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Pondering English desserts… (And don’t even get me started on the Scottish ones!)

[Image care of Canva AI]

Okay, I love desserts. But I especially love the mystifying names of desserts in the UK. From my first Eton mess, I was hooked. Custard covered spotted dick? Bring it. Clootie dumpling? How about a nice jam roly-poly (steamed in a shirtsleeve, of course)?  Fly Cemetery or Millionaire’s Shortbread? Or even the mysteriously awful Banoffee Pie (which more than one British hostess has assured mystified expats is actually an American pudding)? And here in Scotland, Ecclefechan Butter Tart is fun to say, deep-fried Mars Bars are an abomination, while Cranachan with fresh berries will make strong Scots cry.

Fly Cemetery (recipe at Cooking With Granny)

But I have to say the the crown jewel, in my opinion, is my friend Elizabeth Ross’ Victoria Sponge cake. The first time she served it, I was in awe of the velvety, melt-in-your mouth cake with the punch of her homemade raspberry jam and a bit of squirty cream. (No sponges were harmed in the making of this dessert.)

It is, Elizabeth assures me, so simple that it was the first thing she and her friends learned to cook when they were Girl Guides going after their cooking badge. But she learned to make it in a cold kitchen, without a microwave to soften the butter or electric mixer to blend. She remembers holding a heavy bowl as she stirred. And stirred, and stirred, attempting to convince rock hard little bits of butter and egg to finally combine into a light-colored fluffy batter.

Of course, I asked for her recipe. (There may have been some whining and begging. Don’t judge me until you’ve tried her superb cake.) And Elizabeth has graciously passed along her recipe.

The first thing I cooked?

The first thing I remember cooking was frosting, which seemed miraculous to me. My mother showed me how to mix fairly inexact amounts of powdered (confectioners) sugar with butter, vanilla, and milk. Through some mysterious chemical reaction (or maybe magic), you get frosting. Every damn time! It’s actually a comfort in a world where so much is changing.

For our dinners, she mostly made the foods her Irish mother made, and I have to say they were dire. But my mother more than made up for her cooking disasters with her spectacular baking. I think the first dish I made start to finish was the Blueberry Buckle she made from the recipe in the 1950 Betty Crocker Cookbook she got for a wedding present.

I still make the recipe from her cookbook, although it’s nearly indecipherable after almost 75 years of splatters and notations. It’s fast, foolproof, and fabulous. 

How about you? What’s the first thing you learned to cook?

Do you still make it? (Recipes welcome!) 

 


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