Project Figgy Figgy Fig Fig

I've decided that, since I have expended more than enough energy complaining about phx summers, I should start trying to look on the bright side and appreciate all those things about months of triple-digit temperatures that are not terrible and utterly soul-destroying.  These things include a renewed appreciation for seasonality; mighty haboobs; the fact that a cold beer never tastes as good as it does on a hot, summer day; monsoon season and the awesome thunderstorms that come with it; and figs.

Yes, even in the depths of summer, when it seems more likely that fruits would spontaneously combust than ripen, figs manage to survive.  Of course, fig season lasts all of a week, and given that we were in and out of town over the course of June and July, I was sure I had missed it.  Imagine my surprise and glee when I saw some figs at the grocery store.  There weren't the figs I had been dreaming of, being from California and not totally at the peak of ripeness, but nonetheless I snapped up a couple of packages, visions of figgy delights dancing through my head.

The figgy gods must have been smiling upon me, because when I went to the farmers' market the following day, what did I see?  More figs!  I obviously bought a dozen and, given the bounty of figs I had received, declared the (smaller, sweeter, riper) phx figs to be for mostly-unadulterated consumption only.  These little figgy jewels, along with some fresh nectarines, were coated with a wee bit of olive oil and grilled (on my decade-plus old George Foreman grill, because that's how we roll in city apartments sans balcony) and served on little baguette crostinis of goat cheese and the briefest of sprinkles of black Hawaiian salt (for the figs) and strawberry balsamic vinegar (for the nectarines).

There were more.  They were eaten before the camera could get to them.

As for the other figs, they became part of Project Figgy Figgy Fig Fig, which was my attempt at making balsamic figgy jam.  I have written about the only other time I tried (and failed) to make jam; even with my less-than-stellar record of jam production, I figured that a figgy sauce would be an acceptable outcome.  To be perfectly honest, as long as I did not set the figs on fire, I was pretty sure I'd be happy.

To start, stem and quarter 2 lbs. of figs.  In a large, heavy pot, bring the 1 c. water and the figs to a boil, then let simmer for 5 minutes or so, until the figs get soft.  Using a potato masher, crush the figs to whatever consistency you desire.  Add 1 c. sugar, 1/2 c. balsamic vinegar, and 1/4 c. lemon juice, then return to a boil.  Reduce the heat and let the figs simmer until they thicken up, but aren't dry.

Now, the recipe suggested that this thickening process would take 20 minutes.  This is a blatant falsehood.  Perhaps the original author had magical figs, or was a wizard, or something, but I had to simmer those figs for at least an hour to get the sugars working.  See, figs are a low-pectin food, and if you are like me and stubborn and impatient and not about to waste precious figgy time with tracking down packets of pectin,  you just have to persevere and TRUST THE FIGS.  Rather than go by cooking time, the best way to check for the doneness of your jam is to do the gel test.  My method is to pop a small plate into the freezer when you start the simmer; when you think the figs are properly thickened, get your plate and spoon a small dollop of the jam onto it.  When the jam cools (you can use the refrigerator to speed up the process), tilt the plate—if the jam doesn't move, it's good to go.  If the jam is still runny, leave it to simmer for another couple of minutes and try again.  I promise: it will set.  Eventually.

After much testing and cursing and fretting, you should end up with this:

Project Figgy Figgy Fig Fig is GO.

Dark, sticky, unctuous figgy jam.  The sweetness is subtle, undercut by the pleasant tanginess of the balsamic.  With a little less sugar and the addition of some rosemary, it could make a fine savory jam.  As it is, it's delicious on toast points with goat cheese, alone on toast, with a little almond butter for a twist on the old pb&j (I call it the Elitist Breakfast), on (or in) scones...basically, it's just good.  And it's a nice little reminder of the good life during a desert summer (if you don't melt first).

AW80D - Bubble and Squeak

(NOTE:  Apologies for the double post, but Blogger seems to have eaten my previous bubble and squeak post.  See, it's so tasty that even internet robots can't resist!)

Bubble and squeak was always going to end up here, it being one of my favorite dishes and also an excellent non-scone recipe for the UK/Ireland section.  However, I did not expect it to appear so soon.  The original plan was to have most, if not all, regions in possession of at least one recipe before I moved to double representation, but as I have been learning, very little of this blog adventure has been going according to plan.  The Husband was recently in need of simple, tasty food, and we had half a head of cabbage about to go bad.  So here we are.

Bubble and squeak is, at its core, a recipe for the using up of leftovers, specifically those from a traditional English roast dinner.  Similar dishes abound throughout Europe, but the two that matter for the purposes of this post are colcannon, from Ireland, and — I kid you not — rumbledethumps, from Scotland.  (RUMBLEDETHUMPS!  Is that not just the most delightful thing ever?  And now you know why I adore Scotland so.)  There are a few minor differences (colcannon substitutes kale for cabbage, and rumbledethumps(!) involves cheese), but all three dishes are basically just potatoes, a leafy green, and copious amounts of sweet, sweet butter.   For the etymology nerds out there, bubble and squeak takes its name from the sound that the food makes while cooking.   Colcannon is derived from cole, meaning cabbage; rumbledethumps comes from rumbled, for food that has been mashed or scrambled, and thumps may refer to the fact that, originally, this dish was made by bashing the daylights out of the potatoes and cabbage with a large pestle. 

I first discovered bubble and squeak in a cookbook I bought ages ago, which was purchased mostly for the introductory sections (discussions various grains, oils, beans, etc., with lots of pretty pictures).  I can't remember a single other recipe from said cookbook, and it was given away during the Great Purge of 2009, but because it introduced me to bubble and squeak, I will always think fondly upon it.  Godspeed, forgotten cookbook, wherever you are.

My recipe is slightly different from some of the more traditional ones I've uncovered, but its heart is in the right place.  It's a very simple recipe, with few ingredients; if you find yourself with leftover mashed potatoes and greens (or any vegetable, really), this should come together in a flash.  This means you can also prepare the potatoes and/or the vegetables ahead of time, or even cook the entire dish the day before; it reheats wonderfully.  Also, as a side note, one of my all-time favorite cooking shows, Two Fat Ladies, insists that you must use lard or drippings in this dish, as they are the only fats that can heat up enough.  This is a load of old rubbish.  While I'm sure that bacon fat is wonderful stuff, butter does just fine.

Get yourself a couple of medium-sized potatoes; I prefer russets, but any starchy potato will do nicely.  Since I think the skin is the best part of a potato, I give them a good scrub and then chop them into one-inch chunks.  (Peeling the potatoes is fine, as is leaving them whole — I just find that chopping them up speeds up the cooking process.)  Plop them in a large pot with some well-salted water and boil under tender.

While the potatoes are boiling, thinly slice two leeks and a half a cabbage.  Melt a good dollop of butter in an oven-safe pan (I use my trusty 10 1/4" cast iron skillet) over medium heat, and saute the leeks until translucent (a finely-diced clove or two of garlic wouldn't go amiss here, either).  Add the cabbage, cover, and cook until tender.

Once the potatoes are done, drain, add a slosh of milk (or cream, if you are devilish) and a good knob of butter, then mash.  Lumps are perfectly fine, but just make sure it's easily mixable.  Salt and pepper to taste.

When the cabbage is ready, add a few handfuls of spinach and cook until just wilting, which will take but a minute or two.  Add the greens into the potatoes, return the skillet to the heat, and add another dollop of butter to melt.  Mix the greens and potatoes together until everything is relatively well incorporated, then pour it all back into the skillet.  Even out the potato mixture, much like you would cake batter in a pan, and let cook until the sides and bottom have browned.  (This is when the bubbling and squeaking will occur; if you find that your dinner is not singing to you on the stove, it's a good sign that the heat may not be high enough.)  You can add a few additional dabs of butter along the top of the potatoes, as well as some more salt and pepper, if you'd like.

While the bubble and squeak is a-bubblin' and squeakin' away, turn on your broiler to heat up.  Once the potatoes are nicely brown and crisp, pop the skillet under the broiler for a few minutes, until the top is also brown and crisp.  Let sit for a few minutes to cool, then serve.

Half a pan of bubsqueak, because we are impatient when butter is involved.

The Husband and I have been known to enjoy the odd bubble and squeak as part of a brunch spread (where it once accompanied potato-leek soup, because we enjoy repetition), but it is also an excellent meal in and of itself, particularly suited to cold, grey days (of either the weather or temperament variety) where warmth and heartiness (and butter) are much appreciated.

AW80D - Scones, Two Ways

You didn't think I was kidding when I said I would just post scone recipes, did you?

Actually, I was.  (Hopefully.)  But that doesn't mean that a scone or two can't wend its way through this little experiment, right?

I have already written extensively and ramblingly about scones before, but they are a fairly important part of my baking repertoire, so I think it is acceptable to talk about them again.

Generally speaking, I am not much for baking.  I am fairly incompetent when it comes to fruit-based desserts (your pies, crumbles, crisps, etc.), and I dislike baking cookies (I don't like the batch concept — I only enjoy baking if everything can fit into the oven at once, a preference that becomes a necessity in the desert summer when the temperature inside the oven is roughly equivalent to that outside my building and opening the oven door becomes physically dangerous).  My baking style favors breads (both of the quick and not-so varieties).  Fortunately for my cookie-enjoying self, The Husband picks up my baking slack, being both a tough cookie and the baker of tasty ones.

So, scones are essentially my only contribution to the bake-o-sphere that is our apartment, especially given that it is getting a bit too warm to crank the oven up to bread-baking proportions (sigh).

The first batch of scones, a chocolate chip-blueberry blend, was made using my standard scone recipe:  the cream scone recipe mentioned in my earlier sconepost.  They were tasty, go read that other post and make some, etc. etc.

The second batch was a riff on an oatmeal scone recipe I found in The Best International Recipe, one of those best recipe books from Cook's Illustrated where they make a dozen of everything, with tiny tiny tweaks to each recipe, until they've wasted enough food/found the perfect version (depending on your worldview).  I am always on the lookout for new and exciting scones, but oatmeal scones have a special place in my heart (and cookbook), being the first type of scone I ever baked myself (thanks, Joy of Cooking).  I fancied these up a bit with chocolate butter and cocoa nibs, which offset each other nicely and also made me feel quite posh and fancy, which lasted until the cat threw up (probably) and I was jolted from my reverie and had to go scrub the carpet.

Cocoa Nib Chocolately Oatmeal Scones

Preheat your oven to 450º F.  In a large bowl, mix 1 1/2 cups oatmeal (your standard rolled oatmeal will do nicely), 1 1/2 cups flour (I used 1 cup spelt flour to 1/2 cup all-purpose), 1/3 cup sugar, 2 teaspoons baking powder, and 1/2 teaspoon salt.  Add cocoa nibs to your liking, perhaps 1/3 cup?  Dice 10 tablespoons of butter, then mix it into the dry/nib ingredients with your hands, smushing and rubbing the butter until the mix resembles crumbs.  (It is really quite important that you use your hands, here, because it's the best way to ensure that all the butter gets fully integrated into everything.  However, don't muss about at this all day, because the butter shouldn't be so kneaded that it melts.)

In a separate bowl, beat together until well mixed 1/4 cup milk, 1/4 cup heavy cream, and one large egg.  Add this to the flour-oatmeal-butter-nib concoction, then mix it all together, starting with a fork and eventually using your hands.  It should be fairly moist, but still a bit shaggy 'round the edges.  Scoop everything out onto a well-floured board, then pat into a circle roughly one inch tall.  Cut into wedges, pop into the over for about 12 to 14 minutes, then remove to a cooling rack.  Attempt to resist the temptation to tuck in until they have completely cooled, otherwise they will still be rather soft and will probably fall apart (though you could certainly sneak a small taste, if no one is looking — you have to make sure they are acceptable, of course).

fancypants oatmeal (for me) on the left, commoner cream (for the husband) on the right

(By the way, the first scone I ever ate was a scone called Sconehenge, which I purchased at the snack bar at Stonehenge when I visited it in 2002.  It was huge and expensive and rather disappointing.  Stonehenge was cool, though.  Unrelated, I have also visited Foamhenge, which is somewhere in Virginia.  They didn't have any scones there, but hornets had made nests in pretty much every one of the foam blocks.)

EVERYBODY GETS BEES!!!!!!

THE STONE OF SCONE OF DESTINY (MOUSE EDITION).

So, as promised: scones.*

Scones are dead simple and tasty quick breads that, like most things I love, come from Scotland (see also: Robert Burns, bagpipes, Loch Ness monsters, men in kilts, scotch, etc.). Scones are also a key component of cream (or Devonshire) teas, where they are served with jam or clotted cream and oh my goodness PEOPLE IT’S REALLY TASTY.

They are such a quick bread, in fact, that an old Scottish saying suggests you can start a batch when you see unexpected guests at your gate and they will be done by the time said guests make it to your door. I will be honest: I’ve never produced scones that quickly (unless we’re talking about a very long sidewalk or very arthritic guests), but you can certainly get one of the simpler recipes from start to mouth in about 20 minutes. This is especially nice when it’s 10:30pm and you really want a cookie, but you aren’t patient enough to wait for your Husband to go make you some, so you just whip up a bannock of scones and all is right with the world.

All right, so this is a scone (a figgy chocolate balsamic scone, to be precise).

yummers. (photo courtesy of The Husband)

And this is the Stone of Scone.

yummers?

The Stone of Scone, also known as the Stone of Destiny, is a slab of red sandstone upon which the ancient kings of Scotland were crowned. Or at least they were until 1296, when Edward I (henceforth known as Edward the pommy bastard) invaded Scotland, took the Scone…err, Stone, and scarpered back to England where he immediately had the Stone installed as the seat in a fancy new coronation chair just so he could wave his arse (a bit more literally) in the general direction of the Scottish people. Since then, all English (and, after the Act of Union in 1707, all British) monarchs have been enthroned on the Stone. As part of a goodwill gesture, Elizabeth II had the Stone returned to Scotland in 1996; it now resides in Edinburgh Castle, though it must be returned to London for all future coronations.

Now, you may be wondering just what was the point of this little history lesson? Well, the Stone of Scone and proper scones are similar in some respects (in that they both come from Scotland and have been co-opted by the English and have the word “scone” in there somewhere), and I wanted to prevent any confusion right from the start. Besides, if you ever try to crown a monarch on a regular scone, you’ll just end up with a case of the royal crumb bum, and no one wants that (also, trying to eat the Stone of Scone will probably result in broken teeth and/or a night in a Scottish gaol).

All right, but what do mice have to do with scones?

OK, have you ever read any of the Redwall series, by Brian Jacques? If you haven’t, you should. Wait – actually, you should first pretend to be 11-year-old me (or, let’s be honest, 27-year-old me) and THEN read them, because I make no pretensions about any of these books qualifying as great literature, but they are well-written and a rollicking good time and there is NOTHING wrong with a grown woman strolling into the children’s section of the library and borrowing five or six of the books (so don’t judge me).

If I were to take off my Lackadaisical Blog hat and put on my Serious Literature hat, I could argue that these books offer a fascinating insight into a world of moral absolutes and rigid social structure, which can also be read as a trenchant commentary on the traditional British class system, but really: they’re books about mice that fight against rats. After the first few, the plot ceases to be exciting (SPOILER ALERT: good always wins), but the plots aren’t the point – it’s the way the stories are told that makes these books. Jacques is a master craftsman when it comes to building up a setting and characters, and even if it’s the same story over and over, it never ceases to be fun.

Of course, anyone who’s read the books knows that the feasts are legendary. Pages will be dedicated to describing all the varieties of food (who knew that woodland creatures were such good cooks?), and that is where I first discovered the mysterious wonder called scones. I actually purchased The Redwall Cookbook (STOP JUDGING ME) solely for the scone recipe, but was pleasantly surprised by the other recipes as well, for things like trifles and crisps and fools and tea breads and cakes and puddings and cobblers and shortbread and assortlekajoeia;fjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj…

Sorry. I drooled into my keyboard a bit there.

Anyway, just read the books because they are awesome. And if you happen to be nibbling on a fresh-baked scone and drinking some hot tea while you’re reading – well, I can think of few better ways of spending your time.

RECIPES
I have two recipes I tend to use: one for sweet cream scones (to be eaten plain), and the Redwall recipe, which is best with some jam or cream. The cream scone recipe can be found here; I usually mix it up by adding chocolate chips, any number of dried fruits, lemon zest, etc. The Redwall version is as follows:

1 3/4 c. all-purpose flour
2 tsp. baking powder
heaped 1/4 tsps. of ground cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg
1/2 tsp. salt
2 tbsp. unsalted butter, chilled and cubed
2 tbsp. sugar
2/3 c. milk

Basically, you follow the same procedure as the cream scones (mixing dry ingredients, rubbing in butter, etc.), only preheat the oven to 450ºF and bake until brown (12-14 minutes).†

*To sound like a true Scot, this should be pronounced “skons.”
†You can also make scones on a griddle, called a “girdle” in Scots. It’s really quite appropriate: given how much butter/cream/DELICIOUS FAT is in scones, you’ll need a girdle after a while.