There are some things I never think about. Like climbing Kilimanjaro, skinny-dipping in the Antarctic, dating Julius Malema or wearing red underwear. But I occasionally think about rhubarb.
Now, rhubarb is not sexy, not like redcurrants are sexy, or raspberries with clotted cream, or ripe figs cut in half (lengthways, please), firmly dipped in castor sugar and then put face-down in a buttered pan until they are toffee and decadent and make you faint with lust. No, rhubarb is not like that.
But in spite of its unsexiness, rhubarb, like damsons and pomegranates, is teetering on the edge of newfound fashion. Pomegranates are there already. Rhubarb is nearly, but not quite there. If asparagus is one of the first harbingers of the southern hemisphere spring, then rhubarb epitomises late spring. It contains within its flushed stalks all the promise of freshness and heat and carefree living we expect from our summers, and if it is still absent from restaurant menus, it’s just because chefs haven’t quite tuned in to its many joys. But Sophie Dahl has.
She is a sprite, no doubt about that, and it follows that her first cookbook, Miss Dahl’s Voluptuous Delights, is simply enchanting (“What a joy,” raves Jamie O). Somehow, as you will discover when paging through the cookbook, she transmits a kind of delight that food can be both innocent and voluptuous at the same time, a territory Sophie innately understands.
Each section of the book, (Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter) takes an evocative look at a time in her life – her modelling days, say, or a long sojourn in New York, and reading through each chapter I was struck not only by the vitality of her writing, but by the sheer bravura of her forays into the kitchen.
Last month I wrote about Nigella, and it is difficult not to feel affection for her. But I think you might fall head over heels in love with Sophie, for her cooking style is at once nostalgic and operatically decadent, underpinned by a steely dislike of meat.
And you know Nigella’s come-hither sidelong glances? Take a look at Miss Dahl’s photos in the book and you will see that here is competition, big time. It’s been ages since I’ve found this kind of book to take to bed, one that is as entrancing about life as it is about food. Elizabeth David has always done that for me. Sophie has the same gift.
Take the irresistible story of when a wild, 21-year-old Sophie moves to New York: “I celebrated my twenty-second birthday there, on a rooftop in the Lower West Side, dancing to Donna Summer in a black lace ball gown that I had borrowed that day from a fashion shoot. At midnight I was Cinderella, whipping it off and swapping it for a pair of jeans in order to get it back to the stylist… weaving across Fifth Avenue in a perilous pair of Louboutins, I ran into the Four Seasons hotel, handing over the still-warm bundle of lace to a sleepy concierge…” So when I tell you that she writes about food, which includes a great affection for rhubarb, in much the same way, then you must know you are in for a singular treat. Here’s something for a 21st birthday gift, a kitchen tea (anything but cookie cutters, please) or even a divorce party. It’s a book with brio and I love it. And you’ve already guessed what the pud is, haven’t you?
Eton mess with rhubarb
“Eton mess is such a quintessentially English summer pudding. For me it sums up lazy cricket matches, roses in full bloom and the sharp tang of rhubarb on the tip of your tongue. Its biggest joy is that it’s one massive, delightful, creamy mess, and it doesn’t pretend to be anything else.”
Serves 6
For the Meringues
- 6 large egg whites
- 340g castor sugar
- 1 pinch salt
- toasted almond slivers to serve (optional)
For the Compote
- 125ml boiling water
- 2 tablespoons castor sugar
- 450g rhubarb, chopped in rounds
- 1 teaspoon rose water
- 500ml thick or whipping cream
- First, make the meringues. Preheat the oven to 140°C. Line a large baking tray/cookie sheet with non-stick baking/parchment paper. In a very clean bowl, whisk the sugar and salt and whisk well until the mixture is a thick spool of white. This should take about 8 minutes and obviously an electric mixer would be a little bit of a blessing here.
- Spoon the mixture into blobs on your baking tray, leaving a generous gap between them. Bake for 1 hour. Whilst the meringue is baking, make the rhubarb compote. In a pan, boil the water with the sugar and add the rhubarb when it starts bubbling. Stir and let it cook for about 5 minutes. When the rhubarb is tender, remove from the heat. Add the rose water and leave to the side.
- Now for the mess bit. You can either do this in six pretty glasses or one big bowl. Whip the cream until it is soft and fluffy. Add it to the rhubarb and mash it in with the meringues. You can do this with some order in layers, or in a happy haphazard fashion: either way it is totally delicious.
- Serve with some toasted almond slivers if you like
Jenny’s Note
This quantity of mixture makes 36 small meringues, so you can keep the extras in an airtight tin. As you’ve probably guessed, [ didn’t make my own meringues. I buy them homemade from bakeries or delis. Hunt out decent meringue makers and never buy those nasty cardboard pink and green piped meringues that so many supermarkets seem wedded to.
Would you like to be on Jenny’s email list for more book reviews, and for (mostly) Johannesburg-based lunch, dinner and weekend dinner events? Contact Jenny by email with your name, email address and a telephone number.
Text by Jenny Crwys-Williams. Taken from the September 2009 edition of Food and Home
Related Content
