Porridge With Apples

I spent last week in Romania. Beautiful country, lovely people, but I must say I didn't much enjoy the breakfasts. Piles of processed meat do not sit well with me first thing in the morning, especially when they include the remains of yesterday's breakfast, refried! I suppose we shouldn't blame them for being economical. I longed to get back to my favourite autumn breakfast: a bowl of simple, warming porridge.

The best thing about porridge (apart from being healthy, filling, and cheap) is that it is a completely blank canvas. It could carry literally any flavour that took your fancy. To merely sprinkle a little bit of white sugar on top is such a waste! (If you must, crunchy demerara is best.) Beliefs about the perfect porridge method are as strongly held and passionately preached as those about making the perfect cuppa. There are the microwavers, the overnight soakers, the fancy grain users, those who swear by a pinch of salt. There is even an annual porridge-making competition held in Carrbridge in the Scottish Highlands, in which porridge-lovers compete for a golden "spurtle", the traditional Scottish porridge-stirring tool. The organisers of the event have instigated World Porridge Day, held on the 10th of October each year.

I prefer my trusty pink spatula to a golden spurtle, but if I were to enter the competition, this is the porridge I would make. The start of porridge season happens to coincide with the start of apple season, and the two work wonderfully together. Forget the milk/water argument - apple juice gives the porridge a lovely silky consistency, and negates the need for a further topping of sugar.

To my mind, porridge is a warming breakfast soup. If you can stand a spoon up in it, something has gone horribly wrong. Like baked beans, it's best taken from a huge pot which has been simmering away for some time, rather than quickly zapped in the microwave. The extra effort is worth it - and if, like me, you feel a little delicate in the mornings, the gentle putter of porridge on the hob is a far more agreeable soundtrack than the roar of the microwave.

Apple porridge for one

 

1/2 cup rolled oats
3/4 cup apple juice
3/4 cup water
1/2 cup milk
1/2 tsp cinnamon

Add to a small saucepan the oats, apple juice and water. Heat gently, stirring when it starts to thicken. When it comes together and starts to look like porridge, add the milk (if you add it at the start, it could curdle) and stir in the cinammon. If you are lazy about washing up, you could eat from the pan - but I prefer to use a bowl!

I like to top mine with stewed apple, which conveniently takes the same amount of time to prepare as the porridge takes to cook. It's a rare occasion where the microwave does the best job - the pieces of apple cook through but still hold their shape. One peeled, sliced apple needs about 3 minutes of zapping.

Gypsy Tart

I'm really into "old school" puddings at the moment - dishes that my generation seems to have missed out on, but which make our parents and (especially) our grandparents glassy-eyed with nostalgia. Gypsy tart definitely falls into this category. I have several times tried to pass this off as a refined dessert, but I should note that it is more usually associated with school dinners circa 1950-1980. My granddad was thrilled to be made one on his birthday, perhaps not because he was a boy who loved his school dinners, but because of the power of a flavour to make us children again.

I have two people to thank for this - Sandy Aylen for introducing me to it (if you want to be seriously well fed in Exmoor, look no further than Sandy's B&B), and my mother-in-law Lynne for gifting the equipment necessary to make it. I did once attempt this with my stick blender's whisk attachment. Half an hour later it had got so hot that I had to hold it in a tea-towel, and I still hadn't done sufficient whisking.

For a recipe with only 4 ingredients, it's surprisingly easy to get this wrong. What you want to avoid is the filling liquifying again and shrinking away from the pastry - it makes it look rather less appealing. You can make the pastry in whatever way you like, and even use a shop-bought one if you prefer (yes, I'm talking to you, "ready-rolled" lady). Since the filling is sweetness itself, it's better to use an unsweetened pastry. Serve with a generous dollop of creme fraiche to cut through the dulcitude.

Gypsy Tart

100g unsalted butter, chilled
200g plain flour
410g tin evaporated milk
350g dark muscavado sugar (it must be brown sugar - this is the only thing with flavour!)

Set the oven to 180 degrees.

Make the pastry. Cut the butter into small cubes with a cold knife. Rub it into the flour until the mixture resembles breadcrumbs - they don't actually need to be too fine, it's better not too handle it too much. Add (little by little) just enough cold water to bring together into a dough. Pat into a flat disc (this makes it chill faster) and rest in the fridge for 30 minutes.

Using an electric whisk, combine the evaporated milk and sugar until it is light and pale, with an almost mousse-like consistency.

Roll out the pastry to the thickness of a £1 coin, and with it line a greased tart tin. Cover with greaseproof paper and fill with ceramic baking beans (or use rice). Bake for 10-15 minutes until the edges start to turn golden. Remove the baking beans and paper and return to the oven for another 10 minutes, until fully cooked.

Pour in the filling. It will rise up a bit, so don't fill the tart too high! Bake for 10-15 minutes until set - it should have very little wobble.

The tricks:

• Pastry - it is essential that you cook the pastry fully before adding the filling. If it is undercooked it will be a) not very nice and b) its soggyness will cause the filling to split when it cools.
• Whisking - this really does require electronic whisking apparatus. I give it 15 minutes on top speed, which requires me to leave the house, such is the racket. It must be completely smooth with no grains of sugar remaining.
• Cook the filling for long enough, but gently.

Quantity is restricted by the evaporated milk, which usually comes in one size only. I find this makes enough filling for two pies, each serving 4 people - but that's also to do with the size of my tart tin (about 22cm). If you have filling left over, don't worry - it will keep in the fridge for a couple of weeks, just whisk it up a bit before you use it again. If your tart tin is bigger or smaller, you can adjust the amount of pastry - use a 2:1 ratio of flour to butter.

How to Cook Aubergine

You may by now have gathered that I am partial to the odd aubergine. I like them best beefing up a curry, where they lend a buttery texture and subtle yet meaty flavour.

The problem is that if you just chuck them in, raw, they absorb all the liquid from your sauce and and end up watery and soggy. They need a good frying off first. Most recipes will tell you put 'fry the aubergine slices in a little oil, in batches'. This is OK, but you'll find that you get through A LOT of oil, because they'll soak it up like a sponge. My method ensures that they fry properly without becoming greasy.

Don't bother faffing around with salt - it's a waste of time and precious sodium chloride. First, chop up your fruits. I like wedgy sticks, but discs also work fine. You are aiming for about 1/2 cm thickness, if you want to be picky (which generally I don't). Try to make sure that every piece includes some lovely purple skin - this will help to hold it together. Decant a little oil into small bowl or plate. Using a pastry brush, daub each piece with some oil. It doesn't need to be thick or exact, and the skin will be fine without.

Now fry the coated morsels over a medium-high heat, in batches if necessary to avoid overcrowding the pan. You won't need to add oil. You're looking for a decent bit of colour on each large surface - as when you cook a steak, it's the blackened, almost caramelised bits which taste really good. When they're done, the flesh will be almost translucent, the purple skins wrinkled. It doesn't matter if they're not quite cooked through if they're going to cook further in your sauce.

They are now ready to add a sauce, where they will happily simmmer away for ten minutes of so without disintegrating.