Mud Pie

“Writing is like walking in a deserted street. Out of the dust in the street you make a mud pie.” - John Le Carre

So here it is – the recipe for my mud pie. The pivotal dish I cooked on Masterchef, meant as sabotage, that I dreamt up on a hallucinatory kind of night. Probably the closest I’ll ever get to Kubla Khan. The original dish was far more complicated, involving a menagerie of garden delicacies, but I decided to simplify it into something more iconic. Even I’ve learnt a thing or two from Andy Warhol’s soup.

I know that, at the end of the day, this is just a recipe. But for me it was a piece of art. An experiment to see if food could evoke nostalgia, even memories. If it could evoke emotion and thought then it was as powerful an artistic medium as any painting or composition (yeh I said it Hegel!)

This was the first of many other experiments to use taste in art, thought up by my 18 year old self riding out insomnia.

If you want to know what the 22 year old self thinks of it you can dare to read the theory below. Call me crazy.

An exploration of the objective systematicity of the ‘aesthetic-in-itself’ produced by the practical principles of taste, by examining the power of food to evoke emotion, and even memory. The nostalgic force of food also features in Jen Susman’s work Practice Makes Perfect. This artwork is an adult recreation of the mud pies of early childhood, flavoured with thyme and rosemary, and with crystallized tarragon leaves to evoke the sense of grass. The herby, earthy, bitter taste tries to recreate the taste of a real mud pie by making use of the changes in the developed palate. It examines Bergson’s idea that “the aesthetic imperatives of unconscious apperception and remembrance are at the same time archaic vestiges incompatible with the increasing maturation of reason,” which suggests psychological cathexis as a condition of aesthetic perception.

Mud Pie Recipe

300g sweet dessert pastry (250g plain flour
100g cocoa powder
20g finely-grated 80% cocoa solids chocolate
2 tsp vanilla extract
1/2 tsp salt
130g caster sugar
150g butter, softened)


2 large free-range eggs, 
lightly beaten


400g dark chocolate, 
60 per cent cocoa solids


200ml whole milk

Salt


200ml double cream

2 tbsp runny honey

1 bunch of Thyme

1 bunch of Tarragon (whole leaves)

1. to make the pastry, cream together the sugar and butter until light and fluffy. Add the salt and vanilla extract, creaming into the mix. Now add the cocoa powder and chocolate. Mix to combine thoroughly.

2. Add the flour and mix to combine. lift the pastry from the bowl onto a sheet of clingfilm and shape into a disc. Wrap securely then chill in the refrigerator.

3. Roll out the pastry on a lightly floured work surface to aprox ½ inch thick. Use a large cookie cutter to cut out about 10 rounds of the pastry. Place on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper and chill for an hour.

4. Preheat the oven to 
200C/Gas 6. Prick the
pastry rounds with a fork and then place a layer of parchment paper on top and then a close-fitting baking tray weighed down with baking beans. Blind bake 
for 10 minutes. Remove the parchment paper, the baking tray and beans and return to the oven for another 5 minutes until the pastry 
is cooked through.

5. While the pastry rounds are still hot, brush over with the beaten egg and bake the case for another 2-3 minutes to seal the egg glaze. Remove and leave to cool while you prepare the filling.

6. Chop the chocolate and put into a large heatproof bowl. Add a tiny pinch of salt to the bowl of chopped chocolate.

7. Put the milk, cream, thyme bunch and sugar into a saucepan 
and bring to a simmer, stirring well to dissolve the sugar. Bring to the boil and then leave to infuse for a few hours. Then bring to the boil again and immediately strain the hot liquid onto the chocolate, whisking well until 
all the chocolate has melted and the combined mixture is smooth and silky. Allow to cool until the mixture resembles twice the consistency of double cream.

8. Take the tarragon leaves and lay them on a foil sheet. Place 1 cup of caster sugar with ½ cup of water in a saucepan and slowly bring to the boil to create a syrup. Use a sugar thermometer to tell when it has reached ‘hard ball’ stage and when it does use a pastry brush to brush the sugar over the tarragon leaves to crystallize them.

9. To serve, place a pastry round on a plate and then top with a layer of the chocolate ganache and then place another pastry round ontop and add another layer of ganache. Then decorate with the tarragon leaves and raspberries if you like.

Rose, Beer and Pig Fat Chocolate Lollipops

I went to the bank and asked if I could borrow a cup of money. They said "what for?" I said "I'm going to buy some sugar" - Stephen Wright 

I had an epiphany. I finally realized the full extent of my naivety when leaving university. I had run into the first artsy-sounding job that hit my radar and put up with being paid minimum wage, way below if you count overtime, to be a clog in the machine of consumerism. Somehow tricking yourself into thinking data entry was a creative job with litres of gratuity booze and some hijacked goods, plastered with names. Don’t believe me? I sat in a meeting where the head alcoholic ranted about the company investing in new software to cut down their work by 75%, leaving more time for ‘client-relations’. But the first thought that came into my head was that 75% of the people in the room would be fired. Unless he had some brilliant plan to hoodwink the company into paying them to hang out 75% of the time. I gazed into his glazed eyes and thought, “probably not”.

But there is another way. The land of milk and honey! except who cares about cripplingly over-produced milk anymore? And honey? Leave it to the bees, they need it more than we do now. Instead it’s 'the land of greed and money'. A place for all those special perks of money; hedonism, lose morals, strange dollar bill signs in your eyes. Where you sacrifice the right to wear bright colours, just slipping back into uniform for the Etonians. But you get a lot of money. Same menial, data entry job but this time with commission. Suffice to say, it’s jammed full of Oxford. Even the occasional turncoat ‘die hard’ socialist, which is always amusing to behold in pinstripe.

England is crippling it’s own economy, with its best and brightest adding their skills forged in dusty libraries to the tune of bach and the scribble of pens. It’s not their fault, its chaos theory. We’ve just reached beyond our grasp and let our lives be governed by it. The bankers know their job, they know how to make money. They just happen to be in charge of more than their own selfish desires. Game theory is all very well until taxes get cut for the super-rich. And bankers are wallowing in their success, powdering their noses with 50 pound bills whilst the NHS gets cut. The heart of socialism in the UK operated on by the inept hands of a shaky politician, so that the pigs can remain fat. Because if there’s one thing we’ve learnt from our briefly acquired middle ground it’s that it’s healthy to let the rich get fatter and the poor leaner. Although ironically, this time, it’ll be the other way round. The poor will be choking down MacDonald’s while the rich dine in gold-guilt for free because they made the most money that week. Coddled by their misguided faith that the market acts as a rational system. Never wondering about the implications of that sheet of numbers they have to increase. Smearing away their guesswork with some dippy science and an over-arching desire for money. But watching the bankers laugh at the economists, doesn't exactly fill me with joy.

Because that’s the problem with bankers, they are free radicals thinking only as far as their pension, capable of upping sticks and moving to Dubai, Hong Kong or America. Where ever seems the best place to worship their Golden God. The people whose money they control are more dispensable to them than their Jag. What do they care for the poor fools who haven’t seen the golden light of God - metal, paper and all. Those who didn’t join the pre-recession free-for-all that went on behind the banks’ closed doors. That is, you and me?


We could be angry, we could be ravaging the City as I speak, as the bankers suspected when some of the corruption came to light. But alas, Britain’s economy is dangerously dependent of revenues from the financial sector. You can thank Margaret Thatcher for that. So we’ll have to sit tight accepting the hefty commission we pay on our money, funding the bankers’ habit. After all there’s no rehab for money-addiction. Communism is long gone.

And so, I cooked some sickenly sweet chocolate lollipops. Flavoured with rose, beer and pig fat. Corruption-flavoured in fact. Pigs for pigs. Their smiles still fixed in place as their faces become frenetically morphed in Dorian Gray’s final visage. The Earl of Rochester would empathise with their rotted noses and unseeing eyes. I just wanted to see the bankers munch on their own visage, in decadent white chocolate, feasting on the spoils of their corruption.

And off I trotted to the City, land of greed and money, armed with a box of chocolate lollipops and a camera. 

I had to put up with a lot of beady eyes looking at me in disbelief and agitation, with pinstriped patriarchs asking “why are they free? That’s not how the world works”. Well maybe not for you, who have sold your soul, but for the rest of the world a simple act of generosity can make all the difference. Which I tried diligently to preach to the Bankers, in the knowledge that my words would not wash and their paychecks would remain fat.

Some were quite friendly, wishing me luck making it as an artist; hardly knowing the irony that there’s no place for art in their paper religion.

Hangover Cure Avocado Chocolate Mousse

I once woke up with a hangover and a ticket to LA. I was freeing my soul up north with Emily Bronte’s spirit, and a sexy Mexican-American I’d picked up along the way. Yes, at this point I’d been fired from my job, it was whilst wearing red plastic flip-flops because I’d lost my shoes at some point in the rather crazy weekend before.  I’m not sure I can complain, but I definitely needed some good R ‘n R and maybe some fish ‘n chips. I’d gone to visit my aunt in the brisk seaside town of Scarborough with the sense that some salty air and Northern grit would do me good. After a muscle-wrenching coach journey I was ready for anything, except what was about to happen. Needless to say I don’t remember much of that night, it was a typical Northern night after all. My mind can only grasp at hazy flashbacks of emos belting Coldplay and weathered old regulars in smokey pubs. I’m fairly certain we walked out of the late-night Chinese restaurant without paying and carrying a small fish from the aquarium. During the course of this mindless and surreal night, after the exploration of the fairground on the peer, but before misguided whelk eating, I agreed to go to LA.

The morning-after I needed a hangover cure. My cure of choice is usually an avocado wrap from the first sandwich shop I stumble across. There’s something about avocado that makes me feel like I’m eating pure goodness, replenishing everything my body lost the night before. It’s buttery soft, even creamy, but full of good oils. However, for want of a sandwich shop I picked up a couple of avocadoes myself and scurried away from the migraine-inducing seaside light into the kitchen. There I discovered… nothing, apart from a few odds and ends that I managed to transform into this recipe.

The Ingredients

Why make an avocado into chocolate mousse? Well, it works! It creates a smooth rich texture, which balanced out with the bitter cocoa powder in the recipe. The slight hint of avocado, intense cocoa and sweet strawberries makes this recipe cleansing for body and mouth. You could probably smother it all over your face and it would still work.

Definitely the kind of pick-me-up you need with a two-month ticket to LA, a £500 hole in your pocket and a disheveled stomach. 

Real World Porridge

And at last I have been forced to succumb to the food of the romanceless; oats. This staple of Scottish fare may have nourished many ginger man-mountains, and even my brother while living rough in Australia (don’t ask), but for me it is a symbol my generation’s lot. The world is not our oyster – it’s our bowl of porridge. Only Goldielocks would truly understand.

And we weren’t prepared for this. Being born in the eighties fostered a certain apathy and expectation of the boom to continue, of heaps of commodities and only so much time to consume them.


Instead it’s the end of the month and after rent and too many small luxuries, I have barely two pennies to rub together. Renting in central London comes at a hefty price and my job in media subsidizes its “take it up the ass” minimum wage only with free lubricant (booze). This cheap buyoff works like a charm in our binge-drinking nation. The memory enema that is booze is the only panacea we post-student hobos have. At least porridge lines the stomach.


But Britain redeems itself as I wander home through the corridors of my building; my nose is accosted with the beautiful Asian and Middle Eastern aromas that permeate its walls at dinnertime. Transparent sustenance maybe, but it invades me with nostalgia for travelling. Oscar Wilde once said that, “a man who lives within his means suffers from a lack of imagination” but I find that living within my meager means sparks mine.

And when faced with an uninspiring ingredient, my mind wanders to strange places to find inspiration - or not so strange, as in this case. I had a mind blank over oats. But then remembered some of the recipes people had divulged to me over the years, whether intentionally or not. From these people I found the spark for my inspiration that oats could not ignite. So here are their recipes, tweaked (made palatable) by me.

Smoked Mackerel with parsley porridge and pumpkin 

This is a very strange recipe, from a very strange girl. English, tall, aristocratic waith with long peroxide blonde hair puffed out like candyfloss. I met her of all places in China, on a lovely paid-for holiday for Oxbridge types, a scam in Chinese education-consumerism, but with good heart. You see if you put people passionate about learning in front of a group of eager students we cant help ourselves. We devised how to twist the lesson plans, from ‘super heroes’ to Nietzsche’s Ubermensch, ‘over man,’ unintentionally making the scam actually genuine. I’m not sure what the 16 year olds made of it…

Anyway, this is the only savory porridge recipe that’s ever been suggested to me. Most people would reel in horror at the mention of mackerel porridge, but I saw potential, from the unlikely tastebuds of one person who dared to really push the boundaries. I’ve challenged myself to somehow make it work. I believed it could, and it does. Smoked Mackerel is intense, with a deep fishy saltiness and creamy fattiness. It needs clean flavors to cut through its intensity, like fresh parsley and tart blackcurrants. I’ve rounded this dichotomy of flavors by serving it with peppery rocket and soothing pumpkin puree. A congee with a difference, which we actually tried in China and no one liked.

Parsley Butter

1 garlic clove

3 small shallots

2 tbsp butter

1 tsp of Dijon mustard

handful of rocket leaves

handful of fresh parsley

25g of cream cheese

1. Blend together all of the above ingredients until you have a smooth green coloured butter. Refrigerate.

2. place 40g (per person) of oats in a pan and cover with milk, simmer gently and when the porridge is nearly done add the parsely butter.

3. flash fry one smoked mackerel fillet per person.

4. Make a pumpkin puree by blending chunks of pumpkin with a pinch cumin and cayenne pepper to taste.

5. Assemble the three elements of the dish and serve.

Matcha tea, raspberry and chocolate motchis

Every so often I come across a certain type of person. Seemingly unexpected but oddly symptomatic of some deep discontent, or at least emo-style discontent. Any guesses? It’s people who love Japanese culture. And I mean love it. This love comes in varying degrees, from a love of karaoke, sushi and anime all the way to deep intellectual examination of its culture, usually starting at ‘the Art of War’ and ending as some enduring philosophical psyche stamp. Such a one was the guy who, before my eyes, managed to transform porridge into something like onigiri and motchi, with that same doughy, chewy texture. All he did was leave it in the microwave for too long. Although he still claims it was intentional. I’ll take it as a sign of fate, that something of himself imbued itself into the recipe with a slight of hand. I decided to use matcha tea in this recipe because of our many highly caffeinated adventures on the stuff. (seriously try it)

1.     Take a bowlful of porridge and put in as little water as possible to just cover it.

2.     Microwave for 1 min or until the porridge is very thick and sticky. Take spoonfuls of the mixture and use your hands to roll into balls.

3.     I then made a chocolate soup our of melted chocolate diluted with milk until the desired consistency and placed the porridge balls on top of it.

4.     I sprinkled them with sweetened matcha tea and served with raspberry jelly.

Orange and Chrysanthemum set porridge

This recipe is inspired by someone I have never met. One of those people you brush up against in the tide of life, but never see or know. A person made out of mediation on an object. In this case it was some used pots and pans I lifted from a bin. I’m not above a bit of freeganism when the time calls for it. I was living in a building surrounded by international students leaving this isle behind and discarding their debris. What was once practical necessities was now erroneous baggage, to be picked up by some other person in need. My whole kitchen was fitted out this way. I even found a huge unopened bag of chrysanthemum tea, which I’ve only ever had in china before. I knew this lightly floral and earthy scent would go well with porridge in a dessert, more sophisticated in reality than its humble ingredients would suggest.

750 ml milk

225 g oats

3 tbsp chrysanthemum tea 

150 g sugar

3 tbsp rose water

1.     Gently warm the milk in a medium-sized saucepan on the hob. 

2.     In a separate larger saucepan cook the porridge and chrysanthemum tea for about a minute, stirring until the oats become translucent. 

3.     Halfway through the cooking time, stir in the sugar and two leaves of gelatine. 

4.    Then remove the saucepan from the heat and add the rosewater. Leave to cool slightly. 

5.     Line four individual pudding moulds with cling film. Then carefully fill with the porridge mix, patting down to ensure there are no gaps. Cover with more cling film and chill until completely set - this should take about 2 hours. 

6.     To serve, carefully turn the puddings onto plates and decorate with some dried chrysanthemum petals and coulis.

And so, In an attempt to transform porridge into something more palatable, I’ve used all my innovation to take it’s earthy Scottish heritage and combine it with the flavors of more exotic places, where flavor isn’t somewhat ironic and may actually awaken your nose and taste buds from their salt & butter stupor.

I once cooked truffles over a kettle – I still have the scar. 

Byron and Fitzgerald Truffles

It was the last thing I cooked in Oxford, for a party my tutor was throwing to bid us fine young academics farewell. Ironically she themed it ‘sing for your supper.’ The dark undertones of which didn’t sink in until I was jobless and fleeing north in search of affordable rent. We English students, eager proprietors of words, quoted poetry and wrote verse (no one sang) – I even gave the chocolate truffles that were my talent pretentious literary names. These were the tools of the trade we had been taught in dusty libraries, pouring over books in search of some hidden meaning, which never surfaced. I can tell you of Milton’s ranting delusional essays, of the kinky side of the middle ages. Can I hold down a job? No.

They call oxford a bubble, it is, and the bubble finally burst after that day. We had spent three years slaving over essays, cut off from the world, reveling in an upper class party that seemed like it would never end. Well, for the rich ones it won’t, their lives will be more champagne evenings, white tie balls and supper (that’s what they call dinner) parties. Only maybe relocated from the Oxford Union to the House of Lords. As for me, I cooked my chocolate truffles and left all that behind. I can’t say I wont miss the handy ledge in the Oxford Union toilets, but I definitely wont miss effeminate boys and stripy scarves.

Don’t be put off by me incurring an injury while cooking these truffles – just maybe don’t cook them last minute at 5am after a night out, like I did, and kick over the kettle and get a steam burn. You don’t even have to use a kettle, unless, like me, you enjoy the simple irony of making sophisticated food using only the most basic of utensils.

Fitzgerald Truffles

“First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you”

My Fitzgerald Truffle

  

Like his literary contemporaries F. Scott Fitzgerald liked a drink, maybe even as much as Faulkner. These truffles pay homage to him destroying his liver for the sake of literature. I've tried to capture the heady exoticism of those speak-easy days with ample amounts of Pernod, combined with zesty oranges and limes.

225g dark Chocolate, broken into chocolate small pieces

175ml double or whipping cream

1 ½ shots of Pernod

1 shot of orange juice
the zest of one lime and two oranges

Granulated sugar

1.    Make a bain-marie using a glass bowl placed over a kettle with its top lifted up so that the steam hits the bottom of the bowl,

2.    Place the chopped chocolate and the cream in the bowl, and gently heat until the chocolate completely melts into a ganache.

The 'Ganache' should look something like this

3.    Add the Pernod and orange juice to the ganache and then cool in the fridge until set (about 1 ½ hours)

4.    In the meantime mix the granulated sugar with the orange and lime zest to allow time for it to infuse.

5.    When the mixture has set, use a teaspoon to measure out bite-sized pieces. Then roll in the palms of your hands to make a small balls.

6.    Immediately roll the truffles in the granulated sugar mixture and voila! You’re done.

Pernod, Orange and Lime Truffles

Byron Truffles 

"A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne, the only true feminine and becoming viands."

My Byron Truffle

Although the comment above might have the feminist in me reeling, when it comes from one of history's most notorious womanizers I have to give fair dues. So in accordance with Byron's wishes here is a truffle oozing with feminine vitality. Aromatic rose water adds a floral quality, with decadent Champagne (or Cava let's be honest) and earthy sesame seeds, to make an edible interpretation of femininity.

225g White Chocolate, broken into chocolate small pieces
100ml double or whipping cream

1 shot of Champagne (or other sparkling wine)

1 teaspoon of rose water

Sesame seeds

1.    Make a bain-marie using a glass bowl placed over a kettle with its top lifted up so that the steam hits the bottom of the bowl,

2.    Place the chopped chocolate and the cream in the bowl, and gently heat until the chocolate completely melts into a ganache.

3.    Add the Champagne and rose water to the ganache and then cool in the fridge until set (about 1 ½ hours)

4.    If you want the truffles to be a rose colour then add a couple of drops of beetroot juice to the mix.

5.    In the meantime spread the sesame seeds out in a shallow dish.

6.    When the mixture has set, use a teaspoon to measure out bite-sized pieces. Then roll in the palms of your hands to make a small balls.

7.    Immediately roll the truffles in the sesame seeds.

8.    Eat! Or look at admiringly for a while…

Rose, Champagne and Sesame Seed Truffles

One day, maybe, I’ll be dining on such decadent morsels again.

Literary Truffles a la Emily Ludolf