inciting the scroob to culinary decadence
Monday, 3 July 2006 05:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
freckles_and_doubt'Tis the season for random recipes. Ye gods, 'tis July. I cannot condone this helter-skelter promiscuity of the months, just lately, even if my Star Wars calender has just flipped over from June's images of Anakin Skywalker being petulant (new trilogy, ptooey) into the far more acceptable July collage of Luke and Han. But, since Scroob asked, and because I bear her no malice for her unaccountable alien marzipan fondness, there shall be culinary distraction from the wanton passing of time.
Jo&stv came round last night and wantonly cooked a large Thai meal in our kitchen, a process auxilliary to the main point of the evening, which was getting our Friendly Psychologist drunk. (She's stressed about the immanent arrival from overseas of the other half of an internet relationship). Much fun was had, except that I seem to be labouring under some kind of weird virus which means I became heavily nauseous, with extreme room-spinnage, on two G&Ts. (This is absurd. I can hold my gin, usually in a large bottle cradled protectively to my chest.) I'm still feeling faintly ick, tired and achey today, which is annoying since this evening sees Part 2 of the FP Distraction Program, which is more gin, and Indian take-out, at her place. I may be a small, pale, quiet presence in a corner.
Despite quasi-viroid ickness, I did this day finally and utterly kill not only the 2500 words on Disney (with a stake through its heart, at a crossroad, with a rude inscription about consumerist manipulation on its headstone) but an additional 250+ on John Crowley (this one buried beneath a gallows in an alternate universe, with a small, enigmatic hieroglyph). How the hell my Nice Editor Man expects me to be definitive on Crowley in 250 words is utterly beyond me. Crowley's writing is dense, weird, literary, intellectual and rife with reference to folklore, mythology, fable and gods know what else. I'm still reeling from Aegypt and that was months ago, not to mention the complete quasi-Victorian folkloric rehash that is Little, Big. 250 words, tchah, I say! He got 317, and cheap at the price.
(Actually, the Nice Editor has just mailed me back to thank me for the entries, with a sweet little punning riff on the fact that they're "outstanding" - indeed, he says, outstanding in quality, not lateness. I preen.)
CHOCOLATE PEAR TART
Source: Cordon Bleu home collection, Le Patisserie
Chocolate Pastry:
155g flour, pinch salt, 45 g cocoa powder, 75 g butter, 75 g caster sugar, one egg.
Sift flour, salt and cocoa; rub in butter, add sugar. Pour beaten egg and 1 tblsp cold water into well in centre, mix with a knife, adding more water if necessary to form a ball. Cover in clingwrap and chill for 20 mins.
Roll out pastry, line greased pie plate. Line with greaseproof paper and fill with baking beans. Bake blind at 190 degrees C for 10 mins, then remove beans/paper and cook for a further 5-10 mins.
Filling:
4-5 ripe pears, juice of 1 lemon, 250g caster sugar, vanilla pod, 1 star anise, 1 cinnamon stick.
220ml cream, 110ml milk, vanilla pod, 2 eggs, 200g Bournville Dark, 40g Lindt 70%. (You could use other dark chocolate, this is what I happened to have on hand).
Peel and halve pears; toss in lemon juice. Heat sugar, vanilla pod (split), anise, cinnamon and 500ml water gently to dissolve sugar. Simmer 5 mins and add pear halves; poach gently for 20 mins or until tender. Drain well.
Heat cream, milk and split vanilla pod; remove from heat and add chocolate. Stir until smooth. Allow to cool for 10 mins and then whisk in eggs. Remove vanilla pod.
Arrange pear halves in pastry case (thin ends inwards) and pour chocolate filling over them. Bake for 30 mins, or until mostly set. Chill, dust with cocoa powder and serve with cream. (Or you could serve it hot). Eat with a runcible spoon.
Jo&stv came round last night and wantonly cooked a large Thai meal in our kitchen, a process auxilliary to the main point of the evening, which was getting our Friendly Psychologist drunk. (She's stressed about the immanent arrival from overseas of the other half of an internet relationship). Much fun was had, except that I seem to be labouring under some kind of weird virus which means I became heavily nauseous, with extreme room-spinnage, on two G&Ts. (This is absurd. I can hold my gin, usually in a large bottle cradled protectively to my chest.) I'm still feeling faintly ick, tired and achey today, which is annoying since this evening sees Part 2 of the FP Distraction Program, which is more gin, and Indian take-out, at her place. I may be a small, pale, quiet presence in a corner.
Despite quasi-viroid ickness, I did this day finally and utterly kill not only the 2500 words on Disney (with a stake through its heart, at a crossroad, with a rude inscription about consumerist manipulation on its headstone) but an additional 250+ on John Crowley (this one buried beneath a gallows in an alternate universe, with a small, enigmatic hieroglyph). How the hell my Nice Editor Man expects me to be definitive on Crowley in 250 words is utterly beyond me. Crowley's writing is dense, weird, literary, intellectual and rife with reference to folklore, mythology, fable and gods know what else. I'm still reeling from Aegypt and that was months ago, not to mention the complete quasi-Victorian folkloric rehash that is Little, Big. 250 words, tchah, I say! He got 317, and cheap at the price.
(Actually, the Nice Editor has just mailed me back to thank me for the entries, with a sweet little punning riff on the fact that they're "outstanding" - indeed, he says, outstanding in quality, not lateness. I preen.)
