There’s something about autumn that makes me want to bake. There’s also something about baking that manages to stop me being in a vile mood.  This week has been pretty autumnal and I’ve been pretty cranky, so it was only right that I spent last night baking.   My “go to” recipe for such times is Nigella Lawson’s cream cheese brownies, from How to be a Domestic Goddess. Her recipe is beautifully written with a languid laziness: the eggs are “idly beaten” and the chocolate is left to “deliquesce”. The cream cheese layer is a true revelation, all salty and sour and stabbing through the sweetness of the brownie.   I tweak the original recipe slightly by using golden caster sugar and a mixture of 85% and 70% chocolate. My final flourish is a black cherry jam glaze. If you really love cherries, you can add some canned sour cherries to the batter – just make sure that they are well drained. Alternatively, use Green and Black’s dark chocolate with cherries.   These are best eaten when slightly cooled but still warm and gooey.   Ingredients:     100g Quality 85% Dark Chocolate 25g Quality 70% Dark Chocolate 125g Unsalted Butter 2 Large Eggs 200g Golden Caster Sugar 1tsp Vanilla Extract 75g Plain Flour Pinch of Table Salt 200g Chilled Philadelphia Cream Cheese or similar 2tbsp Cherry Jam 23cm square baking tin – buttered and floured   Pre-heat oven to 180ºc/gas mark 4   Method:   1) Melt the chocolate and butter in a large saucepan over a medium heat. Whilst it is melting, beat together the eggs, sugar and vanilla. In another bowl, weigh the flour and add the salt. 2) When the chocolate and butter mix is nearly fully melted, remove from the heat and set aside for a short period. This[.....]

This is turning into an obsession. A worrying and expensive obsession.   Two weeks in France was an ideal opportunity to eat two of my favourite things: cheese and macarons.   Thankfully, I didn’t feel any urge to take loads of photos of cheese, instead I channelled all of my photographic energy into documenting macarons in their numerous guises.   From the rustic “Macaron de St-Emilion” through to the exquisite sparkling macaroons from the trendy “M le Macaron” on a Bordeaux back street, I’ve eaten and snapped them all. I even had my first ever savoury macaron, flavoured with dark chocolate and foie gras; it was interesting.   I spent the journey home daydreaming about future macaron related career options: 1) A luxury coffee table book all about macarons, exploring their history and the craft of making them (publishers, please get in touch, seriously). 2) Opening a macaron shop with my sister (investors in such a venture, please get in touch, seriously).     [/caption] 

I love baking. Not in some 1950s retro throwback, “I’ll just whip up a soufflé whilst my husband has an affair with his secretary, but it doesn’t matter when you’ve got such amazing pastel coloured bakeware” kind of way. But in a passionate, once I start I can’t stop kind of way. Cupcakes, cookies, macaroons – the mere sight of a laden cake stand is enough to send me into raptures. I’m not sure quite how it happened. My Nan always…how can I put this…tried hard, it is just a shame her outcomes never matched up to the effort. Whilst my Mother is the only person I know who can make a chocolate pudding less appetising than a bowl of arsenic soup with razor blade croutons. I’ll never forget the day my sister came home with a copy of Nigella Lawson’s ‘How to be a Domestic Goddess’. It was baking, but not as I knew it. It wasn’t baking of the ‘jam and Jerusalem’ kind. It was chic and (apologies for slipping into Nigel Slater food pornese here) sexy. The front cover was the epitome of understated glamour, matte black with gold embossed lettering and single ivory cupcake taking pride of place. Inside it got even better: sponge cakes with rich chocolate icing drizzling down the sides, delicate pastel coloured biscuits dusted with icing sugar, crème brulees glistening with gold leaf…I was in love. I soon learnt that a love affair with baking was by no means cheap. I needed exotic extracts and unusual tins. In this new and glamorous kitchen a tub of Stork margarine didn’t pass muster – you needed pale unsalted butter. My little bottle of supercook vanilla essence was looked upon with scorn, it had to be pure Madagascan vanilla extract all the way. At this[.....]

I turned up at the stables this afternoon all togged out in riding gear (courtesy of a very kind cousin-in-law). I understand that the primary purpose of specialist horse riding apparel is safety as opposed to style, but there’s something about the combination of skin tight trousers, oddly-shaped green plastic lace up muck boots and jockey helmet that makes me look slightly ridiculous. How I long to be able to don a tailored riding jacket, palest cream jodphurs and Chloe-esque, two-tone leather boots. Maybe top it all off with a chic black velvet peaked hat with a cute bow at the back. The look would be part Olympic eventing team, part Ralph Lauren ad.  As my mother would say ‘it’s not a fashion show-just get on with it.’ When I arrived, Flow was being ridden around the manège (look it up – it isn’t anything kinky) by a middle aged man, who I later figured was learning to ride alongside his young daughter.  Poor Flow. She looked as if she’d much rather be rugged up in a field, munching on grass and sniffing other horses behinds. Even from a distance, I could see the pained look on the mans face as he tried to urge her into a trot. Now, don’t get me wrong, Flow is great, but the fact that my legs didn’t recover until Thursday had me wishing I would perhaps get to ride a slightly more responsive horse this time round. Alas, it was not to be. This week I had an advantage – a riding crop.  It is easy to see why some people would find the idea of a crop distasteful, even cruel. It is a whip after all. Used correctly it is not a tool for punishment, rather a tool to support the riders leg commands.[.....]

Horse riding was the one childhood pass-time that I was actually good at. I wasn’t big into the  whole pony club, jolly gymkhana scene, but I could pull off a few dressage moves (think horse doing ballet) and clear fences at least three feet off the ground. For most of my early teens, Saturdays meant hours of horsing around at the farm. I loved it – even the bits that involved clearing up copious amounts of crap. I even had a horse on loan. Her name was Molly, a stubborn, bad tempered old mare that rejected pretty much any rider who attempted to climb aboard. I’m not sure what it says about my character  but we had a natural affinity. I’d slip her half a pack of polo mints and she’d comply with my requests to not bolt, buck or bite. Then the day came for Molly to trot off to the great livery yard in the sky (where she is no doubt still terrorising Shetland ponies). By that point I’d already discovered new distractions such as boys,  shopping and the Boots make-up counter. My Saddle Club books had been replaced by Sweet Valley High and the subscription to Horse and Pony magazine swapped for Bliss. It wasn’t long until I’d hung up my riding hat for good. In the years since, I have often found myself staring enviously at riders as they trot along country lanes. I still grimace every time someone describes a horse as ‘white’ (any true horsey type knows the correct term is ‘grey’) and swoon at the sight of a pretty palomino.  So it is fair to say that I was more than a little excited when I arrived for my first riding lesson yesterday afternoon. The first blast of nostalgia came with the smell[.....]

I need a hobby. If for no other reason than to help me when completing the ‘Other information to support your application’ section of job application forms. As a child I had more hobbies than could be reasonably rammed into the social schedule of a 10 year old. There was the choir, the marching band, the clarinet practice, horse riding, dance (ballroom, jazz, tap and ballet), Girls Brigade, Brownies (my religious allegiances were very fickle – Baptist on a Friday and C of E on a Tuesday), I even went through a phase of dabbling in needlepoint. I was a member of all sorts of societies and groups including The YOC (Young Ornithologists Club – look it up) and The Press Pack.  Looking back, I wasn’t particularly brilliant at any of my chosen past times. I got thrown out of Brownies for insulting Brown Owl (bitch), my clarinet playing was so bad that the teacher had to politely tell my parents they were wasting their money and dance lessons invariably ended with me in tears after some jumped up, mini prima-donna mocked my port de bras. It wasn’t really about being the best at something, it was about simply doing something. Fast forward 12 years, and a glimpse at my Facebook profile will show that my activities roster is some what reduced: “Writing, art, design, fashion (aka shopping!), media” Perhaps I’m being a tad harsh on myself but, man, I’m really boring. Art? Where did I even get that from? Yes, I like looking at pretty pictures every now and then. No, I haven’t picked up a sketch pad  since university.  Writing is the only pass-time that I can genuinely claim. That and watching UKTV Food whilst reading Vogue (that’s fashion covered). Now I don’t believe in New Years resolutions[.....]