I have had a single Seville orange sat in my fruit bowl for about a month, Saturday was nice and sunny so I thought I’d make (#46) Rich Orangeade so that I could get Greg and Joff round and we can drink nice cool drinks and perhaps have some cake. In fact, have a proper Sunday high tea. It did of course piss it down all Sunday, natch.
The Seville orange was a little manky; it had done what fruit tend to do – go bad from the bottom up, but half of it was usable! To make the orangeade there was a three step process: thinly pare the zest from a Seville orange (in my case half, plus the peel of half a lemon to make up for it) and 6 normal sweet oranges. Put the peel in a litre of cold water and bring to a bare simmer for 5 minutes – the water shouldn’t boil properly because the bitter pithy flavour will be drawn out of the peel – then allow to cold. Meanwhile, do step two: boil 8 ounces of sugar with 3/4 pint of cold water for three minutes, then allow that to cool also. Step three: squeeze the juice from all the oranges, and when everything is cool, stir together. Finally add a little orange flower water (I added about 1/4 teaspoon and that was just right for me) and lemon juice – I used half a lemon. Allow to chill properly before being eaten.
The Orange-ade is simply Enid Blyton in a glass, if that doesn’t sound too graphic. Lashings and lashings say I! Once you taste that lovely floral kick that the blossom and lemon adds to it you can see the flavour that cheap cordial manufacturers have been harking after all this time, and failing to grasp. It’s lovely. Will be even better when the sun comes out. Come on . . . COME ON! 8/10
FYI: I noticed that the orangeade comes from a Victorian recipe and doesn’t require fizzy water. So what make an ‘ade’, I wondered…according to the Oxford English Dictionary, the suffix ‘-ade’ means: “The product of an action, and, by extension, that of any process or raw material; as in arcade, colonnade, masquerade, lemonade, marmalade, pomade.” So it seems that turning any fruit into a drink makes it an ‘ade’. Everyday’s a school day!
#46 Rich Orangeade. 8.5/10. A delicious summertime drink – the perfumed taste and aroma of the peel, the Seville orange and the orange flower water transforms it from just sweet orange juice into something pretty special!
Greg and I thought we needed to stuff our faces with animal fat and sugar so (#13) Pancakes for the Rich (or a Quire of Paper; whatever that means!) was called for. It made 10 pancakes – which were very difficult to fry:
To make the batter beat together 3 ounces of flour, four ounces of melted butter, half a pint of single cream and a large egg along with two tablespoons of brown sherry, a teaspoon of rose or orange-flower water and half a grated nutmeg. Coat a skillet or pan in a very thin layer of oil and fry on both sides until brown. They didn’t go firm like normal pancakes, but squidgy and caramelised because of the butter and the very little egg. After wrestling with them – in order to turn one we had to slide it onto a plate, and upturn it back onto the pan, otherwise they ended up a sad blob of batter. We served some up with sugar; as Grigson suggests, but also had some with lemon juice too.
Was it worth it? Not sure; i think I might prefer poor-man’s pancakes. I think I’ll try her recipe for them soon. But Pancakes for the rich were interesting, particularly for the addition of the beautifully fragrant orange-flower water.
#13 Pancakes for the Rich – Pretty much ditto what he said, they’re nice but really not a patch on pov pancakes which may say more about our working class palate than anything else. Mostly though they’re a bitch to turn, I am the king of tossing pancakes and these buggers weren’t for flippng. But they are tasty and if you’re attempting to put on a lot of weight in a very short time, whcih we apparently are, these are for you. 6.5/10.
#13 Pancakes for the Rich: 6.5/10. Delicious, but a big old faff and a bit too rich – even for me!
Not sure if I made it properly to be honest; tasty though it was. It’s like no fool I’ve ever heard of. A fool is normally pureed fruit stirred into whipped cream. Not this one, this one’s more like a custard.
Mix three large eggs with half a pint of double cream, two ounces of sugar and the juice of three oranges in a basin along with some ground cinnamon and nutmeg until very thick. Place the basin over a pan of simmering water and whisk until it has thickened. After stirring it for about 15 minutes, I realised it as never going to become even a little bit thick! Oh dear. I soldiered on – the Grigson Padawan always ensures that the show still goes on. Poured it into wine glasses for that 70s kitschness. Top with candied peel and a sprinkle of orange flower water. The delicately perfume flower water made the whole dish very exotic, and although the fool wasn’t (in my humble opinion) a fool, or thick. It was pretty special. Very rich and creamy, but the acidic orange juice that cut through the richness allowed you to keep on eating!!
For dessert an orange fool was served up. It did not last long for no sooner was it tasted than it was finished. Sweet and rich, smooth and thick, the glasses were licked clean. 8/10
Then we got pissed in Levy with a dinner lady and her god-awful son. Woo hoo!
#12 Orange Fool: 7/10. I cocked it up, but not even I can totally spoil a Grigson pud!