-thrown pottery hard to resist, and bought a pouring bowl and gratin dish.

Heading back to the cathedral, I popped into a wood turning exhibition. My favourite piece was this carving of St Mark as a lion.

Then it was into the cathedral. Although my dad was a Church of England priest, I've never been religious. But I've grown up in the Anglican choral tradition, and was lucky enough to be in a brilliant school choir that sang in cathedrals all over the country, so I have an abiding love of the culture and architecture of the church. On this visit, my highlight was the astonishing Prior's Door, built and carved in the 12th century.

The workmanship is exquisite, and all down to lintels there are tiny figures of humans and animals. The saddest thing is a plaque set in a wall commemorating a much loved 13-year-old son, kicked to death by a horse in the 18th century. There's an excellent guide to the cathedral and its history here.
Time to head for home with my goodies and contemplate a fishy supper.

The Kent Adventure

Off to Victoria station bright and early to take the train down to Gillingham and meet up with great mate Sarah for another Kent Adventure. Our destination, as on many other occasions, was The Sportsman at Seasalter, just outside Whitstable. We've been eating here for nearly three years and it just keeps getting better. Last year, chef Stephen Harris was awarded his first Michelin star, but the place remains as friendly and down to earth as ever. Sarah and I often hum and har about going to another restaurant but we always end up here.

Getting there proved a problem today - the M2 was closed and it took nearly three hours to get there instead of the usual 50 mins. We rang The Sportsman to warn them...and they were lovely, putting our booking back by an hour. As driver, poor Sarah bore the brunt of the stress on the hottest day of the year. When we arrived, we took a moment to regroup with a drink in the garden.

Our visits here are always dominated by two important questions: What did we eat last time? and: Do we go starter, starter, pud or starter, main, pud, or just main, pud? Sarah went starter, starter, and pig that I am, I went starter, main. But first of all we ordered (as we always do) the home made bread and butter, freshly churned in the kitchen and flavoured with salt from the sea a few yards away. The flowers here are from the kitchen garden at the back of the restaurant. And I thoroughly approve of the water policy here: a jug of tap water is 50p but the entire 50p goes to Water Aid.

The red onion focaccia is so more-ish, with a tender crumb and salty crust. I normally scoff the lot, so I tried to be a bit more restrained this time.

Last time, my starter was the slip sole and just before it arrived, Stephen wandered over and said he had some seaweed butter he'd made and would I like that? My response: you need to ask? Bring it on! It was fantastic. This time, I went for the smoked salmon and Sarah had the starter she'd had last time: Salmagundy.

Salmagundy is a very ancient dish, originating from the salmi that wouldn't have surprised Chaucer. Salmi means a highly seasoned dish, and salamagundy evolved in the 18th century to mean a salad of bits and pieces, usually including hard boiled eggs and seasoned fish like anchovies or pickled herring. Stephen's 21st century take on this is a warm salad with a poached egg at its centre. The egg is wreathed with garden veg like courgette, green beans, lettuce and corn, with samphire adding zing. Sarah let me sample a mouthful and this is what I'll be having next time if it's on the menu.

My starter was plainer but also delicious - Irish smoked salmon on soda bread. It was lovely with none of the metallic edge that you get with inferior salmon.

Sarah's next course was the slip sole and seaweed butter of glorious memory. We went a bit silent at this point, munching with joy.

I was tucking into the same main that I'd had last time: roast pork belly with apple sauce, a pillow of mash and cabbage lurking under the pork. This was so good. And the revelation this time was the apple sauce - it was so tangy but I couldn't work out the extra ingredient. My guess was lime...but later when Phil, Stephen's brother, wandered over, he revealed that it was malic acid. This boosts the sourness of the apple - and makes the sauce taste more of apple skins. Wonderful. I could eat this by the bucket load.

For the first time ever, and probably due to the heat of the day, we didn't eat a pudding. But here is the choice we were confronted with...

Our top tip is the rhubarb sorbet and burnt cream...and be prepared for a surprise.

After a wonderful meal, we staggered up the steps outside to admire the view out to sea past the beach huts.

Then on to the Seasalter beach - packed on this hot day - with a view over to Whitstable. We'll be back at the Sportsman in the autumn.