I spent most of my early adolescence in terror. My first Home Economics teacher, Mrs Davies, did nothing to soothe this. In my thirteen-year-old mind, she was a character from a Roald Dahl novel: sharp, biting and strict. She disapproved of the wobbly hem work on the pair of shorts I made. Although she did, God bless her, say my tea cake was delicious.
I remember my mother throwing me out of the car that morning, weighed down with flour, sugar, eggs and cinnamon. I felt ridiculous, but returning to the same car that afternoon with a warm cake in my lap felt like a worthy accomplishment, as cooked food always does.
In the years since I’ve been fond of anything that calls itself a tea cake: either for morning or afternoon tea. They are designed for autumn, to be eaten outdoors in dappled sunlight. They are almost uniformly teeth-achingly sweet. This is by design, so they may be paired with tea or coffee: robust, dark and bitter. Any culture known for bitter coffee usually has sugary sweet desserts for this purpose. The result is a mid-morning or mid-afternoon energy hit better than a Red Bull by a mile: sugar plus caffeine.
The best tea cakes are usually fruit scented. I’ve returned to Nigella Lawson’s Lemon Yoghurt Pot Cake, which is reassuringly easy to make countless times.
Apple is the more common star - cheap and easy to find all year round. This makes the hardest part of any apple cake the laborious peeling, coring and slicing business. But if you can get past this, I find the smell of apple, cinnamon and vanilla wafting through the house enough to make you feel like you’re living inside a cartoon version of domesticity. Being able to do this as a parent with children in the house makes me feel like I’m passing on some primal part of childhood in their memory. Yes, this is what home should smell like.
The quickest way to get to that smell is stewing fruit. Peel and slice, and place in a saucepan with a spoon full of sugar, some cinnamon, and a splash of water. Leave it to soften and ta-da: stewed fruit. Put it on porridge, granola, or just about anything. Keep it in the fridge and have it cold, and enjoy the smug feeling of things being prepared and homemade.
And of course, from there, you’re only inches away from a crumble. Crumble was the lingering favourite of my childhood, and it now feels old-fashioned and almost unknown. Still, simple enough: take some self-raising flour, and add three-quarters of its weight in butter. The butter will need to be cold and cubed. (Yes, I suppose dairy-free options would work here, although depending on what substance you’re using, the measurements may vary.) Rub the flour and butter with your fingers for a good stretch until you end up with a mixture like damp sand. Mix in a dash of sugar. If you want to be taken seriously, you could probably bung this in the fridge or freezer for a bit to reinforce the texture and let the butter firm up again. But you may also ask: who gives a shit? And that’s hard to argue with.
You will put this crumble on top of a prepared fruit mixture and put it in the oven for about half an hour. The fruit mixture can be anything, but it is usually apple or berries. You will need to stew the apples for a bit to start them softening (don’t bother with berries), before transferring them to a dish and topping them with the crumble. Adding some flour to your fruit to assist in mopping up juices will also help. A hit of citrus with your fruit: orange or lemon zest or juice, will convince you to open a gourmet restaurant immediately.
As I type now I realise crumble is a lazy person’s pie. And certainly, when I could muster the energy, baking an apple pie with a pastry from scratch was a revelation and made me proud. I haven’t done it since I’ve had children, because I’m too busy crying from exhaustion.
Pastry baking belongs to the annals of cooking tasks, like mayonnaise and roast chicken, that can be construed as intimidating and panic-attack-inducing difficulty. There’s a science, certainly, and I suppose if you wanted to ruin a perfectly good thing you could become over-obsessed with the ‘flakiness’ of your crust. I’ve never met I pie crust I didn’t like, even a few disastrous ones that have come out as stodgy, palette-clingers. It’s flour, butter and sugar, so how bad can it be?
The only exception are the store-bought pre-made ones from grocery stores, which taste fine but nothing like homemade pastry.
I don’t understand the science of it, but a decent recipe will treat you kindly. Devote a few hours to it, and you’ll come out with something perfectly pleasing and a source of pride.
I rarely have the patience to wait for cakes, crumbles or pies to cool. These deserts are usually served scaldingly hot, paired with freezer-cold cream or ice cream. Holding both in your mouth at once doesn’t do much for a flavour profile, but it creates a kind of brain and face freeze that reminds me of being eight years old.
Now, as a boring adult, a scoop of ice cream is enough to make my lower intestines explode. So I’ve been robbed of one of the great pleasures of life. Dairy-free ice cream, while not the same thing, is pleasing enough. Regardless, even if you’re sensible and wait for your crumble, cake or pie to cool slightly, pairing it with a cold something-or-other is still compulsory.
For the record, Mrs. Davies was a perfectly nice woman who I had the chance to talk to at length as an adult. Her husband died before she retired, and she was forced back to work after losing her life savings in the global financial crisis. She was an old-fashioned teacher who adored children, but wouldn’t dare tell them.
Life, after all, is hard, and one must prepare for hardship. Learning to make something sweet and warm is as good a tool as any.
More next week