The response was fantastic. I was deluged by all sorts of wonderful recipes: cakes, muffins, puddings . . . I felt hungry just reading them! I rashly promised to bake as many as I possibly could, and pick my favourite recipes for inclusion in the book. Lucky me! I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed ‘book research’ so much in my life. Thank you, everyone who entered. It was very difficult trying to pick only a few winners, but eventually I chose the delicious recipes that follow. Congratulations to Jackie Evans and Sarah Gilpin who were runners-up. Happy baking – and Happy Christmas to you all!
Decadent Chocolate Log
(thanks to Lisa Newman)
Makes 1 log, serves 8
For the log part
6 large eggs (separated into whites and yolks)
150g caster sugar
50g cocoa powder
For the filling
50g dark chocolate
55g glacé cherries
225ml double cream
To decorate
icing sugar
edible glitter (optional)
30 x 20 x 2.5cm (12 x 8 x 1 inch) cake tin,
greased and lined
1 Start by making the cake ‘log’. Pre-heat oven to 180°C/gas mark 4. Whisk the egg yolks in a bowl until they start to become thicker. Add in the caster sugar and keep whisking until the mixture becomes thicker again – but stop before it gets too stiff.
2 Sift in the cocoa powder and whisk again. In a separate bowl, whisk the egg whites until they reach the soft ‘peak’ stage (make sure both your bowl and your whisk are very clean as this will make achieving soft peaks much easier). Now gently fold the egg whites into the chocolate mixture until evenly distributed. Pour the mixture into the tin.
3 Bake on the centre shelf of the oven for 20–25 minutes. The top should spring back when pressed lightly. Leave it in the cake tin to cool (it will shrink away from the sides of the tin as it cools).
4 Put out some baking paper. Dust it heavily with icing sugar. Turn the completely cooled cake out onto the paper, wrong side up. Peel the paper that had lined the tin away from the bottom of the cake.
5 To make the filling, chop the glacé cherries as finely as you can and grate the dark chocolate. In a bowl, whip the cream and then add in the cherries and chocolate. Mix until well combined. With a palette knife, carefully spread the cream mixture over the cake.
6 Now for the fun bit! Roll the cake up away from you, using the parchment to keep the shape smooth, even and round. Roll with the shorter end of the rectangle.
7 Dust with more icing sugar if needed and then sprinkle over some edible glitter. Why not? It’s Christmas!
Star-topped Mince Pies
(recipe by Anna Wilson)
Makes 24
300g plain flour
75g solid vegetable fat, such as Trex or lard
75g cold, unsalted butter
juice of one orange
pinch of salt
1 teaspoon orange flower water (optional)
large jar of mincemeat (preferably home-made like Ed’s!) to fill the pies
You will also need a star cutter (big enough to pretty much cover the top of your mince pies) and two 12-pie baking trays
1 To make the pastry, measure the flour and put it into a food processor, chuck in the cubed fats and whizz. (If you prefer to get your hands dirty, you can combine these by hand until they resemble breadcrumbs).
2 Put the crumbly mixture in the deep freeze for 20 minutes, then empty back into the food processor and blitz again.
3 Gradually add the salt, juice and orange flower water (if using) down the funnel and pulse until the mixture looks as though it is about to adhere into a ball of dough – stop just before it does. If all the liquid has been used and you need more, add some iced water very gradually.
4 Turn out of the processor and divide into two discs. Cover these in cling film and put them in the fridge to rest for 30 minutes.
5 When the pastry has chilled, roll it out on a floured surface then pre-heat the oven to 200°C/gas mark 6. You should be able to line two 12-pie dishes with one disc of dough and have enough for the star toppings with the other. Once the pie dishes are lined, put about two teaspoons of mincemeat into each pastry base and top with a star.
6 Brush with milk, then pop in the oven for 15 minutes or until the pastry looks golden.
7 Serve with cream or home-made brandy butter (unsalted butter, caster sugar and brandy, whizzed up in the food processor!).
Apple Spice Muffins
(recipe by Susan Lobban)
Makes 24
255g plain flour
3 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon salt
1½ teaspoons mixed spice
90g granulated sugar
1 egg
170g finely chopped apple
150ml milk
90ml vegetable oil
50g soft brown sugar for topping
two 12-hole muffin tins and cases to fit
1 Preheat oven to 190°C/gas mark 5.
2 Sift together the flour, baking powder, salt, spice and sugar.
3 In another bowl, beat the egg with a fork and add the milk, oil and chopped apples.
4 Pour all of the wet mixture into the dry, then stir until just combined.
5 Spoon into muffin cases or muffin/cake tin. Sprinkle some brown sugar on top.
6 Bake for 20–25 minutes until the tops are lightly browned.
Do you have a favourite Christmas recipe?
I’d love to hear it!
Do let me know on my Facebook page:
www.facebook.com/LucyDiamondAuthor
Many thanks!
COMING SOON
One Summer in Italy
Read on for an exclusive extract from
Lucy Diamond’s next novel . . .
Prologue
Io ricordo – I remember
For years afterwards, whenever she thought about that summer in Italy, she remembered the scent first: the fragrant pink bougainvilleas around Lucca’s poolside bar mingling intoxicatingly with the tang of coconut sun oil and cigarette smoke. Back then, she was young and carefree, with a red dress, a devil-may-care attitude and the best tan of her life. The air had shimmered with heat and a million possibilities. Anything might happen.
On the day that everything changed, she had spread her towel on a sunlounger, peeled off her dress and sat down, adjusting the straps of her bikini. Then, just as she was about to lean back and relax, her skin prickled: a sixth sense, maybe. Peering through her sunglasses, she noticed a man in the deep end of the pool, leaning against the side, his broad tanned arms gleaming with tiny water droplets. He seemed to be looking right at her.
Was she imaging it or was he giving her the eye? She propped up her sunglasses to check, the world swinging into sudden brightness. He totally was giving her the eye. What was more, he was bloody gorgeous.
Heat flooded her body as they exchanged a long, loaded look. The clamour of the poolside seemed to vanish as if the world had been muted. All she could hear was the thud of her heart.
Oh, what the hell, she thought recklessly; she was single and on holiday and up for some fun. He might be all of those things too. Without a second thought, she winked at him. Her heart galloped as he grinned back, revealing perfect white teeth. And then he was pulling himself out of the pool, water streaming down his muscular arms: he was tall and athletic, early-twenties at a guess; golden skin and a crooked smile. As he straightened up, she couldn’t help noticing the way his swimming shorts just revealed the tops of his hip bones, and she shivered with sudden desire.
He walked over to her, beads of water still clinging to his body, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘Ciao, bella,’ he said, his voice low and husky.
Her blood drummed through her. Her breath caught in her throat. It felt as if this was the moment she’d been waiting for all summer. She raised an eyebrow flirtatiously and smiled back. ‘Ciao,’ she said.
Chapter One
As a journalist, Anna Morley was used to thinking in headlines; it was second nature to her. Without consciously doing it, even the most ordinary event in her life was transformed into a punchy soundbite etched in large black capitals in her mind.
HACKED OFF! Female journalist, 32, misses bus home.
DANGER ON OUR STREETS! Loose paving slab ‘an accident waiting to happen’, says local resident, 32.
LET THERE BE LIGHT Council slammed over patchy street-lighting. The Herald campaign starts today!
THE HUNGER GAME Starving writer, 32, curses self for not stopping at the corner shop for a tin of beans.
Admittedly, none of the headlines were particularly scintillating. But then neither was her life, to be frank. If she died right now, and needed an epitaph for her grave, the words ‘Same old, same old’ would sum things up perfectly.
But then came the biggest news story of her life, right when she was least expecting it, and afterwards nothing felt ‘same old, same old’ again. It was astonishing how one conversation could change everything. It came right out of the blue, from Clemency House, no less. What was more, she had one of the starring roles.
Clemency House was the care home eight miles out of Sheffield where Anna’s grandmother, Nora, lived. With its strong smell of wee, disinfectant and overcooked cabbage, it was home to an assortment of pensioners in varying states of confusion and decrepitude. It was certainly the last place on earth you would expect to experience an epiphany.
Anna visited her nan on the last Sunday of the month and knew almost all the residents by now. An excited twittering would greet her arrival in the lounge – ‘Ooh, it’s Anna’; ‘Wake up, duck, Anna’s here, look, come to see Nora’; ‘Anna! Cooee!’ – which always made her feel like a minor celebrity as she worked her way through the sea of white hair and support stockings.
‘Hello, Mrs Ransome, that’s a lovely dress you’ve got on today.’
‘Hello, Violet, how’s your great-grandson doing?’
‘Hello, Elsie, I’ve brought you today’s crossword if you want it?’
Nora would rise up from her favourite toffee-coloured wingback chair and offer her soft, powdery cheek for a kiss, then they’d drink stewed tea and chat together for an hour or so, before taking a slow turn around the garden so that Nora could moan in private about whichever resident was getting on her nerves that week. And that was usually that.
This time, however, the pattern changed. It was a windy autumn day with dark clouds shouldering each other across the sky, while inside, the central heating was cranked up to soporific levels. Anna was just about to suggest going out for some fresh air when a storm suddenly broke and rain began sheeting down dramatically, spattering great heavy drops against the windows.
‘Goodness!’ Nora quavered, blinking in alarm, one hand up at her crêpey throat. She was dressed, as ever, in a strange combination of garments; today’s outfit a cream blouse and bobbly green fleece cardigan, her favourite tweed skirt and thick brown tights that pooled in wrinkles around her swollen ankles.
‘Maybe we’ll stay indoors after all,’ Anna said, discreetly checking her watch. Three o’clock. Pete was meant to be coming round for dinner later – ‘a roast’, she’d promised him ambitiously, and she knew for a fact that there wasn’t a single vegetable to be found in her house, let alone anything she could conceivably baste in oil and bung in the oven.
Nan turned and stared at Anna as if seeing her for the first time. Her dementia was an unpredictable beast; some days she seemed perfectly lucid and managed to keep up with a conversation, but other times, a veil of bewilderment would slide over her face and she would spout gibberish. ‘You do look like him, you know,’ she said from out of nowhere. ‘Gino, wasn’t it?’ Her false teeth were slipping, making her words indistinct.
‘Gino?’ Anna echoed. ‘What are you talking about, Nan?’
‘The Italian. You know.’ Her eyes were cloudy and faraway, her gaze wandering from Anna’s face. ‘Your father.’
Anna’s stomach lurched. She must have misheard, surely. ‘My father?’
Nora frowned. ‘Didn’t I just say that? Your poor mum.’ She shook her head, gnarled fingers clenched around the arms of her chair. ‘Nothing but trouble!’
Anna had difficulty breathing for a moment. She opened and shut her mouth, her brain fusing red-hot with shocked, urgent questions. ‘Was that his name?’ she asked dazedly. At last, she thought. At last! ‘Gino? Was that his name?’
‘It’s a long way to Tipperary,’ Mrs Ransome started singing in the background, her voice high and reedy. ‘It’s a long way to go.’ Several others joined in, and Anna had to raise her voice.
‘Nan?’ she urged when no answer came. ‘Was my father called Gino?’
Nan blinked. ‘Look at that rain!’ she marvelled. ‘I’d better get my washing in, hadn’t I?’
‘Nan, you don’t have any washing here. We’re in Clemency House, remember?’
‘It’s a long way to Tipperary, to the sweetest girl I knooooow . . .’
‘I did my whites this morning,’ Nan said dreamily. ‘Albert’s shirts and the bed sheets. Meredith’s Sunday school dress with pink ribbons.’
And she was gone, swallowed up by the confusing mists of the past once more. Albert was her husband, long since buried. Anna had no idea who Meredith might be.
‘Nan, listen to me. Do you remember Gino? What did he look like?’
Somebody was clapping out of time, Anna registered dimly. ‘Goodbye, Piccadilly – join in, Nora! – Farewell, Leicester Square . . .’
Nora wasn’t listening; she was in her own parallel version of the world, her head cocked as if hearing distant voices. ‘And the tablecloth! That gravy took some scrubbing to wash out, didn’t it, Susan?’
Anna sagged with dismay. Susan was her grandmother’s long-dead sister with whom she sometimes confused Anna. The subject of Gino was indeed as distant as Tipperary.
‘And now it’s getting soaked. Come on! Where’s the basket?’
She rose from her seat but Anna caught her thin arm. ‘Sit down,’ she said gently. ‘Mrs Eccles will get the washing in.’
Mrs Eccles often got a mention when her nan went off at a tangent; Anna still wasn’t entirely sure who she was, but chucking her name into the mix now, while Nora was off on one, was worth a try.
‘It’s a long, long way to Tipperary, but my heart’s still theeeeeere!’
Nora stared at her. ‘Ivy Eccles? Are you sure?’
‘Oh yes,’ Anna said reassuringly. ‘But about Gino . . .’
‘Give over! Ivy Eccles has been stone dead for thirty years. What are you talking about, dear?’
‘Cup of tea anyone?’ One of the careworkers wheeled in a trolley, smiling brightly. ‘Chocolate Bourbon?’
The singing stopped abruptly, replaced by pleased murmurs of anticipation.
‘Lovely,’ Nora said. ‘Yes, please, over here, pet!’ She turned back to Anna, eyes twinkling. ‘Are you going to have one, Susan?’
Later that afternoon, as Anna drove home, her mind was a whirl of blaring new headlines.
WHO’S THE DADDY? A clue at last.
DO YOU KNOW GINO? Hunt begins for mystery Italian.
DADDY’S GIRL Long-lost daughter reunited with father.
Gino. Her father was called Gino. He was Italian. It felt as if a door had been opened and light was flooding into a dark, closed room after years of nothing.
Her mother had always steadfastly refused to speak a word about Anna’s father. His name wasn’t even on her birth certificate. ‘You don’t have a daddy,’ she’d said kindly when Anna was a little girl and becoming aware that most of the other children in her class had two parents, not just one. ‘You’ve got me, and I’m enough.’
Later, as Anna grew older and discovered that, actually, technically there must have been a daddy involved at some stage in the process, her mother dug her heels in. ‘Don’t talk to me about that wa
ste of space, she hissed when Anna plucked up the courage to enquire again. ‘Believe me, love, you’re better off not knowing.’
Growing up in Chesterfield, just the two of them in a poky council house, Anna never felt better off not knowing, not for a minute. She hated not knowing. Was her dad some kind of psychopath? Was he a dangerous criminal? Had he hurt her mother in some way? He must have done something absolutely dreadful if nobody would even speak his name aloud. (She was pretty sure he wasn’t Voldemort, but this last fact did make her wonder.)
Her mum was a midwife and it had occurred fleetingly to Anna that she might have snatched Anna as a baby from a maternity ward somewhere, hence the impenetrable secrecy. Maybe this stuff about her dad being a waste of space was all a smokescreen, because her mum wasn’t even her real mum. But no, she must be, because they both had the same curvy bum and big boobs, and the same laughably small feet. Different colouring, though – her mum had blonde wavy hair and blue eyes with porcelain-pale skin, whereas Anna was dark-haired with brown eyes and an olive complexion.
‘Gino,’ she murmured under her breath as she navigated the roundabout to leave the ring road. An image appeared in her mind of a swarthy man with eyes like glossy brown dates. The Italian, Nan had said, and new questions formed like scrolling tickertape. Did Mum meet him on holiday in Italy, maybe? Had it been a summer fling that ended acrimoniously? Where was her father now?
She flipped open the mirror in her sun visor and peered at her reflection as she waited in a queue of traffic, the cars stop-starting their way towards the city centre. She looked Mediterranean herself, didn’t she? She’d always been the fastest to pick up a tan on girls’ holidays, much to her friends’ envy, and had wondered previously if some small slice of her genetic make-up was Greek or Persian or even Indian.
Now she had an answer, a fact for the very first time. An Italian father, adding an exotic dash to her mother’s solidly Yorkshire stock. It made her feel different: more interesting, more attractive. ‘Mamma mia!’ she said aloud, turning into her road and backing inelegantly into a parking space.
Christmas at the Beach Café: A Novella Page 8
