I am glad I was not born before tea!
—SYDNEY SMITH (1771–1845)
“Oh, for a good cup of tea!” A truly British cry that I echo so often in my travels around four o’clock in the afternoon. Tea is my panacea, my consolation—if you will, my “fix.” But it can also be horrible. Take tea at airports, for example: a thick mug, if you are lucky—it is more often a revolting Styrofoam cup that scalds your lips—two-thirds full of hot water that tastes of the kitchen and that has been reheated a hundred times in the day. There is usually a slender teabag on the saucer, put there casually as if left by accident. “Could you please put some boiling water over the teabag?” I ask timidly—and I am usually far from timid. “But the water has boiled” is the invariable reply, at which point I give up.
In some countries tea means a ceremonial drink, but for the British teatime is a social or family occasion. One can sit down comfortably without feeling that one’s wasting time, take stock, and gear oneself up for the rest of the day.
Tea is such a delicate drink that unless you have drunk it when it has been made properly and the full flavor extracted from it, it is practically impossible to appreciate my enthusiasm—passion.
Every afternoon at four thirty the clock stops at Quinta Diana, and I carry a locally made flat-bottomed strawberry basket laden with tea things up to my study. There is always homemade jam, scones, clotted cream or butter (also homemade), and milk from the morning’s milking that has a layer of yellow cream on top. As I pour out my tea on a November afternoon, I watch the last brilliant rays of the sun light up the carpet of multicolored flowers around the house and cast a golden sheen onto the forested mountains beyond. It is a magical time, and I can’t help but compare it to a November teatime in England! I have perhaps the very slightest twinge of nostalgia when I think back to those prewar Sunday teas—but it quickly disperses when I think of the weather. The light would be fading fast as we walked back from Hampstead Heath, and the sad, damp smell of autumn lay heavily on the air as we shuffled our feet in the matted layer of faded yellow leaves covering the sidewalk. In those days, smoke curled out of the chimney pots, and as the lamplighter passed along the street deftly pulling the slender chains of the gas lamps, the mantles would suddenly explode and then glow with a bluish flame. I can even remember the clang of the muffin man’s bell as he loomed out of the misty twilight.
By the time we arrived home, the tea trolley was laid ready in front of the fire. We would sit close to the flames to warm ourselves. When it was time to toast the crumpets or currant buns, speared on the Benares brass toasting fork (that Father polished every Sunday), the logs were pushed back to reveal the glowing coals. If there had been roast beef for lunch, then he would toast thick slices of bread and slather them with drippings from the roasting pan. We were not allowed to start with cake: watercress or fish-paste sandwiches, or bread and butter, or scones and jam had to be eaten in quantity before we were allowed to go on to the sweet things. There was always a round, layered plate rack on the table to hold the small cakes: coconut pyramids; maids of honor—tartlets of puff pastry filled with almond paste and apricot jam—Banbury cakes and Shrewsbury biscuits, all made at home. On separate plates covered with crocheted doilies were the large round cakes. There were usually three to choose from: a gingerbread; a rather dry seed cake, gritty with whole caraway seeds, that I intensely disliked; and a chocolate Swiss roll (jelly roll) filled with real whipped cream, or a Dundee cake with its pattern of toasted almond halves over the top. And this, mind you, was “afternoon” tea (not high tea). High tea takes place after five o’clock, a sort of tea-cum-supper when something savory, hot or cold, is served.
There were special-occasion teas. Birthdays, for instance, were celebrated with parlor games and eating: orange halves hollowed out and filled with jelly, trifles with lots of whipped cream on top, little fairy cakes (very small cupcakes) covered with “hundreds and thousands” (microscopic multicolored balls like the American sprinkles), and chocolate cupcakes. All these followed sandwiches made with an extra amount of butter for the occasion, and sausage rolls with their rich pastry casing. The birthday cake itself was usually orange- or lemon-flavored—round Victoria sponge cakes sandwiched together with thick layers of buttercream and topped with an icing of the same flavor decorated with angelica and cherries. Then there were Easter teas with toasted, buttered hot cross buns, and a simnel cake, rich and buttery, with its thick almond-paste topping decorated with fluffy yellow chickens and small marzipan eggs. The ultimate test of endurance was Christmas tea (see the Christmas section) with turkey-drippings toast, Christmas cake, and shortbread. How all of this was accomplished with so little I’ll never know.
Tea at Lyons Corner House was a special treat after shopping or going to a pantomime in the West End of London with my rich godmother. Under the spindly palms of the immense tearoom we stuffed ourselves with cream buns and éclairs—filled with real cream—to the accompaniment of thé dansant music played with a coquettish lilt by a sedate and aging trio. But what rich fragrant tea they served! It never tasted quite that good at home.
If theater teas still exist, which I very much doubt, I am sure they are not as good as I remember. (At the last matinee I went to years ago in London, only coffee was served at a bar. “The Americans have taken over” was the usher’s rejoinder to my remark “What! No tea in the theater! What has become of England?” And he went on, “But it is very good. Like me, it is Brazilian.”) At the first or second intermission a small tray laden with the paraphernalia of tea arrived miraculously unspilled at your seat—that is, if you had remembered to order it before the play began. Every thing seemed to fit on it: tea for one with room for a small plate of delicate sandwiches, a measured rectangle of fruitcake, and a small dish of ice cream. There was a momentary lull in the otherwise animated conversation, and the theater filled with the clink of teacups.
My favorite memory of tea is my earliest: tea at Mrs. Parker’s across the road. My sister and I could hardly wait; in fact, we always arrived too early. We would walk up the immaculately manicured garden path between the immaculately pruned rosebushes set in a small lawn where not a blade of grass was out of place. A neat little maid answered our knock and showed us in. She wore her black uniform dress with starched headband and cuffs of bird’s-eye lace woven with narrow black velvet ribbon, and a frilly apron to match. The parrot squawked and the Pekingese dog yapped as we entered and greeted Mrs. Parker. We could hardly wait until tea was served and our favorite coffee sponge came into view. It was in fact two rounds of coffee-flavored buttery sponge cake sandwiched together with a thick layer of buttercream, also coffee-flavored. The cake was covered with a satiny-smooth layer of coffee-flavored icing and trimmed with those intriguing little silver balls or chopped hazelnuts. She always made this when we came to tea, and very little of it was left by the time we said good-bye.
There have been other memorable teas and teatimes: simple but wonderfully good farmhouse teas for the asking in wartime Wales after hiking over the bracken- and bilberry-covered slopes of the Brecon Beacons, and Devonshire teas during the summer vacations with thick clotted cream and strawberry jam to smother freshly made scones.
My San Pancho teas, though much more modest, borrow a little something from all these experiences, and I bake—yes, even for myself when I don’t have company—so that I have something for tea each and every day. Here are some of my favorite recipes.
A Properly Set Tea Tray, For Afternoon (Not High) Tea
It doesn’t have to be a silver tray—it can be a wooden one or, for that matter, the top of a tea cart—but cover it with a small cloth, embroidered or with drawn-thread work, what you will. The most important piece of equipment is, of course, the teapot, standing on its trivet. I prefer china or earthenware, not metal, and I love the Japanese ones that have a nice little round strainer inside the spout. Of course, it is nice to have several sizes of teapot because it is disastrous to make tea for two in an eight-cup pot—it gets cold quickly and doesn’t brew as well. There should be a small milk jug, not a great big pitcher unless you are making tea for twenty people. There should be a “slop basin” for the leaves left in the cups when you are about to pour seconds, with a small silver strainer sitting on it or on its own stand. Then a sugar basin for lump sugar and a pair of special little silver tongs, and a jug to hold the hot water for adjusting the strength of the cups of tea. And of course a tea cozy.
Cups and saucers are, of course, essential: china, if you can possibly manage it; please, no thick pottery mugs—you can’t taste the tea, and besides, they should be reserved for hot cocoa. It is customary to place a small teaspoon in each saucer to stir the sugar in. Although “it is not done in the best circles,” I take my spoon off. I don’t take sugar, and the spoon often falls off the saucer or gets in the way. There should be a small tea plate and one of those slender British tea knives for each of the guests. Dainty linen or embroidered cotton napkins are an essential; paper ones are acceptable only in an emergency. There should be a separate dish and knife for pats of butter and a small glass dish or jam pot with a decorative spoon for the jam. If you are including a large, uncut cake among the tea food, then there should be a good-looking knife to cut it.
MAKING TEA
Now for the tea itself: no teabags, no instant tea, no iced tea, and this is not the time for herbal teas—just good plain Indian or Ceylon tea leaves; I much prefer them to China tea in the afternoon, but that is a matter of taste. As a general rule, I would suggest buying tea only when it is packed in an airtight container, because it can easily become stale and musty. Buy loose tea only if you know that your specialty shop has a very quick turnover—you can waste an awful lot of money buying teas that have lost their flavor, and the trouble is, the sales clerks and, alas, even some owners don’t know the difference. I can’t pretend to be an expert on teas, because I am not, but I love the flavor and strength of a flowery Darjeeling, or a pungent so-called Russian tea, or a good orange pekoe, and I vary them constantly, to compare tastes and qualities. I don’t know whether it is still done, but tea in Britain used to be blended to suit the water of each region of the country. This is why some experimenting for the right teas for your area is important. The very same tea that brews a delicious cup in one area is strident and has a chalky film over it in another. The only solution is to keep tasting and comparing. But just you try it with fresh spring water!
You will need a hot water kettle—I think the name teakettle is misleading. A whistling one is useful, since you can hear when the water is about to come to a boil. I used to use an electric kettle (because I was always in a hurry), but now I am always trying to save electricity in my ecological house. Well then, fill the kettle with cold water freshly drawn from the tap, and when it is close to a boil, pour a little into the teapot, which is already warming at the side of the stove, and swirl it around several times to heat the inside of the pot. Throw the water away or put it in the teacups to heat them—completely unorthodox, but I like very hot tea and the cups are invariably cold unless the temperature is in the hundreds. Measure the tea leaves into the heated pot—1 heaped teaspoon for each person and 1 for the pot is the rule of thumb—and pour the boiling, bubbling water onto the leaves, strictly observing the old British rule “Take the pot to the kettle, not the kettle to the pot.” Stir well. Put a tea cozy over the pot and leave it for 6 minutes for the tea to “draw.” If you are heating the teacups, pour the hot water into the slop basin—you’ll need a big one unless you have an open window nearby. Pour a little good cold whole milk—not skimmed or boiled milk, which give a bad color and flavor to the tea, and not cream, which is far too rich—into each cup. Give a final stir to the tea (not done in polite society) and pour. Add a little more hot water to the pot as necessary, as the tea will be strong and you don’t want to exhaust it first time around. When you have finished pouring, add more water for the second round.
BRITISH SAVANTS DISCOVER HOW TO BREW TEA
LONDON (AP) The Queen of England, it must be said, does not pour a perfect cup of tea.
In fact, that much was implied Friday by the British Standards Institute, whose scientists have been at work on one of this country’s great questions:
What comes first—the milk or the tea?
Queen Elizabeth II, Buckingham Palace sources disclose, always pours the tea into the cup and then adds the milk.
Institute scientists, however, have now laid down unanimously that the milk must be poured first. Otherwise, they state, the milk is scalded and that affects the taste of the tea.
The ideal teapot is made of earthenware or white porcelain; tea must be two per cent of the total mass of the pot; the water must be freshly boiled and filled to within four to six millimeters of the brim, beneath a loosely-fitting lid with a hole in it; and the filled pot must stand for exactly—repeat, exactly—six minutes before pouring commences.
Cucumber Sandwiches
about 18 small sandwiches
There is no doubt that when you think of England and sandwiches, you think of cucumber sandwiches, which were launched into literary fame by Oscar Wilde. They are refreshing and crunchy when well made and insipidly soggy if made with indifference.
Whenever cucumber sandwiches are mentioned, I think of tea in the garden on a summer afternoon when I was young. The weather-beaten outdoors table was hidden under a fresh, starched, colored cloth—not white, because it was outdoors—and covered with plates of bread and butter, scones, sandwiches, a jam pot, cakes, and biscuits. The tea trolley was lifted cautiously over the lawn to where a hammock was slung under some trees, and deck chairs—excruciatingly uncomfortable to eat in—were set around the table. It was always a juggling act to keep a napkin, plate, and knife on your knee while balancing a full cup and saucer, taking sips and bites, and brushing off an angry wasp attracted to the jam. It was indeed a full tea (not high tea, which indicates a late tea—a substitute for the evening meal—with a more substantial savory meal, either hot or cold), and even on the hottest of days everyone drank several cups of steaming (usually Indian) tea and felt refreshed.
There was something very special about tea in the garden when the whole family came together in peace. There was an aroma of freshly mown grass and the first birdsong of the evening from the apple tree, and if we were late enough, church bells in the distance swelling and fading as the breeze changed direction. Nostalgia? I wouldn’t go back to those days for anything, but perhaps the world would be a better place if everything would slow down and we would take time to feel and think, drink tea, and dream a little.
Commercially grown cucumbers in the United States and Mexico are a disaster: they are tough-skinned, overfertilized, sweet, and tasteless. To make matters worse, some misguided vegetable makeup artist has decided that they should be waxed—what a ridiculous waste of effort and money! But many markets are now carrying the more delicately flavored long, thin European-type cucumbers—the type that is always used in England. (They usually come in plastic shrink-wrap in the United States.) Of course, if you live near a country vegetable stand and can buy them freshly picked, better still. If the cucumbers have a trace of wax on them, they will have to be peeled; but if not, they should be scored lengthwise with the tines of a sharp fork. Leaving the skin on makes for a better flavor and texture, which is important to these sandwiches. The bread should be either white or whole wheat, salty and with a tough crumb—far too many breads are sweet and doughy and should be shunned for everything, but particularly sandwiches.
1/2 European-type cucumber (see note above)
Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
2 tablespoons strong, unseasoned vinegar (optional)
Bread (see note above)
Salted butter, slightly softened
Score the cucumber lengthwise and cut in paper-thin slices. Put the slices in a bowl. Season with the salt, freshly ground pepper, and vinegar. Set aside while you cut the bread and butter it. (The bane of my existence when I was growing up—the bread was always falling apart as I attempted to butter it.)
Cut the end crust off a loaf of bread and lavishly butter the cut surface. Slice thin. Repeat until enough bread has been buttered and cut for the sandwiches. Drain the cucumber a little, and put a thin layer between 2 slices of the bread. Trim off the crusts, if you wish—depending on how fancy you want to be—and cut into triangles or rectangles. (I personally dislike all those fancy little pinwheel things.) Eat very soon after making, as these sandwiches are apt to become soggy.
Egg and Anchovy Sandwiches
about 8 small sandwiches
If you are on a salt-free or low-cholesterol diet, turn the page quickly, for these sandwiches are addictive. As usual, the essentials for making good sandwiches are very good bread without the slightest hint of sweetness, a good serrated knife to cut it with, and plenty of good fresh, unsalted butter for spreading.
This should be enough filling for 8 small slices of bread, depending, of course, on how heavy-handed you like to be with this rich filling.
2 hard-boiled eggs, peeled and mashed while still warm
2 scant tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature, plus extra to butter the bread
4–5 teaspoons anchovy paste, or to taste
About 8 slices bread
After mashing the eggs, allow them to cool off completely—but do not refrigerate. Mix well with the butter and anchovy paste and layer between 2 slices of well-buttered bread, preferably whole wheat.
If you want to be extra fancy, then cut the crusts off the bread when the sandwiches are made and cut them into different shapes.
Yogurt Scones
11 scones
These scones have a nice short texture, and the acidity of the yogurt gives an unusual flavor. The recipe is an adaptation of one from a cookbook I own called Definitely Different. I have tried making them with whole wheat flour, but the result is not as pleasing. However, the scones are very good with the addition of a little bran, about 1 ounce (30 g), reducing the flour accordingly. You can also use buttermilk instead of yogurt; 1/3 cup (85 mL) should be sufficient.
4 ounces (115 g) unbleached all-purpose flour, plus extra for rolling out the dough
2 ounces (60 g) cornstarch
3/4 teaspoon double-acting or 1 teaspoon single-acting baking powder
1/4 teaspoon sea salt
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 tablespoon good pork lard, at room temperature (optional)
1/4 cup (65 mL) yogurt, diluted with enough milk to make just over 1/3 cup (85 mL)
Heat the oven to 350°F (180°C) and place the oven rack at the top of the oven. Lightly grease a cookie sheet.
Mix the flour, cornstarch, baking powder, and salt together well. Cut the fats into small pieces and, with the fingertips, rub them into the flour mixture until it resembles coarse bread crumbs. Stir in the yogurt and milk until you have a fairly stiff dough. Put the dough on a lightly floured surface and handle it very lightly and as little as possible. Press it out with a rolling pin until it is about 1/2 inch (1.25 cm) thick and cut the scones out with a 2-inch (5 cm) biscuit cutter. Gather up the remaining dough, pressing the pieces together, and roll out again. Repeat. My very last scone always turns out to be a funny shape because I use up every scrap of the dough.
Bake the scones for about 20 minutes, raise the heat of the oven to 400°F (200°C), and bake for about 5 minutes more, or until well risen and a golden brown. Transfer them to a wire rack and allow to cool. You can split them open and butter them, but I find they are quite rich enough and prefer them just with a good jam.
TIP
If scones become the slightest bit stale or dry in the freezer, revive them by quickly dipping them in whole milk and heating in a very hot oven (450°F [230°C]) for 5 minutes.
Whole Wheat Scones
makes about 8 triangular scones
I am sure these rather substantial, non-non-sweet scones are not to everyone’s taste—they’re a very far cry from the usual American “scones.” But for me they’re the real thing, so satisfyingly textured. I like them served hot, either with lots of butter and jam or cream cheese—or any cheese for that matter. They bring back warm memories of teatime in a cousin’s house in Scotland.
Fair warning: never make too many at a time, since they are irresistible straight from the oven. Of course they can be reheated by sprinkling them well with milk before putting them into a hot oven for a few minutes, until heated through. I prefer this method to toasting them.
4 ounces (115 g) whole wheat flour
4 ounces (115 g) all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon sugar (no more)
1 scant teaspoon baking soda
1 scant teaspoon cream of tartar
2 ounces (60 g) unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
1 tablespoon pork lard
Approximately 1/3 cup (85 mL) milk
Heat the oven to 400°F (200°C). Set the rack at the top level and lightly butter a baking sheet.
Mix together the dry ingredients. Add the butter and lard, and mix with your fingertips into a crumbly consistency. Add the milk, always reserving a little to see how much the flour will absorb, and mix lightly to a slightly sticky, barely cohesive dough. Flatten out to a circle about 6 inches (15 cm) in diameter and about 1 inch (2.5 cm) thick.
Cut into 8 wedges and bake until firm and slightly crusty, about 10–15 minutes. Serve right away.
Tea Scones
makes 12 2-inch (5 cm) scones
These scones are a little more delicate than the whole wheat ones and very different from the scones that Americans have taken to heart, judging by the plethora of those overly sweet, huge “scones” that appear in food stands at airports (in particular) and coffee bars. This recipe is inspired by one published in England in 1953: Good Housekeeping’s Picture Recipe Book, which had lots of colored photographs, well ahead of its time.
If you want to serve them with thick cream and jam, omit the dried fruit.
If you want to make them with part buttermilk or yogurt and milk, use half the amount of cream of tartar.
8 ounces (225 g) all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon cream of tartar
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
2 ounces (60 g) unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
2 ounces (60 g) sultanas (golden raisins)
Approximately 1/3 (85 mL) to 1/2 cup (125 mL) milk (see note above)
Sift together the dry ingredients. Add the butter and work with your fingertips until the mixture is crumbly. Add the raisins. Gradually work in the milk until the dough is cohesive and slightly sticky.
Heat the oven to 450°F (230°C) and set the rack on the top level. Have ready a lightly buttered baking sheet.
On a floured work surface, pat out the dough to a circle about 1 inch (2.5 cm) thick. Shape the scones by cutting out with a 2-inch (5 cm) cookie cutter, dipping it into flour after each one.
Arrange the scones on the baking sheet and bake until just firm to the touch, about 15 minutes. Remove and cool on a rack or serve immediately.
TIP
To reheat, dip quickly into milk and heat in a very hot oven for about 5 minutes.
Scone Sticks
I love crispy cheese straws with drinks, but these scone sticks, as I have named them, are not as devastatingly rich. I often make some extra scone dough, adding a little more butter and lots of grated cheddar-type cheese and some celery seeds. Flatten the dough into a rectangle about 1/2 inch (1.25 cm) thick and cut it into narrow sticks. I bake them at 350°F (180°C) until they’re not completely crisp, about 15 minutes. They keep well, tightly sealed, of course.
English Clotted Cream
I learned to make proper clotted cream in English farmhouses during the war. The method is simple but requires a bit of attention to a few points, and it’s nothing like the bizarre recipes you’ll find online.
There’s just one essential ingredient for real British clotted cream (natas in Mexico), and that’s raw rich (whole, of course) milk, now legally produced in a number of states (elsewhere it may be available as “pet milk”). A secondary ingredient will serve you very well, and that’s patience.
Once you’ve found a good source for the milk, right away set aside 2 quarts (1.9 L) of it—or a little more—in a large, heavy pan (the milk should be a maximum of 4 inches [10 cm] deep) in a cool place overnight, covered with a tea towel. If it’s very warm weather, you can set the pot in the refrigerator. The important thing is not to move it at all, so that the next morning the cream will have formed a layer over the surface.
Set the pan, uncovered, over low heat for about an hour, or until the cream has formed a thickened layer on top. Let it cool to room temperature. (Try hard not to let it come to a boil, but if it does, all is not lost—though the layer of cream on top will be a bit disturbed. Take it off the heat right away and let it cool to room temperature. Leave it alone as long as you can before proceeding, even overnight.)
Using a slotted spoon or scoop, skim off the thick layer of cream and store in covered jars in the refrigerator. If you heat the milk gently again and let it sit out again overnight, you’ll have a second, smaller batch of clotted cream. Dig down into the milk to scoop out all the little particles. How long it will keep once you’ve skimmed the cream off depends on your refrigerator and other factors, but at least several days. You can freeze it in a pinch if you have a lot left over.
Use the leftover milk in a rice pudding or a custard.
Drop Scones, or Scotch Pancakes*
about 34 pancakes, 3/16 inch thick
I was indoctrinated into the lore of these “scones” when I lived in Scotland for two years in the 1940s. As an assistant housing manager, I helped administer low-income housing estates in both rural and mining areas of Dumfriesshire. Apart from my interesting working day, my baking apprenticeship was unwittingly continued there, for every woman I knew was an accomplished home baker. Teatime there came into its own, and not only were there several types of cake on the table but at least two different types of scones: among them dark brown treacle or light fruity girdle (“griddle” in the United States) potato scones and these little drop scones. (We also had crumpets; quite unlike those farther south, they resembled thin pancakes and were buttered, rolled up, and eaten cold.) Drop scones are, of course, akin to blintzes but smaller and buttered when cold. They can be prepared several hours ahead and kept moist in a tea towel, but they should be eaten the same day they are made.
8 ounces (225 g) unbleached all-purpose flour
Scant 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
Scant 1/2 teaspoon cream of tartar
Scant 1/4 teaspoon double-acting or 1/2 teaspoon single-acting baking powder
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
1 tablespoon unsalted butter, at room temperature, plus extra to grease the griddle
1 egg
1-1/4 cups (315 mL) whole milk
1 tablespoon cane or corn syrup (Tate and Lyle’s Golden Syrup, preferably)
Sift together the flour, baking soda, cream of tartar, and baking powder. Mix in the sugar, and then rub the butter into the mixture with your fingertips. (No, it doesn’t resemble bread crumbs, since there’s not enough fat.) Beat the egg into the milk and stir it into the flour mixture alternately with the syrup. The mixture should resemble a thick batter—don’t worry if it is slightly lumpy because you shouldn’t overbeat it. Set the mixture aside for at least 10 minutes, but never more than 15; it should be slightly bubbly.
Meanwhile, heat the griddle over medium heat and smear with buttered paper just before you begin cooking the pancakes and again before each batch is cooked. Drop a large spoonful of the batter onto the griddle—there should be a slight sizzle if the griddle has reached the right temperature, and the batter should not spread out more than about 3 inches (about 7 cm). Repeat as many times as there is room on the griddle. Cook the pancakes for about 2 minutes, or until the underside is a pale golden color and the top bubbly but not dried out, as if you were cooking crumpets. Flip them over and cook the second side for a further 2 minutes, or until golden. As soon as they are cooked, transfer them to a tea towel—they can be stacked on top of each other—cover and let them cool off in the towel until ready to use. Grease the griddle again and cook the next batch of pancakes. The first cooked side will be the face that is buttered—“the public side,” as Julia Child would say. Butter rather thickly and serve just like that or with jam.
Date and Walnut Loaf
one 9-inch (23 cm) cake
Thickly buttered slices of date and walnut loaf appeared with some regularity on the tea table at our house. This was one of Mother’s favorite recipes. While you can eat it the day it is made, I prefer to let it cool off, wrap it tightly, and let it mature for a day or two.
1 pound (450 g) pitted dates, roughly chopped
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup (250 mL) boiling water
8 ounces (225 g) unbleached all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon sea salt
3 ounces (85 g) soft brown sugar (1/2 cup, firmly packed)
3 ounces (85 g) walnuts, roughly chopped (3/4 cup chopped)
1 large egg
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted, plus extra for greasing the pan
Butter a 9 × 9-inch (22.5 × 22.5 cm) cake pan.
Put the dates in a mixing bowl. Dissolve the baking soda in the boiling water and immediately mix it into the dates while it is still effervescing. Set aside for 10 minutes. Mix the flour, salt, sugar, and 1/2 cup (125 mL) of the chopped walnuts together. Beat the egg and add with the melted butter to the dates. Stir into the flour mixture until well incorporated; the mixture will be soft and sticky.
Heat the oven to 350°F (180°C).
Pour the batter immediately into the prepared pan. Sprinkle the top with the remaining nuts and bake for about 2 hours. By that time the loaf will be shrinking slightly from the sides of the pan. (Obviously the usual skewer test will be deceptive, as the dates remain sticky and can stick to the skewer.) Set the loaf aside to cool before attempting to unmold. Slice and butter liberally.
NOTE
Dates are much easier to chop if you add a tablespoon or two of flour before you begin.
My Rock Cakes
12 cakes
Rock cakes are as English as the White Cliffs of Dover and as craggy. Quick and easy to make at the last minute, they were a standby at home if anyone came to tea unexpectedly. Mother would quite often use the fat drippings from the beef roast for rock cakes, and for what she called her “rubbed in” fruit cake. It was delicious but did not keep quite as moist as that made with butter.
8 ounces (225 g) unbleached all-purpose flour
Large pinch of sea salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
2 ounces (60 g) light brown sugar, preferably turbinado
1/2 heaped teaspoon mixed ground spices: cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, plus 1 tablespoon for greasing the baking sheet
4 ounces (115 g) mixed dried fruit: currants, sultanas (or golden raisins), and raisins (about 2/3 cup)
1-1/2 tablespoons citron, finely chopped
1 large egg
1/4 cup (65 mL) milk
Lightly grease a baking sheet.
Mix the flour, salt, baking powder, sugar, and ground spices together well, or toss in a plastic bag. Cut the fats into small pieces and add to the flour mixture. Rub the fats into the flour with your hands until the mixture resembles rough bread crumbs. Stir in the dried fruit and citron.
Heat the oven to 375°F (190°C) and place the oven rack at the top of the oven.
Beat the egg into the milk and stir into the flour-fruit mixture—the dough should be rather stiff and sticky. Do not overwork the dough. Put the dough, by large spoonfuls, onto the cookie sheet—allowing about 1 inch (2.5 cm) between them—and form into rough pyramid shapes. Bake for about 20 minutes, or until cooked through and browned on top. Transfer the rock cakes to a wire tray to cool off. Store in an airtight container. These are best eaten fresh.
If the cakes are getting a little dry and tired-looking, quickly dip them into whole milk and bake again in a 375°F (190°C) oven until well heated through and crisp on the outside.
Matrimony Cake
one 8 × 8 × 2-inch (20 × 20 × 5 cm) cake
I hadn’t made this recipe for years until now and had forgotten about this rather luscious date-filled oatmeal slice—probably there is a recipe for it in most home cookbooks, but this one was given to me when I was traveling across Canada in 1955 by a Mrs. McPherson who lived in the Okanagan Valley. Health food devotees might be tempted to put whole wheat flour into it, but don’t: it makes it too stodgy, like far too many of the cookies and bars sold in health food stores.
DATE FILLING
12 ounces (340 g) pitted dates
1/2 cup (125 mL) cold water
3 tablespoons light brown sugar
2 tablespoons lemon juice
CAKE
1 cup (250 mL) rolled oats
1 cup (250 mL) unbleached all-purpose flour
1/2 cup (125 mL) light brown sugar
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon double-acting or 1/2 teaspoon single-acting baking powder
1/2 cup (125 mL) unsalted butter plus extra for greasing the pan
Put all the ingredients for the filling together in a saucepan and cook gently until the dates have softened, about 7 minutes. Set aside to cool.
To make the cake
Mix the dry ingredients together well. Cut the butter into small pieces and rub with the fingertips into the flour mixture until it resembles rough bread crumbs.
Heat the oven to 350°F (180°C) and put the rack at the top of the oven. Butter well an 8 × 8 × 2-inch (20 × 20 × 5 cm) pan.
Divide the oat mixture in two. Press one-half into the prepared pan, spread the cooled date filling over it evenly, and spread the remaining oat mixture over the top, pressing it down very lightly. Bake for about 25 minutes, by which time the bottom should be well cooked and the top lightly browned.
MATRIMONY CAKE VARIATION
This is also delicious with a sharp apricot filling. I suggest the proportions of 6 ounces (180 g) dried apricots plus 4 ounces (115 g) dates; 4 heaped tablespoons light brown sugar; and 2/3 cup (170 mL) water.
Ruth’s Duck-Egg Sponge
one 10-inch (25 cm) cake
Duck eggs were cheap and plentiful in the stores when we were growing up, and Mother always used to buy them for her baking. Father liked to eat them for breakfast, poached, but their strong yolks and half-transparent whites—although cooked—did not appeal to my sister and me. I remember the shells as that beautiful pale bluey green and was disappointed when my duck eggs at Quinta Diana turned out a dirty cream color.
I remember years ago eating a duck-egg sponge that I loved at the home of a friend. It was chewy and delicious. You never find sponges like that anymore because it is the fashion, as with laundry, to have cakes “soft and downy,” with far too much double-acting baking powder to boot. When my ducks started to lay, I decided to make the recipe again. Elisorio, who with his family looks after my ranchito, decided otherwise and seemed reluctant to hand over the eggs. I was very surprised at his reaction because I knew that he rather despised ducks; he didn’t like the flavor of the meat, which ruled out all other considerations—nothing should be kept that wasn’t good to eat, was his rule of thumb. And then the ducks always escaped from any enclosure and raided the newly sown alfalfa, and in any case they laid their eggs all over the place. “No,” he said, “the ducks look broody. They are making the right noises” (and he imitated them). They began to sit. One duck broke her eggs two by two; the other he put into a box, tying it down with cord. Two weeks later he arrived at the kitchen door smiling and holding out six duck eggs. “They are perfectly all right to use,” he assured me.
I greased and floured the cake pan, measured out the ingredients, and broke open the eggs . . . every one had the yolk sticking to the shell and smelled, to say the least, gamey. It was months before I could find some duck eggs again. I went all over town to anyone who kept ducks. Either the neighborhood dogs had eaten them, or the local bakeries had bought them all up, or the ducks weren’t laying. And so the pan and the ingredients sat waiting in the refrigerator. Then the deluge began. I was stopped in the street a dozen times and offered duck eggs because all the ducks in Zitácuaro had begun to lay again.
If carefully stored, or frozen, this sponge keeps for a long time, and even if it does get stale, you can always use it for a trifle. I use a 10-inch (25 cm) springform pan for this recipe.
Unsalted butter for greasing the pan
5 ounces (140 g) all-purpose flour, plus 1 tablespoon for the pan
8 ounces (225 g) granulated sugar, plus 1 tablespoon for the pan
1/2 teaspoon double-acting or 3/4 teaspoon single-acting baking powder
Pinch of sea salt
4 duck eggs, weighing about 10 ounces (285 g) together, at room temperature
Finely grated rind of 1 lemon
Grease well a 10-inch (25 cm) springform pan, sprinkle with 1 tablespoon of the flour, and tap the sides of the pan, turning it in circular fashion so that the bottom and sides become evenly coated. Discard the loose flour that does not adhere. Repeat with 1 tablespoon of the sugar. Heat the oven to 350°F (180°C) and set the rack in the top half of the oven.
Put the flour, baking powder, and salt into a plastic bag and shake well. Separate the eggs. Put the yolks in a mixing bowl and beat with the sugar until the mixture hangs in thick strands from the beater. Gradually add the flour mixture and lemon rind, beating well after each addition.
In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites until fairly stiff but not dry. Add one-quarter to the flour mixture and stir well. Fold in the remainder of the egg whites. Turn the mixture into the prepared pan and make a slight well in the middle so that it will rise evenly. (The batter will look lost, but it will rise up to about two-thirds the height of the pan.) Bake until the top is a pale gold and firm, but the cake is springy to the touch—about 1 hour. Turn the oven off, open the oven door, and allow the cake to sit in the cooling oven for about 15 minutes. Remove and allow to cool for a further 10 minutes before unmolding.
Coffee Sponge
one 8-inch (20 cm) cake
This is one of my most favorite cakes, and I make it when I feel in need of a little self-indulgence—besides, it reminds me of Mrs. Parker’s delicious cake (see page 146).
CAKE
2 tablespoons instant coffee dissolved in 1 tablespoon hot water
6 ounces (180 g) unsalted butter, at room temperature, plus extra for greasing the pan
6 ounces (180 g) unbleached all-purpose flour, plus 1/2 tablespoon for the pan
1 scant teaspoon double-acting or 1-1/2 teaspoons single-acting baking powder
Pinch of sea salt
5 ounces (140 g) granulated sugar
3 large eggs (each weighing about 2 ounces [60 g])
Milk as necessary
DECORATION
3/4 cup (195 mL) whole hazelnuts
2 tablespoons instant coffee dissolved in 3 tablespoons hot water
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
1-1/2 cups (375 mL) confectioners’ sugar, sieved
1/3 cup (85 mL) apricot glaze (see page 177)
Choose either a round baking pan—8-1/2 inches (21.5 cm) in diameter and at least 2 inches (5 cm) deep—or a square one 8 × 8 inches (20 × 20 cm) and at least 2 inches (5 cm) deep. Butter the pan well, sprinkle the flour over the inside, and tap, turning it around so that there is a light coating of flour around it. Turn upside down and tap out any excess flour.
Heat the oven to 350°F (180°C) and place the rack in the top part of the oven. Mix together well the flour, baking powder, and salt. With an electric beater, beat the butter and granulated sugar together until light, about 2 minutes. Add 1 of the eggs and a little of the flour and beat until just incorporated, no more; repeat for the other 2 eggs. Gradually mix in the flour and coffee essence; mix until just incorporated, do not overbeat. The mixture should just fall off the spoon with a plop. If it appears too dry, then add a little milk. Transfer the mixture to the prepared pan, smooth over the top of the batter, and make a slight well toward the center. Bake about 25 minutes, or until the sides of the cake shrink away from the pan and the center is spongy but firm to the touch. Remove the sponge from the oven and let it sit for 5 minutes before unmolding. Gently loosen the sponge around the edges with a palette knife and turn onto a wire rack, then reverse it by using another rack so that the top is on top. Set the sponge in a place free from drafts until completely cool.
Heat the oven to 350°F (180°C). Place the nuts on an ungreased baking sheet in one layer and bake until lightly toasted. Remove and cool. Place them in a tea towel and rub them hard so that the papery skin is released—but if it won’t all come off, don’t worry. Choose the cleanest ones for the top of the cake and chop the others roughly to press around the sides.
If the apricot glaze is still a little stiff and cold, warm it slightly. Spread the glaze over the surface and down the sides of the cake with a broad palette knife. Set aside to dry off for a few minutes while you prepare the icing (frosting).
Stir the 3 tablespoons hot water into the 2 tablespoons instant coffee, and when it has dissolved, add it to the butter and confectioners’ sugar. Mix well, smoothing out any lumps with the back of a wooden spoon, and continue working it until it is smooth and shiny.
Have ready a pot of boiling water for your palette knife. As soon as the glaze has dried, pour the icing over the surface of the cake, and with a warm palette knife spread it evenly over the surface and sides. Set the cake aside for about 15 minutes for the icing to set a little, press the chopped nuts around the sides of the cake, and decorate the top with the whole nuts. Take care not to let the icing become too hard before doing this.
VARIATION
You could, of course, gild the lily by making a double sponge and putting a thick layer of buttercream flavored with coffee between the two, as well as the icing.
Gingerbread
one 9 × 9-inch (22.5 × 22.5 cm) cake
This is a wonderfully sticky, rich gingerbread, so different from the usual spongy ones that have far too much baking soda in them.
You could decorate the top with thin slices of crystallized or preserved ginger (if it’s available), but wait until the gingerbread has baked for an hour or it will sink, as the batter rises so precipitously.
If you’d prefer to use a little less butter, you can, because the gingerbread is so wickedly unctuous—just cut out 2 ounces (60 g) of the butter.
8 ounces (about 250 g) all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons ground ginger
1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt
3 ounces (85 g) sultanas or golden raisins (a rounded 1/2 cup, about 135 mL)
8 ounces (250 g) or 6-1/2 ounces (see note above) softened unsalted butter, plus extra for the pan
8 ounces (250 g) dark brown sugar (about 1-1/4 cups [315 mL])
3/4 cup (190 mL) dark molasses
2 large eggs, lightly beaten
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/3 cup (85 mL) warmed whole milk
Several thin slices of crystallized or preserved ginger to decorate the top (optional)
Place a baking sheet on the middle rack of the oven to catch any overflow—but don’t turn on the oven yet.
Lightly grease a cake pan that is 9 × 9 inches (22.5 × 22.5 cm) and at least 3 inches (7.5 cm) deep.
Mix together in a bowl—or shake together in a plastic bag—the flour, ginger, cinnamon, and salt. Add the sultanas and mix in well.
Cream the butter with the sugar until fluffy, then beat in the molasses, followed by the eggs and then the dry ingredients.
Heat the oven to 325°F (165°C). Stir the baking soda into the warmed milk and stir into the batter, which will be very loose.
Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake on the upper level of the oven for about 1-1/4 hours. (If you’re using the ginger slices, arrange them on top of the gingerbread after it has baked for 1 hour.) When it’s ready to take out of the oven, the surface will be firm to the touch and the edges will be slightly crusty and shrinking a little from the sides of the pan.
Allow the gingerbread to cool completely before attempting to take it out of the pan. Using a spatula, carefully loosen the sides and as much of the bottom of the gingerbread as you can without breaking it.
While it can be served right away, it’s even better to let it season for a few days before serving. It will keep for at least two weeks, wrapped in waxed paper and then foil and stored in an airtight container.
Dundee Cake
one 7-inch (17.5 cm) round cake
Day in, day out, this is my favorite teatime cake. Dundee cakes were originally made in the Scottish town of Dundee about two hundred years ago, or so it is said. Over the years, as with all recipes, this has undergone many changes, as it used to be made with a lot of chopped orange rind and sugared caraway—how I hated the sandy-textured caraway cakes that Mother made when we were young! Now it is a luscious, fruit-filled cake with halved almonds over the top. Even today, when it is more expensive, there is no stinting on dried fruit in breads and cakes in Britain, and you can still get an excellent commercially made packaged or tinned Dundee cake.
My sister makes the best one that I have tried, and she beats hers by hand—bare hand, not hand beater—which makes for a moister, more porous texture.
6 ounces (180 g) unsalted butter, softened, plus extra for greasing the pan
8 ounces (225 g) unbleached all-purpose flour
Large pinch of sea salt
2/3 teaspoon double-acting or 1 teaspoon single-acting baking powder
1/8 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon ground cloves
1/8 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
Rounded 1/2 cup (150 mL) raisins or seeded muscats
Rounded 1/2 cup (150 mL) sultanas or golden raisins
Scant 3/4 cup (190 mL) currants
1/3 cup (85 mL) roughly chopped, loosely packed glacé cherries
Scant 1/2 cup (about 115 mL) citron peel, chopped into small cubes
1/3 cup (85 mL) almonds, blanched and slivered
Finely grated rind of 1/2 lemon
1 scant cup (about 200 mL) light brown sugar, firmly packed
3 large eggs
2 tablespoons medium dry sherry (optional)
About 2 tablespoons milk
12 almonds, blanched and split
1 egg white, beaten until frothy
Prepare a cake pan about 7 inches (17.5 cm) in diameter and a minimum of 3 inches (7.5 cm) high, buttering it well and sprinkling with flour. Turn upside down to shake out excess flour. Wrap a double layer of brown paper around the outside of the pan, at least 1 inch (2.5 cm) above the rim, and secure it with string.
Mix together the flour, salt, baking powder, and spices and set aside. In a separate bowl, mix the dried fruits, citron peel, slivered almonds, and lemon rind. Stir in 2 tablespoons of the flour mixture and mix well—this ensures that the fruit does not sink to the bottom of the cake. Set aside.
Heat the oven to 350°F (180°C) and place the rack in the center of the oven.
Beat the butter and sugar until well creamed but not fluffy; continue beating while you add the eggs one by one, alternating with a spoonful of the flour mixture to prevent curdling. Do not overbeat. Fold in the flour mixture, the dried fruits, the sherry, and 2 tablespoons milk. The mixture should be moist but neither too runny nor too stiff. Add a little more milk if necessary.
Turn the mixture into the prepared pan, smooth over the top, and then make a slight well in the middle so that it rises evenly. Place the almond halves around the top and brush with the beaten egg white. Bake for about 1-1/2 to 2 hours; during that time, if you see that the surface is browning too much, cover with a double layer of brown paper. Test at 1-1/2 hours by inserting a cake tester; if it comes out perfectly clean, the cake is done. Turn the oven off, leave the door open, and let the cake sit for 15 minutes more. Remove from the oven and allow the cake to cool on a rack for a further 20 minutes in its pan. Unmold onto a rack and wait until it is completely cool before wrapping. Pack, wrapped in several layers of waxed paper, in an airtight tin, and try not to eat it until at least 4 days have passed, as it improves in flavor.
Viennese, Swiss, or Sand Tarts
15 cakes
They are known by all three names, but they are not tarts in the strict sense of the word. They are short, crumbly cakes, wickedly rich, and I love them, although I hadn’t eaten one since having tea with Hilda, a neighbor and friend of my late mother. I had never made them myself, and the recipes in print just didn’t work, so I wrote to Hilda. She is an immaculate baker, whose kitchen is always spotless, and her cakes are a work of art that not only look but taste wonderful. She sent me her recipe, and I began cooking from it. But it just didn’t work with American ingredients; obviously the flour, butter, and icing (confectioners’) sugar were different. There is not much you can do about the butter short of thumping some of the water out of it, but I changed the flour, using part granular—i.e., Wondra (also suggested by my friend the late Peter Kump)—and by grinding granulated sugar to a powder instead of using confectioners’ sugar. It worked, just as I was about to give up in despair. With this same mixture you can make “shortbread fingers,” which I have called Viennese Fingers. Hilda sandwiches these together with a buttercream before dipping the ends into chocolate, but I have substituted a thick apricot glaze (see page 177).
You may like to attempt the second recipe, Viennese Fingers, first, as it is more straightforward.
1/2 cup (125 mL) granulated sugar
8 ounces (225 g) unsalted butter, softened
4 ounces (115 g) very fine flour
6 ounces (180 g) all-purpose flour
Pinch of salt
1 egg yolk
About 1/3 cup (85 mL) raspberry jam
Line a muffin tin with paper cupcake holders about 2-1/2 inches (6.5 cm) in diameter. Have ready a large pastry bag for cake decoration and the largest star nozzle, #9.
Heat the oven to 375°F (190°C) and place the rack in the center of the oven.
In a coffee/spice grinder, reduce the sugar to a fine powder. Measure 5 tablespoons into a bowl and reserve the rest. Add the softened butter to the sugar and beat very thoroughly until smooth and fluffy. Mix the flours together, adding a pinch of salt. Beat in the egg yolk and vanilla and continue beating, gradually adding half the flour. Beat only until mixed in. Stir in the rest of the flour with your hands (this is a very important point for the correct texture), just enough to mix and distribute evenly. The mixture should be moist and slightly creamy. Put half of the mixture at a time into the pastry bag and pipe a circle into each of the paper cups. Bake until a pale golden color and cooked completely through, about 30 minutes. Transfer to a rack and allow to cool. Put a dot of jam in the center of each cake, and just before serving dust with the remainder of the powdered sugar.
Viennese Fingers
about 24 fingers
I personally prefer to form this mixture into fingers, as they cook more evenly (and the ends are dipped into chocolate, to boot). You can freeze them successfully or just keep them in an airtight tin in a cool spot—not the refrigerator—and they improve in flavor after the first day.
Heat the oven to 375°F (190°C). Lightly butter 2 baking sheets. Set the racks in the center of the oven.
Follow the recipe for Viennese, Swiss, or Sand Tarts (see previous page) for the mixture, use the star nozzle as in that recipe, and pipe the mixture onto the baking sheets in fingers 2 to 2-1/2 inches (6.5 cm) in length, leaving a space of about 1 inch (2.5 cm) between them to allow for expansion. Bake for 25 minutes, or until a pale golden brown and crisp right through. Allow to cool on the sheets for about 10 minutes and then very carefully transfer them to wire racks to cool off completely.
8 ounces (225 g) semisweet couverture chocolate (see page 26)
1 cup (250 mL) thick apricot glaze (see page 177)
Put the chocolate in a double boiler, making sure that the level of the water is as high as possible without spilling over. Melt over very low heat. Stir until smooth, and then dip the ends of the cakes into the mixture to cover lightly. Set aside to dry off in the refrigerator. When the chocolate is completely set, sandwich the fingers together with the apricot glaze.
ALTERNATIVE
Instead of sticking them together with glaze, dip the ends into chocolate, and when it is nearly set, sprinkle the ends with chopped nuts—anything but peanuts. Dust with confectioners’ sugar. For petit fours, use a smaller nozzle and make them about 1-1/2 inches (4 cm) long.
makes about 35 3-inch (7.5 cm) cookies
While I am not a great fan of those overly sweet American oatmeal cookies, worse still if they have chocolate chips in them, this recipe is almost too easy to make and to eat. It was given to me when I lived in Canada in the 1950s by the food writer Jean Byers.
8 ounces (about 250 g) unsalted butter (about 1 cup)
Scant 6 ounces (about 150 g) raw brown sugar (like Demerara or turbinado, about 3/4 cup)
Approximately 1/4 cup (65 mL) boiling water
1 teaspoon baking soda
8 ounces (225 g) all-purpose flour (about 2 cups)
11 ounces (300 g) quick-cooking oatmeal (about 2 cups)
1/3 teaspoon salt
Have ready two lightly greased cookie sheets.
Cream the butter and sugar together in a large bowl. Add the water to the soda in a small cup and stir well. Beat the soda mixture well into the creamed butter and sugar. Heat the oven to 350°F (180°C) and place the rack in the center of the oven. Gradually mix in the flour, oatmeal, and salt and work to a cohesive consistency. Divide the mixture into 35 small balls. Press each one out thin onto the cookie sheets with the tines of a fork. Bake one sheet at a time until lightly browned and crisp, about 8–10 minutes.
Carefully transfer the cookies with a spatula to a wire rack and set aside to cool completely before storing in an airtight container.
Note
*This recipe is based on the best one I know, from The Constance Spry Cookery Book.