Once upon a time, I went to Wales. Well, it was May to be precise but the faraway is for its fairytale feel. My memories are of lush green, soft sun and sea mist. There were single lane roads (taken up with travelling tractors), and leeks on toast and Sunday roasts and... Welsh cakes. They were everywhere in Cardiff and the countryside - in specialty shops, in supermarkets, pubs and road side stalls. Eaten equally by builders, children and toffs in tearooms, there's something charmingly democratic about the Welsh cake.
Like a cross between a scone and a pikelet, Welsh cakes are a friendly tea-time treat. The traditional type are studded with sultanas, but you can use whatever you like - chocolate chips, orange zest, or any sort of dried fruit... Easy to whip up at short notice, these will keep in a tin to sustain you through a week of school lunches, a month of middle of the night football matches, or indeed, just morning tea.
I'm sorry this post is so late. I can explain. You see, my cousin got married in London a week or so ago and I took advantage of being over the other side of the world to take a break and recover from the first half of the year, which has been - all cake, pies and tarts aside - pretty brutal. So I've been in my spiritual home, Scandinavia, eating my weight in cardamom buns and trying to sleep in for the first time in ages only to be in a particular place at a particular time of the year where the sun rises at 3.49am (after setting not that many hours earlier). But before that I
was in Hobart. Hobart where stone fruit weighs down the limbs of backyard
trees, where berries grow by the side of the road, free for the
taking... but not so much in winter. Which is where jam comes in - jam
made in the warmer months so even with coats and heaters on, it feels
like summer. At least in terms of dessert.
I made these bakewell tarts back in early July with the assistance of my favourite Tasmanian red-haired baker,
whose mum (an amazing cook in her own right) was responsible for the
incredible jam that oozed out of these like a lovely sweet surprise... which sadly I don't have any photographic evidence of. On the southernmost tip of the southern hemisphere we were fighting fast diminishing late afternoon light when these came out of the oven. So you'll just have to trust me that they're good. Very good. Fruity, with smooth frangiapane, the crunch of flaked almonds, and a crisp, crumbly, shortcrust pastry. Save yourself the airfare and the jetlag, making these conjures summer in the depths of winter. And afterwards you can sleep in.
This time last year I was in Copenhagen. Freezing in spring, eating my weight in kanelsnurre and trying not to get run over by bicycles. I loved it. One of my favourite memories is of the cooking class I did, where I learned to make many of the things I'd become so infatuated with during my time in Denmark. Scandinavian food is having a moment and it's easy to see why. It's about eating seasonally, sensibly and simply, with a respect for tradition. This lightly-cured salmon is a perfect example. During the Middle Ages, Nordic fishermen would preserve their summer catch by salting and burying fish in the sand above the high tide line. Since then, generations of Scandinavian home cooks have adapted this technique by "burying" salmon in a dry rub of salt, sugar and dill. Some add a splash of alcohol too - acquavit, vodka, even gin. After a couple of days in the fridge, you simply rinse off the rub, slice the fish thinly into orangey-pink ribbons and enjoy. I like it Smørrebrød-style on rye bread spread thickly with labneh and sprinkled with capers and red onion. You could also serve it - as the Scandis do - with boiled potatoes, mayonnaise and some kind of crunchy slaw or pickle. It's slow food that's fast to prepare. The best of both worlds.
If you're a kid and it's your birthday, then there's only one cake you want. And because all of us have been kids (or perhaps have never really grown up), chocolate cake brings out our inner seven year old, and we too hoe into it with gusto. Anyone who likes to bake has a go-to recipe for chocolate cake and this is mine. I'm not a parent but the average person (baker or not) with a lot on their plate can appreciate a recipe where all you have to do is pile the ingredients into a food processor and press ON. Especially when the results would indicate it was a lot more work - the most delicate crumb, a perfect balance of tangy and sweet, and a sturdy structure which allows it to be comfortably held by fingers big and small.
It's so good in fact, it befits two choruses of happy birthday - one with candles, one with sparklers. The secret is sour cream, which enriches both icing and cake and cuts the sweetness of the sugar in each. It also makes it beautifully moist, which means the slice you get to take home will be just as delicious the next day.
American cops - or, more accurately, American cops in American movies - are renowned for their great love of doughnuts. The Danish police force, on the other hand, are synonymous with the more romantic-sounding lemon moon cake, or citronmåne. To be fair, it's a cake that's most readily available in long-life form on supermarket shelves, but even still, the flavours are a little more complex than deep-fried dough (much as I love a doughnut). It's citrussy and lightly sweet and in colour, pale gold, like the Scandinavian sun.
When I came to Copenhagen I wanted to learn how to cook something Danish. And one night, in Hellerup, in the cosy kitchen of a lovely Danish family, I was taught how to make this cake. Like a lot of Danish desserts and baked goods, it's made with marzipan, something I'd previously only associated with the icing on wedding cakes. Though you can get it in Australia, I tucked a small package of it in my suitcase to take home with me, just in case. Because I needed to have this cake again. It's that good. This recipe comes from the organic bakery chain emmerys, whose wares I sampled widely while I was in town. The quantity makes one large cake, which traditionally are cut in two to make half-moons, hence the name. Each half moon easily feeds six people, or (as the joke goes) one Danish policeman.
My Danish has not come along a great deal in the three weeks I've been here. My one complete phrase which translates to "Do you speak English?" consistently elicits blank stares and when I revert to actual English to say it, I am met with relief, a smile and "of course". But - what I have picked up here and there have been words I see again and again - økologisk for example, which means organic. And, lately, jordbær - strawberries - because they're everywhere: red, fat, and juicy. This is not a Danish recipe, but something I'd been meaning to try out since reading this fantastic article in The New York Times about regional pie variations in the United States. I could have made a grunt, or a crisp or a crumble, but it was the sonker from North Carolina that called me.
It's my general belief that strawberries should really not be messed with at all. They're best eaten fresh, at room temperature, but when it's really, really cold outside - still! turns out Danish spring is icier than Sydney winter - you want something a little warm in your belly. So, the sonker. Apart from its charmingly strange name, it had the advantage of being made with items I already had in my kitchen, and needed to use up: milk, butter, flour, sugar. Despite the simplicity of the ingredient list, it turns out it's not as straight forward as just combining them into a batter to pour over the fruit. There's a definite technique to the sonker. And multiple saucepans and bowls. But the end result is well worth it - tender, jammy fruit tucked beneath a lightly golden, pancake-style crust. Another word I've learnt during my stay is hygge, which roughly translates to cosiness, the cornerstone of the Danish way of life. It can be seen here everywhere and in everything - in candles on tables set for dinner (or even breakfast!), pots of bulbs and herbs in the windows of apartments, impromptu gatherings anywhere outside when the sun is shining no matter how freezing the actual temperature, children clustered together in custom-built boxes on the front of bicycles pedalled by a parent... This dessert, while nowhere near Nordic, encapsulates that philosophy beautifully. Homey and warm, simple and sweet: wholly hygge.
The best bit of graffiti I ever saw was on the wall of a lift in an old apartment block in Bondi. It read "I love scones". I couldn't agree more. I love a scone. And by scone, I mean the kind that rhymes with "Ron", as opposed to the kind that rhymes with "phone". To be clear: I love both kinds, but they're different things. The former - round, modestly size, served with jam and cream, or slathered in butter and honey - are the traditional sort, as found in England and its far-flung colonies, like Australia. The latter, the giant triangular kind embellished with fruit, nuts and different kinds of flour and grain, are distinctly American. The first time I visited the United States I saw those then-foreign objects in the cabinet of a Starbucks with the familiar label stuck to them and curious, ordered one to go with my coffee. I may as well have been speaking Farsi as the woman behind the counter had no idea what I was saying. I quickly realised my mistake and tried a few alternate pronounciations before finally hitting on the right one, only to run into further difficulty with my own name when it was requested for the order. Server: Name? Me: Alice. Server: Alex? Me: No, Alice. Server: (louder) Alex? Me: (accepting defeat) Yes, Alex.
These days, I am bilingual in scone ordering. But these ones require no translation. At least not for me. They're Australian and the recipe comes from a cookbook written by my mother, and a good friend of hers, Judith McKay. There's not much in there I can make as it's an historical cookbook and it's not often I have a spare kangaroo tail on hand for a stew. But scones I can make. I like knowing that generations of women (let's be honest, they were all women) made this recipe before me: rubbed the fat with the flour between their fingertips, gently pressed out the dough, cut it into rounds and swaddled the baked result in a teatowel to keep warm.
