The summer´s sun still beats harshly. Heat still sears the house. The kitchen is still humid and my skin glistens. This season has lasted far too long. But the nights are now cooler, as are the mornings, as we step through the threshold of seasons. To Autumn. This is my last opportunity to make something suited to the warm rays of the sun.
“Please Sir, can I have some more?”
A trip to Broadstairs, England. A place where Dickens wrote, away from the distractions of his ever-growing family. Though apparently, he did not write Oliver Twist there. A place where the battle between two Italian families spills over onto the tables set out on the Victorian pathways overlooking the Channel. Overlooking France. The only blood red to be seen in this rivalry is the strawberry coulis that tops their warring wares.
Ice cream Sundaes of the Knickerbocker kind. The recipe from the hotel of the same name in New York that also brought you the Martini, transported to the southern shores of England. Their mountainous scoops in deep vase-like glasses spill creamy tears over the edges, providing more calories than an adult, even more so a child, could feasibly take in a sitting. And yet. And yet.
“MORE?”
I rarely eat ice cream. I rarely eat anything lactose. But once every so often is a treat for my palate that is in contrast with the opinion of my digestive system. However, Broadstairs inspired me to make a mound of comfort, a custard cream joy. And so, I interpret, boil, bake and simmer to create cool. I have my work cut out for me.
I take a vanilla pod. Long, black, sticky. Stick like. I pick up a knife. From the top end I pull the blade down the middle splitting it in two. Creating a large “V”. The appealing aroma is sweet, creamy. Addictive. It fills the kitchen as I turn the knife upside down ready to remove the seeds with the spine. Small grains, a paste of dots, as if someone had collected all the punctuation marks out of a gossipy magazine, the scandalously sticky mound builds on the knife´s edge as it draws down to the tip. Pod and beans are scraped, dropped, slid into a pan of cold milk to scald and infuse. Match. Fire. Gas. Fire. The ring is lit, the heat in the kitchen slowly increases. The milk, shimmering from the flame, comes up to temperature. A ring of bubbles around the edge of the pan the clue that it is done. Off with the hob. For now.
I have a pan of simmering water on another hob. Yolks of rich daffodil sit in the bottom of a glass bowl awaiting the steaming heat of the water below. The stream of sugar. A diamond waterfall of crystals drown the yolks, and the whisking begins. Sugar, beaten, cooks the yolks, but the heat from the bath below adds volume. Together they create an unctuous base that I can write my name in. And I do, for good measure. I move the bowl to the work surface. My hand casually covered in cloth to avoid the vicious vapour.
With a fork I carefully lift out the bean from the scalded milk. Dip it in the simmered water to clean off the milk, pat it dry, then add it to a jar of sugar. Vanilla sugar. It is as simple as that. Well, that and some patience.
Slowly, with a large balloon whisk, one selected at the store for its “tool power” macho-ness (I have no tattoos), I prepare to slake the vanilla milk into the egg base. The bowl sitting on a damp cloth and supported by my stomach as I use both hands to do this. Left, pan. Right, whisk. Centre, stomach. You get the picture. A splash at first, to loosen. A larger splash, to mix. The rest is recklessly poured into the bowl, swirled, then all returned to the pan, warming the mix on the hob until it thickens creating the custard. I cover the bowl with wrapping, the clear plastic sitting on the surface to prevent a skin forming. It needs to cool before churning but time is not on my side. I need to sit the bowl in cold water in the kitchen´s sink to hurry it along.
A certain Italian in the seventeenth century, Francesco Procopio dei Coltelli, stole his father´s recipe and took it to France or so the story goes. The iced delicacy made from egg-based cream made him very successful. I am continuing the tradition. (Not theft).
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Honey. Cooking is a mixture of science and magic. How, otherwise, can you bring two or three items together and create a deliciously edible nibble? How can you turn vinegar into pearls? How can you suspend bubbles in set honey? Ah…Honey. In the wait for the custard to cool enough to churn, I lightly butter a baking tray I found in the dresser behind me, then nonchalantly tear off some silicon paper to fit the base.
Sugar is already in a steel pan ready to melt. I top this with honey. Not too much, but it is the key to this kitchen magic. Flavour. Colour. Nectar. The match struck, the hob is lit. A sulphurous whisp extinguished in a flash. The uplifting aroma of heated sugar begins to fill the kitchen. I quickly remove an aged pot of bicarbonate of soda from the “sweet” cupboard (yes, I have a “savoury” one. No, it is not the greatest way to organise your kitchen).
Another whisk stands by, smaller and more exacting for the task. I use it to gently prod the sugar to see if it is all melted. No crystals. I Watch. I Wait. The colour needs to turn amber, appropriate as Autumn´s dawn tinges the vine leaves an orange hue. Slow motion turns to comic speed as the sweet blend turns resinous in tone. I turn off the heat and sprinkle in the soda. Lifting with my left hand, whisking with my right, beating furiously as the chemical reaction, the collision of elements, puffs up the syrup into a wild foamy texture. I quickly pour it into the baking tray. Lava like. It is almost alive as it creeps to each corner. The reaction eases. Slowly starts to settle. I breathe.
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I twist and turn, weightlifting the churner from a small corner cupboard. It is a large steel and chrome machine that takes up a portion of the kitchen. The well for churning a fraction of its size. It will be challenged by the outside heat. I fill the well with the cooled custard, top the lid, flick the switch. The rhythmic growl of the beating blade a reminder of this beast at work. The first layer, the foundation of this desert has begun.
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The pan of water used to heat the sugar and yolks I top with another bowl. No waste here. The bowl´s base, assuredly inches away from the water. I retrieve a packet of dark, dark, nearly black chocolate, from the cupboard beside me, so concentrated in cocoa it puckers the mouth. Its cardboard packaging remains for the moment, intact. Smack. I hit the packet on the kitchen´s surface. Smack. I do it again. Smack. Smack. Smack. More times for good measure, the sound cutting through the drone of the churner. The whack, whack, whacking of the chocolate bringing the attention of a curious dog, more so, strangely than the seductive scent of a sugary treat. I strip the cardboard cover off the bar. Its outer layer. Its coat. Fumbling fingers pulling open the foil negligée as impatiently as a lover. The broken shards spilling into the bowl. Tantalising squirts of golden syrup drop from a plastic bottle, the top releasing a flatulent gasp at each measure. A sound that draws out a puerile humour in me as well as a look of curious surprise on the dog´s face. It was not me. Finally, I drown the contents in rich cream leaving the shards of chocolate partially exposed. A discordance of earthy brown and ivory white. The fizzing flash of the match, I relight the hob, reheat the water. And wait. And wait. The slow acceptance of cream embracing chocolate glues me to the spot. I will not stir until I absolutely have to. Then I do. Slowly. As gentle as an oar through a still pond. Persuading the three ingredients to become sauce. Chocolate sauce.
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Raspberries. A large punnet awaits my destructive hands. I place half in a clean pan. Enough sugar tumbles over them. Enough to create a sweet-sour tang on the tongue. A splash of water, a squeeze of just sliced lemon; I fire up the hob. The pan´s contents transform from a sugary pile to a sticky sauce. Brilliant magenta to the eye. To my nose the aroma, mellow, deep, reminiscent of late season feasts. The contents start to bubble. I use an old serving spoon to ensure all the sugar is gone. Carefully tapping the bottom. Determining the crystal crackle from the dull seed. I let it bubble more to thicken it. To turn it to syrup. The briefest of waits and it is done. I remove a sieve from the wall and place it over a measuring jug, pouring out the contents. With the back of the spoon, I force through the remaining liquid, scraping the underside to get the last drops of the sauce, leaving only a pippy, pulpy puree in the mesh. A quick slam of the sieve on the inside wall of the bin removes most of the seedy sludge. It will take some washing to clean the rest. I will get help. I twist a gold lid off an orb like bottle. A dribble. A drizzle. A splash of liquor will give the juicy berry liquid an adult note. A grown-up glow to a childhood indulgence. I place the jug to one side of the kitchen to let the sauce cool. Coulis. Cool.
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Nuts. Almond flakes sit bagged on the worksurface. The bag, the type of plastic that splits at the slightest provocation. Frustrating. This, the last of the preparation work but by no means the last effort. I find a frying pan. Dark and old. Years of use have rendered the non-stick stick, but, like a Volvo, it is solid and handles well enough to keep. I shake a small handful of the nut slices into the pan and again, sizzle a match to light the hob. Heavy, the base, it will heat slowly. Oily, the slivers, they will turn quickly. When it starts I daren´t blink. I shake and wrist flick the pan to ensure that the flakes heat as evenly as possible. Nut. The almond perfume starts to fill the air. Nut. The slices change colour perceptibly. Nut. I shake and flick more vigorously, more in panic than necessity. The speed of their transformation startling. I flick and shake once more to check no almond is left pale. The frying pan is tilted, pouring the tiny tanned nutty tiles onto a chopping board. I turn off the heat and slam down the pan. I am sweating. Nuts.
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The churner has stopped. Beeping its atonal alarm with a vigour that is annoying. A warning that it may decide to heat up and undo the good work. I remove the container from the hulking engine and place it on the work surface. With a spatula, a “sweet” spatula (yes, like the cupboards I have a sweet and a savoury set) I scrape the half frozen, well churned ice cream from the paddles, saving the tiniest amount for my finger. Or two. It HAS to be tasted! I place the ice cream churning well in the deep freezer to set. I place myself in a deep chair to reset.
Wait…
A cool breeze rattles the Persian blinds and the sun inches behind the hills. The shush scraping of oleander leaves as they crawl across the terrace seem to call for quiet. Even the birds have stopped trilling. This is a momentous moment. Momentous? I may have got carried away. I am assembling a festival of flavours. A heavy weight calorie punch. Waistline, watch out!
I find a large plastic bag and a hammer. A meat hammer where a rolling pin might do. Creation through destruction, I muse. I peel the silicone paper off the bottom of the honeycomb and place the golden block in the bag. Bang. I smash down the hammer onto the centre of the bag. The contents explode, jumping to the four corners of the bag´s small universe. Bang. I do it again. The hammer providing a more focused smash. Bang. Bang. With each blow I create shards, decreasing in size. I want crumbs. Large crumbs. A crackling shock to the mouth at just the right moment. The bag is poured out into a bowl.
Wait…
I have contraband in my fridge. A prohibition era speakeasy-like guilty secret. I am fortunate to have found cream. Clotted cream. A rich Cornish clotted cream with a Welsh sounding name. Do. Not. Ask. Me. How. The cloyingly dense emulsion is so rich even Oliver Twist might have asked for an oat-milk version.
Wait...
The ice cream is out of the freezer. I have left it to soften enough to scoop. No more than that. I have a jug of boiled water and a clenching, springed instrument to shape, lift and drop the vanilla joy. The clotted cream I take from the fridge and those remaining raspberries, I nearly forgot. The coulis. The chocolate sauce. The honeycomb. The toasted nuts. All the ingredients lined up ready. They are. But am I?
There is an antique ice bucket. Georgian perhaps, I am not sure. Taller than it is wide, its ridged vertical edges provide a contrast to the undulating horizontal layers that will fill it. No. I do not want to use a bowl. I want to emulate the Sundae glasses of Broadstairs.
Wait…
A breath. I dip the scooping spoon into the hot water then plunge into the ice cream. Scoop. Lift. Drop. I do this twice more. Raspberries. Broken, whole, partially whole. I scatter. On top, around, in between the ice cream balls. Coulis. A clockwise spiral trickle of to enhance the pinkness of the proceedings. I find a blunt headed butter knife and a teaspoon in the cutlery drawer (no sweet and savoury this time), its classic oval head will shape the cream. At a sideways angle I curl the clotted cream with the spoon and carefully drop it atop the raspberries with the knife´s tip. Smaller sized than the scoops, I repeat this a few times. The large honey gold crumbs stick like burrs on top of the creamy curls. Generous but not overwhelming. There will be plenty left over for another day. Finally, I zig-zag the chocolate sauce. Brown tears of happiness spread over the white, gold and pink. That is only the first layer.
Wait…
There is more. I gird myself for a second round. Dip, plunge, lift, drop. Scatter, trickle, curl. Crumbs. There is enough for a final but smaller layer. Here I change the order. I scoop again, trickle again, crumb again, curl again. Here I stop for a moment. Raspberries dot the top of the clotted cream. The drizzle of chocolate sauce dances between the fruit. A flurry of golden shards, almond slices, sticks the chocolate, falls amongst the fruit, the nutty texture a balance to the honeycomb crumbs and the soft berries.
Feast.
The Ice bucket filled high; I place it on a plate, a paper napkin underneath to stop it sliding. Long handled spoons, one for each diner, are pushed down the sides of the bucket. Lifted up and dropped again to recreate the creamy tears, the lactose lachrymosae (I do not speak Latin), over the glass sides. The food fantasia is complete. A sweet Broadstairs bucket brought alive in my kitchen.
I take a match, the last one. Strike it. I have no traditional cherry to top off this mountain, but I have found a sparkler in a drawer full of cake accessories. I wait for the sparkler´s tip to take the heat. To fizzle. Flurries of flames, fountain upwards and outwards.
I carry it to the table. Carefully, as the sparkler´s light is almost blinding. Lowering it in the middle, I wait until the firework has done its magic, bringing night to the setting. Then walk away. What the Dickens? You say. But today´s effort has left me without appetite for anything much, rich or not. Licking the spoons, all the spoons, counts as a portion. Right?
Debussy plays on the radio, “La Mer” reminding me of Broadstairs (although he composed it in Eastbourne). While the others eat, I go and join the dog on a wall, listen, reminisce, and watch the vanilla moon journey over the hills.
And now I'm looking forward to a Knickerbocker Glory when I visit!
Brilliant as always, Louis! Well done! xx