Pumpkin, spinach and goat's cheese tart

One of the few things I actually like about winter approaching is that I get to pull out one of my favourite frosty weather cookbooks, Roast Figs, Sugar Snow by Diana Henry. This beautiful little collection of wintry recipes from the colder climates of the world - from Quebec and New England to Scandinavia and Russia - is filled with stunning photography which actually makes you yearn for snow, as well as recipes that are a little bit out of the ordinary. Nothing I've made from this book has ever let me down.

That includes this fabulous pumpkin and spinach tart. In the book it's a crisp, all-butter tart with a veg and gorgonzola filling, but due to my own preferences and pathological hatred of smelly cheeses, I've adapted it fairly liberally, swapping a flakier base and turning to goat's cheese as the supporting player to the spinach and pumpkin (though squash would be equally delicious).

This tart is a showstopper that's as lovely to look at as it is to eat. While baking, it puffs up all big and proud, and the filling is soft and pillowy once you bite in. I know vegetarians often get stuck with a tart as the default option for a special dinner, especially come holiday time, and I think it can be a bit of a cop out. I mean, can't we come up with anything else that says 'festive'? But I make an exception for this tart. It deserves pride of place at the table. It definitely had pride of place in my tummy this week!

Pumpkin, Spinach and Goat's Cheese Tart

Makes one 10-inch tart

Pastry:

1 1/2 cups plain flour

1/2 tsp salt

12 Tbsp vegetable shortening, very cold (you can swap in part butter for less flake but better flavour)

4 Tbsp ice water

Filling:
450 g (1 lb) pumpkin or squash
250 g spinach
2 large eggs + 1 egg yolk
250 ml double or whipping cream
50 g Parmesan cheese, grated
pinch nutmeg
100 g goat's cheese

To make the pastry: Put the shortening, flour and salt into a food processor and pulse until the fat is just cut in; some pieces should be very small and some much bigger, the size of fat peas. Pulsing the machine on and off, add about 3 Tbsp of the ice water, and pulse to work it into the dough. Add a bit more water if necessary - the dough should stick together when pinched and look evenly moistened. Scrape the dough onto a work surface, shape into a disk and wrap in plastic. Let it rest in the fridge at least 30 minutes.

To make the filling: Preheat the oven to 180C / 350F. Cut your pumpkin in broad slices, remove the stringy insides and peel the slices. Lay the slices in a roasting tray and brush with olive oil. Bake for about 20 minutes, until just tender. Meanwhile, bring a large pot of water to the boil. Wash and destalk the spinach (if necessary), and wilt in the boiling water, about 1 to 2 minutes. Drain and leave to cool.

Meanwhile make the custard by mixing together the eggs, egg yolk, cream, nutmeg and Parmesan. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Now prepare the vegetables: cut the pumpkin into small pieces (I like large cubes), then squeeze all the water out of the spinach and chop it up.

To assemble and bake the tart: The oven should be on at 180C / 350F. Roll out the rested pastry and line a 10 inch tart tin. Chill for another 15 to 20 minutes. Prick the bottom and sides of the tart shell with a fork, line the shell with parchment or foil and fill with beans, and bake blind in the oven for 7 minutes. Remove the foil and beans and bake another 4 minutes, until the bottom of the shell is dry but not coloured.

Spread the pumpkin and spinach over the bottom of the tart shell then dot with nuggets of goat's cheese. Pour the custard mixture over the top - it should come almost to the top of the tin but not quite. Bake for around 40 minutes, until the top is brown and the pastry edges are golden. Let it cool for 10 minutes to finish setting.

You Don't Bring Me Flowers

The title of this post doesn't have anything to do with wayward boyfriends or unromantic husbands. It's the name of a quaint cafe-slash-florist in a decidedly non-'destination' bit of southeast London. Even though I live a fairly pleasant walk away, there's no particular reason to visit Hither Green, a traditional Victorian/Edwardian London suburb.

Except maybe to hit up this cute coffee spot. I'd been wanting to try it for awhile, but was never sure it would be worth the 20-minute walk. This weekend though, Ele, Andrew and I decided to check out the area's artists' open studio tour - the perfect excuse to include a visit to You Don't Bring My Flowers.



While we set out in reasonable sunshine, by the time we arrived at the cafe the rain was teeming down. Luckily this cozy little place is the perfect shelter from the elements. We entered a room with a long counter along one wall, a front corner filled with flowers, and the rest of the space taken up with small tables and gifty/cutesy/vintagey merchandise for sale (tea towels, jams and chutneys, stationery and the cutest Christmas cards I've ever seen). A trio of young apron-clad ladies were overseeing the whole operation.

If the interior veers somewhat dangerously into twee territory, you can forgive it. Upstairs feels like a comfortable living/dining room with more seating and a would-be-great-in-summer tiny terrace. The space doubles as a gallery for local artists.

For something substantial, the cafe serves generously proportioned sandwiches and a daily soup. On the all-important sweet side there's a range of cakes, tarts and pastries. Ele and Andrew both enjoyed their lunches, the lattes were delicious, and everything was so prettily presented on vintage mismatched dishes that I could almost forgive the dryness of my huge slice of coffee walnut cake.



This the kind of relaxed place where I could easily linger, but we had art to see. Sadly the rain began coming down in such torrents that we gave up on the studio tour after only one stop! We returned home soaking wet and a bit grumpy, but with a good reason to go back to Hither Green.



You Don't Bring Me Flowers
15 Staplehurst Road
London SE13 5ND

Website
Station: Hither Green

Cheddar cornmeal scones

In my last blog post I talked about cream, so it's only sensible that this time I should focus on scones, right? They are, after all, a match made in heaven. Except for the fact that a dollop of clotted cream on one of these particular scones would be pretty vile.

These savoury treats are what I call soup scones - I think we all like a bit of bread alongside a steaming bowl of soup, and these cheddar and cornmeal scones are the perfect dunking vehicle for getting your soup from bowl to bouche.

I've never been a fan of the savoury muffin or loaf (something about broccoli bread sets me on edge) but scones are a different story. As well as being a delicious, if somewhat fiddly, sandwich bread (remember my biscuit breakfast sandwiches?), they lend themselves well to additions like cheese, grains, seeds and spice.



This version from the cookbook of Rose Bakery isn't the best or most exciting I've ever had, but it was quite nice. The cornmeal adds a really nice crunch; spice lovers might want to add some pepper and a dash more cayenne.

Since it's soup season in my house, I'll likely be making more savoury scones in the months to come. In fact, I've already spotted my next recipe in a Delia Smith book I was browsing through at the library. Maybe once I pay my current fines I'll get that out and get to work...

As with biscuits, the trick to a fluffy scone is to not overwork the dough! A light touch here, please.

Cheddar Cornmeal Scones
From Breakfast, Lunch, Tea by Rose Carrarini

The recipe claims to make 8 to 10 scones, but I got almost twice that many! The recipe is easily halved for a more manageable number.

200 g plain (all purpose) flour
130 g cornmeal or polenta
1 heaping Tbsp baking powder
1 Tbsp sugar
1/2 tsp salt
pinch of cayenne pepper or chili flakes
120 g unsalted butter, cold and diced
130 g grated cheddar cheese
2 eggs
100 ml milk

Preheat the oven to 200C / 400F. Grease a baking sheet with butter or line it with parchment or a non stick liner.

Sift the flour into a bowl and mix with the cornmeal, baking powder, sugar, salt and cayenne. Add the butter and rub in with your fingers until the mixture resembles fresh breadcrumbs - the crumbs do not need to be uniform in size and shape.

In a small bowl beat together the eggs and the milk. Make a well in the middle of the flour mixture and pour in the eggs and milk, using a fork to work it into the dry ingredients. Finish with your hands, lightly gathering everything together into a softish dough - if it's too dry add a bit more milk and if it's too wet add a bit more flour. The dough should be soft but not sticky.

Turn the dough onto a lightly floured surface and pat it into a round about 1 inch (2 cm) thick. With a 2 1/4 inch (6 cm) cutter, cut the dough into rounds and place them on the baking sheet so they're almost touching. Glaze the tops with a bit of milk (or another beaten egg, if you wish) and bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until lightly golden brown.

Once the scones have cooled a bit, pull apart and serve warm. These are best served the day they are made.

Loving... cream!

Do you know what Britain does really well? Cream.

I suppose in a list of national accomplishments cream making wouldn't be the first thing you'd aspire to, but the country really does produce the best thick creams I have ever tasted, especially those from small dairy producers.

Clotted cream. Taken with a traditional cream tea, with its crusty carapace breaking through to creamy, buttery yellowness underneath, this is probably the country's most famous cream. It's not widely available outside Britain, but did you know that if you can get hold of unpasteurized cream (a challenge in itself), you can make your own clotted cream at home?

Double cream. One of my favourite discoveries when I moved to this country was double cream, which is thicker than the North American heavy or whipping varieties due to its higher butterfat content. It's the standard cream served with desserts here because of its spoonable texture, but it's also used in cooking. If you're following a British recipe that calls for double cream and it's not available (or the imports are way too expensive, as they usually are!) you can substitute whipping cream. If you want to serve it alongside a pudding, you can also lightly whip some heavy cream to approximate the thicker double cream consistency.

Extra thick double cream. The holy grail of cream, in my opinion. It's available in all the supermarkets here but I discovered a farm fresh, unpasteurized version fairly recently at the farmers' market that is pure heaven. It's so thick that your spoon stands straight up in it. It's so smooth and unctuous that you want to eat it like ice cream, from the jar (and I have been doing, believe me). It's also so rich that one dollop goes a long way. And that's good news for your hips, because this stuff isn't going to win any Weight Watchers awards. Sadly for those who don't live in this country, I don't think there's any at-home method for approximating this incredible product. You'll just have to come for a visit and try it for yourself.

Surprise, surprise: Almond and orange cake

Oh, I know. Every cake that appears on this blog these days seems to contain ground almonds and citrus flavours. Orange and squash cupcakes. Simple lemon, almond and apricot cake. Citrus polenta and almond drizzle cake. I'm even bending others to my will: take the almond and apricot cake I more or less forced my sister to bake earlier this week.

What can I say? I am a woman obsessed. I know things need to change around here (variety is the spice of life and all that) but not before you allow me to indulge in one more almond and citrus cake. Deal?

And this one is different! From Jeanne Lemlin's Simple Vegetarian Pleasures, this simple, sunken cake depends on almond paste for its uber moist, spongy texture. In fact, the reason I was drawn to this cake in the first place was because it seemed like the perfect use for my log of almond paste (a less sweet version of marzipan) that I'd bought at New York's Dean & Deluca and had been holding onto since May.

I can say that the almond paste was not wasted here. This cake has an unbelievable texture and a deep, almondy flavour. A perfect 'final almond hurrah'.

But now that I'm off the poison for awhile... what to bake next? I think I'll let loose and go crazy. Brownies, anyone?

Orange Almond Cake
Adapted from Simple Vegetarian Pleasures by Jeanne Lemlin

7 oz (200 g) almond paste
4 oz (113 g) unsalted butter, very soft
1 cup sugar
2 Tbsp orange liqueur (such as Grand Marnier) or freshly squeezed orange juice
zest of 1 orange
5 large eggs, at room temperature
1/2 cup cake flour
1 tsp baking powder
icing sugar for dusting (optional)

Preheat the oven to 325F / 160C. Grease and flour an 8- or 9-inch springform pan.

In a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment or in a large bowl using a handheld mixer, beat the butter and sugar until light and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Crumble the almond paste with your fingers and add it to the bowl along with the zest and liqueur or juice. Beat until perfectly blended, another couple of minutes.

Beat in the eggs one at a time, scraping down the bowl after each addition if necessary. Beat until the batter is smooth and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Add the flour and baking powder and mix the batter until just combined.

Scrape the batter into the pan and bake in the centre of the oven for about 55 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the middle comes out clean and the sides are beginning to shrink away from the pan. Cool on a wire rack for 10 minutes before unmoulding and inverting the cake onto a plate. Flip the cake back over and, once cool, dust with icing sugar.