Birthday bake #2: A cake fit for an Emperor

After the bright and breezy Sunken Cherry Cake, something altogether more grown-up and seductive – Altwiener Schokoladentorte.

Altwiener Schokoladenkuche

Altwiener Schokoladenkuche: note the chapter heading, top right: Big Cake-Nostalgia. That’s what this cake is all about. That and chocolate, apricot jam, hazelnuts, coconut and sherry.

Those lovely compound nouns need some unpacking. Schokoladentorte is really not that hard:

Schokoladentorte = Schokoladen Torte = Chocolate torte

Not a cake – a torte. That means barely any flour, and layers of tasty goodness in between and around the cake – sorry, I mean torte – layers. In some tortes these layers are buttery, creamy fillings. In this cake it’s apricot jam which goes unbelievably well with chocolate.

Altwiener is a bit harder to unpack, because it’s not about the individual words, it’s about a whole host of associations that go with the individual words. Let’s start with the basics, and then embellish:

Altwiener Alt + Wiener = Old Viennese

Old Viennese? Eh? An old man with bad teeth, little round glasses and bow tie? A hotdog that has been left to wrinkle at the back of the fridge?

Old cold sausage

No, no, no. It’s like this.

‘Old’ as in the good old days, times that have passed forever and are out of reach, but can just be glimpsed in the rear view mirror as you turn the bend, in the faded photos in a shoe box in the attic. The good old days when life was comfortable and secure. People, horses and dogs were more elegant, and had better manners. Houses and cars were beautiful and things were made of wood, stone and metal, not plastic. In spring the birds sang, in summer the sun shone, in autumn all the trees turned to bronze and gold, and the winter was frosty and blue…Vienna as in, well, Vienna. The capital of Austria, and once – in the good old days – capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empire which for a monarchy, and a nineteenth century empire, was not all bad – certainly an impressive number of different nationalities, languages and religions rubbed along reasonably well between the borders most of the time.

The Austro-Hungarian empire.

The Austro-Hungarian empire.

I have never been to Vienna and I was born long after the Austro-Hungarian Empire was finished (at the end of the First World War) but I have read some Joseph Roth (try The Radetzky March), I have been to Budapest and Prague, and whether it’s accurate or not I have a powerful idea of what it might have been like. In my mind’s eye there are long avenues lined with trees and wide pavements. There are tall white palaces, hotels and apartment blocks. Parks with fountains, low hedges, gravel walks and flower beds. There might be a brass band.

A park like this.

A park like this.

There is certainly the Spanish Riding School where the riders and horses show off the elegance and good manners.


And there are cafes. Cafes with high ceilings, gilt mirrors, small marble tables, long banquettes, waiters in white aprons, overgrown pot plants and people talking and drinking coffee, having a brandy and talking, having a cigarette and talking, and certainly having cake. Or torte.

Officers sitting in a lovely garden eating cake. In the good old days.

Officers sitting in a lovely garden eating cake. In the good old days.

An Austrian lady sitting alone in her apartment, looking forward to meeting up with her friends at the cafe later and eating some cake.

An Austrian lady sitting alone in her apartment, looking forward to meeting up with her friends at the cafe later and eating some cake.

So those two medium-to-long words, Altwiener and Schokoladentorte, convey many images and ideas beyond their basic components. And so it is with the cake (or torte). Because – and don’t take my word for this bake it yourself – the flavours of this cake really do capture and convey what the name suggests. It’s a rather delicious form of time travel.

Cake the Second: “Altwiener Schokoladentorte”

[NB You need to let the cake stand overnight to dry a little before you fill and cover it so unfortunately this is not a cake you can bake on a whim.]

Ingredients for one 26cm diameter spring-form cake tin:
8 egg yolks
1/2 teaspoon [top quality] vanilla essence
pinch of salt
180g caster sugar
8 egg whites
100g biscuit crumbs [I use Bonne Maman galettes which come wrapped in threes – you can crush them with a rolling pin before you take them out of the wrapper to avoid losing precious tasty crumbs]
100g grated dark chocolate
100g ground hazel nuts
butter for the tin

Filling and topping
2 shot glasses of sherry [+ a glass for the cook]
300g apricot jam [take any large bits out and stir until smooth]
100g grated dark chocolate
1 egg
200g icing sugar
60g creamed coconut
[the kind that comes in a block and looks far too much like soap for something you are going to eat]

Lightly grease the cake tin with butter. Preheat the oven to 180C [reduce to 170C for a fan oven].

Beat the egg yolks with the vanilla, salt and half the sugar until they are foaming.

In a separate bowl, whisk the egg whites until they form a stiff snow [in English we say peaks – I prefer snow]. Bit by bit sprinkle over the remaining sugar, and keep beating until it’s all mixed in. [Literally:] It should form a knife-firm ice-snow [i.e. it should be like icy snow, so stiff that you could stand a knife up in it].

Fold the ice-snow into the egg yolk mixture. Stir in the biscuit crumbs, grated chocolate and nuts. [Do this quickly but gently].

Pour the mixture into the cake tin, lightly smooth it, and bake it on the second shelf from the bottom for 30-40 minutes.

Place the torte base on a rack and leave to cool overnight.

Cut the cake into three layers. [I have only ever managed two.]

Sprinkle each layer with sherry. Spread jam on two of the layers, and place one on top of the other, with the third layer on top.

Melt the chocolate in a bain-marie, and leave it to cool a little. Stir in the egg and icing sugar. Melt the coconut and stir it into the chocolate drop by drop. It should become creamy. Spread the topping over the top and sides of the torte. With a wide knife raise the topping into a wave pattern on the top of the cake.

Let the topping set completely before cutting the cake.

[Eat from your best china, with coffee.]

Emperor Franz-Joseph in hunting clothes.

The Emperor Franz-Joseph dressed for hunting. After a long day in the forest he probably had a nice piece of chocolate cake to cheer himself up before dressing for dinner.


Birthday bake

Hello, blog. Long time, no see. I missed you, and I should have called, or at least sent you a text or something but I’ve been ridiculously busy – setting up as a freelancer, starting a new part-time job on the side, watching DVD box sets and going to the pub.

Another thing I was busy with was turning 40. It’s a big number, so big you have to use all your toes and fingers twice, and I decided to have a party. There was country dancing, Pimms, sherry, tea and a number of cakes. Also a huge amount of washing up, which to my shame was not done by me but by Others.

Some of the people who came along have asked for cake recipes so that’s what the next few posts will be. None of them are inventions and most of them are from this book:

The Big Brown Book

The Big Brown Book – we used it so much that the spine came off.

The Big Brown Book is a family treasure, and the reason why I know the German words for ‘whisking’, ‘heating’, ‘folding’, ‘sifting’, ‘kneading’ and ‘greasing’ despite being ignorant in most other areas of German vocabulary. It was published in 1987, and I assume my mother was given it or bought it around that time. Ever since then it’s been the book to turn to when the baking urge is strong. Because I’m a messy cook it’s easy to find my favourite recipes: the book naturally opens on pages thickened with sugar and a dusting of flour, and decorated with stains of egg and butter that spread a few fractions of a millimetre with each passing year.

Cake the First: “Versunkener Kirschkuchen”

Versunkener Kirschtorte: Sunken Cherry Cake

Versunkener Kirschtorte – the original recipe. ‘Versunken’ sounds so very much more deeply sunk than ‘sunk’.

This is basically a sponge with juicy summer fruit embedded in it. It’s not fancy or complicated, in fact quite the reverse – beautifully simple.

The name literally means “Sunken Cherry Cake” and it is good with cherries but for the party I made it with a mixture of raspberries and blueberries – you get more variety of colour and flavour and you don’t have to spend ages stoning cherries. If you do use cherries weigh them after stoning, not before.

The soft fruit won’t last long at room temperature so in warm summer weather I would recommend keeping this cake in the fridge or eating it within the day. Bear in mind the Brown Book’s helpful note that this cake has a nutritional value of around 2500 calories – be nice and share it with your friends.

My adds to the original recipe are [in square brackets].

Ingredients for one 26cm diameter spring-form cake tin:
300g [mixed raspberries and blueberries]
5 eggs, separated into yolks and whites
180g caster sugar
80g soft unsalted butter
180g plain flour
5g baking powder
4 tablespoons icing sugar
A little butter and flour for the tin

Wash the fruit and leave it to drain [or pat it very gently dry with kitchen roll]. Grease the baking tin with butter and dust it with flour. Pre-heat the oven to 200C [reduce for a fan oven].

Whisk the egg yolks, half the caster sugar, and the butter until the mixture foams. Gradually sift the baking powder and flour into the egg mixture, stirring as you go.

Beat the egg whites with the rest of the caster sugar until they are stiff, and fold them into the yolk mixture.

Pour the dough into the cake tin and scatter the fruit on top. Gently poke it down through the dough with the handle of a spoon. [Make sure it’s completely covered – any exposed fruit will burn.]

Bake the cake on the second shelf from the bottom for 50-60 minutes [it’s ready when a skewer pushed into the centre comes out clean], cool it on a wire rack, then decorate with the icing sugar [sprinkled through a sieve].

[Serve with whipped cream.]

Next time: a few of my favourite things, including chocolate, sherry and the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

Open-arse tart

This is a sad story. It was forged in ardent romantic illusion and quenched – this very evening – in the cold mud of disappointment. There will be a flutter of redemption and solace at the end, but not enough to match the initial high hopes. I was in love with something I had never seen or touched. I had heard great things, of its soft scent, its delicious flavour, its near magical powers to transform from something hard, cold and green to tender, giving, open flesh almost in the blink of an eye. The object of my imaginary desires was the medlar.

Medlar blossom

Let’s start with a pretty picture of medlar blossom to represent the dream.

My appetite was whetted by occasional references on Gardeners’ Question Time and a short account of the fruit in Andrew Dalby’s excellent The Shakespeare Cookbook. The attractive and intriguing traits of the medlar are these. It does not ripen like ordinary fruit – or at least it does, but it’s not ready to eat until it’s rotted, or more properly ‘bletted’. It is like an apple in miniature, arranged around five pips, but while these are larger than apple pips, the fruit is smaller. But best of all, it sounds like a fruit with a sense of fun and humour, for it was known, in the sixteenth century as an ‘open-arse’. If you look at it from a certain angle you can see what those jolly Elizabethans meant.

medlar open arse

This is the bottom of the fruit

My interest in the medlar was not easy to satisfy. It’s not for sale in shops. But then, at the beginning of this month, it was for sale at the farmers’ market, so I bought a punnet and took it home. I laid the little greeny-brown fruits out on the dining table and waited for them to blet. And waited. And waited. Not only did they take ages to blet, they did it one at a time. About one a day. It has taken almost three weeks for the whole lot to reach the edible stage. What happens is the firm apple-like greeny-white flesh turns a soft dark brown.

Medlars bletting

Medlars stubbornly waiting to blet

This was my first indication that the medlar might be hard to love but there were two redeeming features. The bletted fruit had delicately spotted skin and smelt exactly like an orchard on a damp morning, a smell I happen to like.

This evening I set to making a bastardised version of the medlar tart in The Shakespeare Cookbook. And this led to by second disappointment. The medlar did not give its flesh up easily. Maybe my medlars were smaller or more bletted than the ones Andrew Dalby had in mind. His suggested method was to “cut the medlars in half and scoop out the soft flesh with a teaspoon”. I ended up with a tiresome mixture of pulp, pips and skin on my hand and not much in the bowl. For me, grumpy squeezing and picking out the pips worked best in the end.

Will there be a third disappointment? Will the medlar be as fragrant and delightful to eat as they all promised… Find out in a few short lines after the recipe:

225g plain flour
grated zest of ½ lemon
tiny pinch of salt
110g unsalted butter
½ tbsp caster sugar
2-3 tbsp cold water

at least a dozen bletted medlars*
2 tbsp soft brown sugar
2cm3 fresh ginger
150ml whipping cream1 egg, separated
1 tsp cinnamon
* If you don’t have medlars, and you probably don’t, you could try replacing them with a large peeled and grated Bramley apple.

Preheat the oven to 180°C (reduce for a fan oven). Butter a tart or flan case.

In a mixing bowl stir together the flour, salt and lemon zest. Lightly rub in the butter. When you reach the rough breadcrumb stage stir in the sugar. Add the water one tablespoon at a time and stir with a fork until the crumbs start to bind. Give them a quick squeeze to bring it all together as pastry. Press this into the tart case, prick the base all over with a fork, and bake for twenty minutes.

Pricked tart case

When it’s done remove it from the oven and turn the heat down 20°.

Meanwhile, get the pulp out of those medlars any way you can. Put it in a saucepan with the brown sugar and grate in the ginger. Heat gently and stir till this mixture is smooth. Add the cream and heat again until it’s hot but not boiling. Beat the egg yolk and stir it in. Keep heating and stirring until the mixture thickens.

Pour this custardy mix into the cooked flan case. Bake for another fifteen minutes.

tart baked but not covered

Baked filling

I felt uncomfortable with the nakedness of my tart so I whipped up the egg white with a spoonful of caster sugar to make a soft topping. Spread this on and bake for another ten to fifteen minutes.

Tart with meringue topping

Less of an open-arse, more of a full moon

Tasting notes: Actually not bad. I’d cook it again if somebody brought the medlars round to my house ready-bletted and got the pulp out for me.

Soul cakes: food for the quick and the dead

If you like beer, golden syrup and releasing tormented souls from Purgatory you’ll love soul cakes.

People still make soul cakes in Britain today but they used to make them with a purpose. In Merry England – that is the days before Henry VIII deprived us of all the best architecture and fun superstitions by falling out with the Pope – they were set out on the evening of 1 November with a glass of ale or wine in remembrance of the souls of the dead. The following day, All Souls Day, children, poor people and mummers (the medieval version of the village amateur dramatic society) went round begging for the uneaten cakes, singing or chanting:

Soul, soul, a soul cake! I pray thee, good missus, a soul cake!
One for Peter, two for Paul, three for Him what made us all!
Soul cake, soul cake, please good missus, a soul cake.
An apple, a pear, a plum, or a cherry, any good thing to make us all merry.
One for Peter, two for Paul and three for Him who made us all.

The tradition was that every cake eaten released a soul from Purgatory. Presumably giving it away to those who came asking for it was also good for the soul of the ‘good missus’ who gave it away. And presumably eating it was a pleasure for those who ate it and good for their souls too because they were helping a soul out of Purgatory. That’s some powerful cake.

There are alternative names for soul cakes. I’ve seen them referred to as Thor’s cakes which sounds very thrillingly pagan, but as the big Norse celebrations of Thor were held in midwinter not the start of winter this is probably a fanciful mishearing of harcakes, a name still used in Lancashire today. Potter fans may wonder if JK was thinking of harcakes when she came up with the term ‘horcrux’, a place for keeping little bits of soul.

There are a variety of recipes floating around the internet for soul cakes. The common ingredients are spice and butter. Some are made with oats, others with flour. Some are made with golden syrup, others with sugar. After I’d made these I realised honey would have been a much more likely sweetener for medieval bakers. Something to try next time.

This somewhat flapjacky recipe (based on one I found at includes beer – a good dark flavour to offset the sweetness and spice, and a reminder of the drink set out for the souls of the dead.

60g unsalted butter (at room temperature, not straight from the fridge)
500g oatmeal
350 ml golden syrup
2tsp ground ginger
½ tsp allspice
1 egg, beaten
200ml dark ale (maybe a bit more)

Pre-heat the oven to 180C. Grease a shallow baking tray and line it with baking parchment.

Rub the butter into the oatmeal. Unlike rubbing butter into flour this does not result in something that looks like fine breadcrumbs, rather something that looks and feels a lot like wet sand. Sprinkle in the spice and add the syrup. Stir vigorously to get the syrup evenly distributed. Finally add the beaten egg and beer and stir vigorously again until you have an even, thick batter. Pour this into your baking tray and stick it in the oven.

After forty-five minutes take the tray out and use a table knife to score lines horizontally and vertically across the cake about 5cm apart.

soul cake or harcake

The whole soul cake

Return the cake to the oven and bake for another 15 minutes.

Remove and cool for at least half an hour before turning out of the tray. When the cake has completely cooled cut it into small squares. If you have your lines nicely spaced you will end up with a cross over each square – the sign of food destined to be given away as alms.

Store the pieces for 3 days or longer in an airtight tin to let the flavours settle and combine. If you make it today it will just be ready in time for All Souls’ Day on Friday

soul cake

Soul-sized bites.

If you love her… say it with oysters

When you’re planning, or hoping, to spend the night with someone, do you also plan breakfast?

Roy does. Roy works at Whitstable fish market, shucking oysters for greedy tourists like me. I met him last summer when a friend and I were at the market buying crab sandwiches. The sandwiches were sold from a utilitarian glazed counter by a stone-faced woman in a gingham overall and a paper hat. Roy’s stall opposite was a brightly painted wooden cart topped with an elaborate display of ice, lemons and shellfish. Roy himself was in an apron and baseball cap (and T-shirt and trousers) and had a big grin. We were drawn in.

It was July and I asked Roy about the rule that says “Never eat oysters if there isn’t an R in the name of the month”. According to him when it comes to Irish oysters the rule doesn’t really apply. Also according to him the famous Whitstable oysters are pitifully small and nothing special. So we ordered an oyster chaser to the crab sandwiches.

While Roy shucked the oysters – without looking at the oysters or the knife – he shared a surprising amount of information. He grew up in London. He had worked in the hotel industry for forty years. This was the first time in his life he had lived by the sea. He had retired but gone back to work because he was bored. And this was the best breakfast he knew for impressing a ‘lady’:

Roy’s oyster breakfast
Serves 2

fresh (i.e. baked that morning) baguette
1 dozen fresh oysters

Cut chunks of bread and spread with butter.

Cut the lemon into wedges.

Shuck the oysters.

Put a small glass of port into each of two pint glasses. Fill to the brim with Guinness.

Arrange bread, oysters and Guinnes on a tray and eat in bed.

If anyone served me this breakfast I would be seriously impressed. Quite apart from the effort it would take to get all the ingredients together if you didn’t happen to be a professional oyster shucker who lives down the road from a good French bakery, and apart from the fact it would taste good and be fun to eat, it has, to me, a really attractive combination of qualities: simple sophistication (oysters!) contrasted with outrageously earthy hedonism (Guinness and port! for breakfast!). I suspect Roy made a few ladies very happy in his youth. Perhaps he still does. Good on him.

oyster shells

The Hungarian Mangalica pig: a love-eat relationship

Though brought up in England I am genetically 75% Eastern European and thus have an innate love of pork. Shopping for ham the other day my eye was drawn instead to a rack of cured sausages. And then to the red-white-and-green Pick logo on a Mangalica Hungarian Paprika Sausage at the back. I bought it, of course.

Pick label

Mangalica Paprika Sausage

It was completely delicious but not the sausage I have always associated with Pick.

Every year throughout my childhood, just before Christmas my Hungarian great-grandmother sent my family a case of red wine, several boxes of chocolate, and one large Pick salami. My father gorged happily on the chocolate. The wine was saved for visitors. The salami, for my sister, my mother, the dachshunds and I, was an object of desire.

Hungarian winter salami

The salami was over a metre long. It came wrapped in cellophane, boldly decorated with the red, white and green of the Hungarian flag. Stapled at the top was a loop of sturdy string and this was used to hang the salami, reverently, on one of the higher hooks on the dresser. Here it could be admired by everyone at the dining table, and the dogs, who lay gazing up at it with wide, moist eyes.

Unwrapping and first tasting usually took place in the week before Christmas, on a day when my mother had brought home poppy seed rolls. We sat around the table with rolls broken and thickly buttered. I stood on a chair, brought the salami down from its hook and laid it on the sacrificial table alongside a large wooden board and a sharp knife. At this point there was some debate between my sister and me over the unwrapping of the cellophane. She favoured removing it in strips to preserve the festive colours for as long as possible. I, guided by a wholly imaginary mental image of a Hungarian farmhouse kitchen, felt it would be more correct to remove the cellophane altogether. Usually my mother tore it off while we were still discussing it.

Now came the first slice, through the dusty papery skin, and into the deep red meat, evenly flecked with clean white fat. This slice was important. It was too thick to put on bread and included the twisted chewy end. It was a desirable prize and one my sister and I argued over. The only consolation for the loser was that if they kept their wits about them they would have a strong claim on the other end, a metre and roughly a fortnight away. The first slice, whether it was the end slice or not, was an intense experience. When you slice salami yourself you can’t help creating a slice ten or even twenty times the thickness of a supermarket slice. Our slices were so thick and chewy that they induced a contemplative state. This was always one of the most peaceful moments in the run-up to Christmas.

Unwrapping never took place at a regular mealtime. It could happen after a particularly long dog walk, a tiresome shopping trip, or on a Saturday morning for ‘second breakfast’. Throughout the life of the salami we continued to eat it in this ad hoc fashion. At that time our living room was on the first floor, so my sister or I would go on mad gallops downstairs during TV ad breaks to fulfil each other’s orders: “one piece of toast with butter and two slices”, “two pieces of toast with no butter and three slices”, or “just some slices, four or six, with the paper left on”. I think the reason the salami never became part of regular meal-times was that it just tasted too good. Nothing really goes with it, or to put it another way, there’s almost nothing you can eat with it that improves the flavour*. Bread has some practical advantages though. Chewy rolls and butter slow you down, and toast gently warms the salami, softening the fat and releasing more flavour.

The Hungarian name for this particular style of salami is téliszalámi, meaning ‘winter salami’. This is because the salami was traditionally cold-cured – that is hung in cold air while being gently smoked. The filling is finely chopped Mangalica meat and fat mixed with white pepper, allspice and garlic. What my sister and I thought of as ‘the paper’ is actually sausage casing which grows a white, powdery mould during the curing process. The fact you ideally make this salami in winter when the air is cool gives a new resonance to the fact we were given it as a Christmas present. Perhaps my great-grandmother was continuing a family tradition.

Thanks to the label on the sausage that caught my eye at the supermarket I have now realised it wasn’t just the curing and flavouring of the salami that made it good, so much as the meat (and fat) itself. The pig that went into the sausage and the winter salami was a “curly haired Mangalica pig”. The label went on to explain that “there are relatively few registered Mangalica livestock which means a limited number of these special sausages are produced”. I spent twenty minutes this morning (over breakfast of thickly-sliced paprika sausage on toast) looking up the Mangalica online, and to my horror and delight found out that this is not only a very delicious animal but also very charming. I am a committed meat-eater – I think meat-eating is human nature, or to put it another way something most people will do when they get the chance and can afford it – but this animal made me question my position for a few minutes at least.

They have curly woolly coats:

Lovely curls

They have intelligent, cheerful faces:

Louie the eunuch

They really love mud:

Mangalica (Mangalitza) pigs

The piglets can be spotted:

Spotted piglet

Or, like wild boar piglets, even striped:

Redhead baby piggy

Of course, the Mangalica would not exist if pork-loving Hungarians had not bred it in the first place. That spotty boar-like piglet coat made me wonder if they might be quite an ancient breed. The answer is yes and no. The wild boar is not a very distant ancestor of the Mangalica but it is a grandparent, or great-grandparent rather than a parent.

Until the nineteenth century Hungarian pigs lived much like their wild boar ancestors. They ranged semi-wild and semi-free over the unimproved pasture, forests and marshes of the great Hungarian plain and up into the Carpathians, chomping on undergrowth, acorns and beech mast until they were two years old.

Fotothek df tg 0007816 Jagdwesen ^ Jagd ^ Schwein

At this point they were rounded up and brought back to the farm to be slaughtered. The meat was free-range and organic, and no doubt tasty but also tough and lean. There was a market for a fattier, faster-growing pig, more suited to curing and sausage-making and the royal Archduke József set out to create one at his Kisjenõ estate. József crossed the tough and hardy native Bakonyi (I don’t speak Hungarian but that name is surely no coincidence) and Szalontai pigs with a lardier Serbian breed called the Sumadija.

The resulting Mangalica was a pig with a prodigious capacity for putting on fat. Mangalicas were grazed outdoors on grass and stubble for about a year, then put on an intensive diet of barley and maize. Fed in this way, by the time they were two years old and ready to be slaughtered they could weigh up to 200kg. That’s a lot of lard. One of the biggest fattening farms was in Szeged, and it was there, with the help of migrant workers from Italy that the Pick salami-making business was set up in 1869. The Mangalica was first choice for salami-making for the next sixty years at least.

But times and tastes change and in the 1950s Mangalica numbers dropped. I haven’t been able to find a clear explanation of this. Maybe more alternative fats to lard became available. Maybe Mangalica pigs didn’t do as well in collective farms as other breeds. Or maybe people were more interested in obtaining fresh meat than preserved, lard-rich meat. But whatever the reason for the decline there is no need to panic – the Mangalica is on the rise again. It has been imported to the US and the UK to be kept as a pet and as livestock but more importantly it’s having a Hungarian renaissance which supplies the Pick factory and smaller producers too.

I’m strongly considering attending next February’s Mangalica Festival in Budapest, where you can see prize-winning pigs, buy gigantic pork steaks from outdoor barbecues and buy hundreds of different salamis . While I’m there I might also pop to the Pick Museum at Szeged. But that will all have to wait for next year. This year I will mostly be eating thick slices of salami on buttered toast and hardening my heart against the delightful Mangalica pig.

NOTE: the information about the history of the Mangalica comes from an entertaining, informative and charmingly translated article by Dr. Radnóczi László. Read it here.

* While nothing goes with winter salami like another slice of winter salami, this is a great thing to do with the paprika sausage:

Paprika sausage and eggs

For two people:

2 cooked cold potatoes, in small cubes
half a paprika sausage, cut into semi-circles
4 eggs
salt and pepper
2 tomatoes, sliced

Melt about 2 teaspoons of butter in a medium-sized frying pan. When it’s gently bubbling drop in the potato and sausage. Stir occasionally until the potato is hot and the fat in the sausage is starting to melt. Crack in the eggs. Add salt and pepper. Stir the eggs very gently, even half-heartedly (think of this as stirred eggs rather than scrambled) until the eggs are just barely cooked. Eat immediately with the sliced tomatoes and lots of strong coffee. A breakfast fit for an Archduke.

Portable crumble with a dipping sauce

A friend of mine had a baby last week. They’ve had to stay in hospital a few more days while the baby gets over an infection so I went to see them this evening after work. And took some biscuits. I wanted them to be healthier and more interesting than hospital food but the hospital kitchen has the last laugh. While mum and dad were eating biscuits and I was admiring the baby we came up with the idea that takes these from semi-sensible biscuits to portable crumble.

Dip them in custard.

I don’t mean ‘proper custard’ made with vanilla pods, scalded milk and eggs but completely artificial bright yellow custard made with milk and a sugary powder. The kind you get in old people’s homes, schools and hospitals. The baby’s mum is ordering custard with tomorrow’s dinner.

The recipe is based on one in Baking Magic by Kate Shirazi. The main difference is the substitution of grated fresh apple for dried:

60 ml sunflower oil
75g unsalted butter
110g soft brown sugar
1 large egg
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
100g rolled oats
150g wholemeal flour
1/2 tsp bicarbonate of soda
generous 1/2 tsp cinnamon
50g fresh blueberries
120g peeled and cored apple

Preheat the oven to 180C and grease or line two baking sheets.

Very VERY gently soften the butter. You don’t want to make it liquid or cook it in any way. When it’s soft enough to pass a spoon through it pop it in a large mixing bowl and beat it with the sunflower oil and sugar till all the sugar is dissolved. Make sure it’s cooled to room temperature then stir in the vanilla and egg, followed by the oats.

Sift over the flour, bicarbonate of soda and cinnamon and stir. Finally throw in the blueberries and grate the apple straight into the bowl.

Give the mix one last stir then plop the mixture one tablespoonful at a time onto the baking sheets. The mix is pretty stiff and dry so you might want to flatten each dollop slightly with the back of a spoon.

Bake for ten or so – the biscuits should just be turning from golden to brown.

Let them cool on a rack while you prepare the custard…

blueberry apple crumble biscuit

Blueberry and apple portable crumble biscuits (best served with custard)

Alongside the crumble cookies, I made rugelach, this time following a Baking Magic recipe to the letter. The filling was apricot jam, chopped almonds, sugar and lemon zest and the result was very sweet and zingy. A real contrast to the relatively sensible crumble biscuits. Once I’d made them I realized the shape, like a miniature croissant, was exactly the same as that of Ukrainian rohalyky.

Rugelach rohalyky

Rugelach (or rohalyky)

Rugelach literally means ‘little twists’, rohalyky means ‘little horns’ and yet the sound of the words and the shape is so similar there must be a common ancestor to these pastries.

I’ve found recipes for both in two of my favourite cook books: Claudia Roden’s Book of Jewish Food (rugelach made with a curd cheese dough) and Savella Stechisin’s Traditional Ukrainian Cookery (rohalyky made with a yeasty dough). I’m looking forward to getting further into the similarities and differences  very soon.