Cheese Ball

 

To set the scene, it’s New Year’s Eve (2020 style) and you have a hot date with a pair of pyjamas and a jigsaw. You feel the need to add a little something to the celebration. You also feel the need to avoid doing any housework whatsoever and need a displacement activity. What are you going to do? You’re going to knock up this retro ball of gelatinous lard to eat later, that’s what.

Cheese balls were a mid century staple of the cheese and wine night. You’ll be happy to hear that they are easy to make and don’t have to be served with a bottle of Blue Nun (although do consider this if you’re after authenticity and/or Covid has damaged your tastebuds).

Let’s assemble some ingredients:

You will need:

A tub of full fat cream cheese

200g strong grated cheese (I used extra nature cheddar)

A bit of shallot, onion or garlic 

Worcestershire sauce

Aaaaaand...it’s time to bring out that bottle of cheap Aldi whisky again. 

You will also need some crunchy stuff for later. Much googling suggests that it’s not really important what the crunchy stuff is. I used toasted chopped almonds and chives.

Method:

1. Dump the cream cheese, grated cheese, 2 teaspoons of Worcestershire sauce, a little bit of grated shallot/garlic/whatever And a generous splash of whisky into a bowl. By the way, all photos for this recipe will be taking place in front of my kitchen window because the rest of the kitchen currently looks like a bin.

2. Get your hand blender out and blend the lot together until smooth-ish. Eat a celebratory cherry liqueur chocolate because it’s still sort of Christmas.

3. Dollop the mixture into the centre of some cling film and try not to think of dog sick.

4. Form the whole thing into a ball by gathering the cling film up and twisting it at the top. Wrap this in foil and put it in the fridge to firm up for a few hours.

5. Later on, assemble your crunchy stuff. I used toasted chopped almonds, chives and salt and pepper but you can use anything. Crunchy bacon bits, fried breadcrumbs or crispy fried onions  would work well. Put crunchy gubbins on a plate and roll your unwrapped cheese ball all over it so that it gets covered in crunchy bits. You are aiming for the effect of kicking it across a pub carpet at closing time.

6. Serve with crudités and eat.

This was actually very good. Shockingly so considering the ingredients. Booze and cheese forever. Try not to eat the entire thing at once - it will keep in the fridge for a few days so you’ve got no excuse really. And wash it down with more liqueur chocolates because we’ve got to get our kicks where we can at the moment.

Whisky Marinated Grapes: a Dinner Party Abomination

Sometimes the best ideas are so simple. Think a plate of good quality dark chocolate with coffee in place of dessert after a civilised yet slightly bohemian dinner party; all the guests just helping themselves to a rustic chunk to savour as they tinkle with laughter in the candlelight a la Nigella Lawson’s hired friends on every cookery programme she’s ever done. Or, you know, cheesy puffs. So simple. So classic.

Sometimes the worst ideas are really simple too. Worryingly simple. So simple that any moron with a knife and a bottle of cheap booze could end up inflicting them on anybody. And that, friends, is what we are exploring today:

Whisky marinated grapes. Part of a bygone trend of the 70s to the 90s for wasting alcohol by pouring it on fruit. Remember melon with a shot of port inexplicably poured into its centre? Like that. I had a memory of grapes being subject to the same treatment for fancy dinner parties so I searched through old recipe books until I found the basic premise. And here we are.

You will need:

Some grapes.
Whisky. I am not a whisky drinker but, as luck would have it, I had half a bottle of Aldi’s finest in my cupboard from an attempt at making homemade Baileys at Christmas. It cost about £8.99. I’ll leave you to imagine the flavour and quality.
A lemon
Some honey
Wine glasses

Method:

1. Slice your grapes in half. You’ll need enough to fill about one third of each wine glass you’re using.

2. In a bowl, mix whisky, honey and lemon. Amounts can be left to your imagination but you want a bit more whisky than honey and only a little bit of lemon juice. Put the grapes in the bowl with the liquid, cover and put them in the fridge for a few hours. Have a little taste of the whisky mixture. Mmmmm, Benylin.

3. Take the grapes out of the fridge, whisk up some double cream and dollop it into the bottom of each wine glass. I used a Babycham glass for authenticity and frosted it with sugar, because who doesn’t enjoy something special happening around their rim?

4. Divide the grapes between the glasses then pour on the weird cough mixture juice.

Elegant.

The grapes are an absolute abomination. They taste like frogspawn that’s been left to marinate in a vat of Night Nurse. I tentatively added a bit of cream to the spoon, expecting the flavour to be an advert for veganism. Weirdly, not so. I didn’t realise how strongly the early 80s tasted like cream dunked in cheap booze until I put this in my mouth. A hundred weird food related memories came flooding back, which is concerning as I was aged 2-11 in that particular decade. Maybe it was acceptable to lace your kids jelly and ice cream with alcohol back then. It wouldn’t surprise me. Either way, I’ve just consumed a lot of cream, some questionable grapes and some a lot of cheap alcohol that’s given me that “I smoke 40 a day” feeling in my chest. I am nostalgic, somewhat nauseous and full of remorse.

Creamy cough syrup grapes: try them if you dare.

Silver swans - a children’s party classic. Apparently.

It’s been a while. Last time I was here, I taste tested enough grim Christmas breakfasts to kick start a range of gastrointestinal symptoms to put me off of retro food adventuring for...oh, about two and a half years.

I thought I’d ease myself back into it with something inoffensive. Something without any comedy 1970s ingredients. Something with fond memories.

So, we’re revisiting this classic 80s recipe book.

We’ve been here before. This is not our first rodeo. Remember the cheese twigs? They were pretty much the only thing my mum would make for my birthday parties from this book. Being a child of particularly refined taste, I used to beg her to make something a bit more sophisticated instead. Such as these beautiful, dainty choux pastry swans (scroll back up for a look).

Aren’t they pretty? Funnily enough, she always told me to jog on at this point and started huffing about, emptying bags of Safeway Savers cheesy puffs into bowls. Amateur. How hard could it be? Let’s have a bake-along:

You will need:

75g butter
200ml water
125g plain flour
3 large eggs, beaten
250ml double cream
2 tablespoons icing sugar

You will also need baking paper, a 10mm piping nozzle and something to make a piping bag out of (I used a plastic sandwich bag). See what I mean? Nothing weird about this recipe. Stay tuned though because I added a couple of mystery ingredients later on just to keep things fresh.

Method:
1. Use the butter, water, flour and eggs to make a batch of choux pastry. I can’t be bothered to tell you how to do that. If you’re not on board with this level of apathy, this is not the blog for you. Google a recipe and join me when you’ve done it.

2. Stuff some of your choux pastry in your piping bag (nozzle already attached). Line a baking tray with baking parchment. Don’t forget to slightly moisten your baking sheets, bitches.

3. Pipe some ‘2s’ for the necks. They should be about 3” high and apparently you should pull away sharply at the top to make a ‘beak’. I wouldn’t worry about that though because whatever you do, you’re going to end up with a tray full of what look like of anaemic cat turds. Form the rest of the dough into ovals about 3” long. LIKE SO:

Well, that looks shit. Oh well. They’re sure to look better when they’re baked.

LOL, nope.

4. There are various instructions about how long to bake everything for and at what temperature. This should pretty much be disregarded because everything came out flaccid and inedible, but if you enjoy rules, bake in a preheated oven at 220C for 10 minutes, then lower the temperature to 190C and bake the necks for a further 10 minutes and the bodies for 20 more minutes. Remove from the oven, make a slit in the side of each and leave to cool.

5. Whisk up your cream until stiff and stir in half of the icing sugar. Cut each body in half horizontally and stuff the bottom part with cream. Wedge the neck in the cream then cut the remaining half of the body in half lengthways and stick haphazardly on the body to resemble wings. Sprinkle with the remaining icing sugar (preferably using a sieve, but I remembered too late that I used mine to strain floating slugs out of the paddling pool the other day so I had to do without).

I managed to make one vaguely recognisable swan out of all of the various body parts, and it was held together with hazardous amounts of cocktail sticks. It also looks a bit like an old tissue that someone has sneezed in and crumpled up, but it does have a few swan-like traits so I’m calling it a win. However, I did feel that it was lacking something. 

Fixed it. Because if a delectable choux pastry swan is desirable at birthday parties, a delectable choux pastry swan that looks like it’s dropped a load of acid is surely preferable. I also fashioned it a little pond out of some blue WKD. For realism. 

Now all that’s left is to eat it. You’ll need some chocolate sauce.

Job done.

The Christmas Breakfast Challenge

People eat some weird shit at Christmas. I'm on board with this. For me it's pretty much obligatory to neck peanuts and sausage rolls whenever I pass the kitchen from 1st December onwards. I draw the line at breakfast though: my breakfast tends to be fruit, a green smoothie or an omelette whatever the time of year, but it turns out that some people have some very special Christmas breakfast traditions.

With this in mind, I asked Facebook, various Whatsapp chat groups and confused people on the street for their favourite family Christmas Day breakfasts, immediately discounted anything nice or normal (goodbye smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, farewell croissants), leaving me with a variety of indigestible lard and sugar based options. Bravely, IO decided to try one every morning for a week. I got in training (went for a run which I cut short after 4 miles because it was cold), steel plated my stomach and ventured forth:


DAY 1:
Egg beat up in a cup

I started with the least offensive breakfast of the lot so as to warm up slowly. This, according to my friend Tammy, is an Irish/Northern Irish comfort food that comes out when you're ill, under the weather, happy, miserable, or celebrating something. It's also a Christmas breakfast classic over there.

Method: Boil an egg or two, remove the shells and beat up in a cup with salt, pepper and enough butter to turn it into an egg mayo consistency (but with butter, not mayonnaise). Eat with toast soldiers.

Verdict: This was nice, even though I could feel my arteries clogging with every swallow.

Suitable for breakfast every day? Yes

Rating: 8/10


DAY 2:
A box of cheap liqueur chocolates - the sort you can get in Poundland

This was my friend Fogg's contribution. He is, in retrospect, a dick.

Method: Open chocolates. Eat them.

Verdict: Of all the things you don't want to face shoving down your throat at 7am, these must come somewhere near the top. Three chocolates in I had heartburn and my throat was involuntarily closing to stop me from swallowing. I forced the rest down, ignoring the burning sensation in my esophagus then dropped my child at school stinking of booze.

Suitable for breakfast every day? Shudder.

Rating: 2/10


DAY 3:
Scotch Woodcock

 

Some bloke I got talking to at the doctors has had this every Christmas morning for the last 40 years. 

Method: It's basically scrambled egg on toast, but the toast is spread with anchovy paste, known as Gentleman's Relish. I do not want anything called Gentleman's Relish anywhere near my person frankly, but I gave it a go anyway.

Verdict: Well, that tasted like fishy eggs.

Suitable for breakfast every day? In theory, although it's a bit tricky to get past your gag reflex at half past bastard in the morning.

Rating: 4/10 

DAY 4:

Tinned hotdog sausages in a soft finger roll in front of Thomas the Tank Engine

 

Thanks to Mel for this one. She's @SuspiciousQuiet on Twitter if anyone wants to follow her adventures.

Method: I wasn't sure how essential Thomas the Tank Engine was to the process but I put it on anyway so as to show willing. I did find it helped to shout "COME ON MOTHERFUCKERS, COME ON" throughout a la the Biggie Smalls version. I added mustard and ketchup to the hotdog because why wouldn't you?

Verdict: Felt v rebellious eating hotdog at 7.30am. Living the thug life.

Suitable for breakfast every day? Why not? Thomas can do one though.

Rating: 6/10

DAY 5:

Trifle. Glass of orange juice "for health".

I can't even remember whose this was but may they burn in Hell.

Method: Deposit trifle into a bowl, pour orange juice, hold nose and eat.

Verdict: I think I OD'd on trifle as a child because I can't stomach it now; the spongy stuff in the strawberry jelly makes me squeamish. Trying to force it down at 6.45 in the morning followed by orange juice (which sits beautifully with all the cream in your stomach) was not enjoyable. 

Suitable for breakfast every day? Maybe if you like trifle?  I reckon I could manage this if substituted with tiramisu.

Rating: 3/10

DAY 6:

Pork pie and a glass of port (With mustard and bread in some households):

My ex housemate Rach was force fed pork pie and port every Christmas morning by her dad, which she says may go some way to explaining why she's vegetarian now. Another friend insists that the pork pie has to be eaten without the port but with mustard and bread. I combined both because nobody intervened and told me not to. I kind of wish they had.

 

Method: Put pork pie and optional bread on plate. Pour nice glass of port.

 Verdict: I don't know whether it's just because I'd spent most of the week introducing my stomach to some of the worst food in the world at the crack of dawn, but pork pie was a winner. I troughed my way through that big meaty bastard at the speed of light. Not so the port: nearly puked. Made the school run more fun though.

Suitable for breakfast every day? Pork pie is a possibility, port is not.

Verdict: 7.5/10

DAY 7:

Mince pie and brandy butter sandwich

YOU ANIMALS.

Method: Spread thick layer of brandy butter on bread. Squash a mince pie and sandwich it between two slices. Eat.

Verdict: Mince pies are evidence of the devil's existence in my opinion, but I tried anyway. Oh how I tried. I managed one mouthful before propelling it across the room in some sort of retch/spit hybrid. To the person who told me to try this: may your next turd be a hedgehog.

Suitable for breakfast every day? Piss off.

Verdict: 1/10

 

I limped to this finish line feeling like the Very Hungry Caterpillar when he'd eaten everything. Maybe a few fresh green leaves for breakfast tomorrow will make me feel better. It can't be worse than this lot anyway.

Betty Crocker's Kids Parties From Hell

Well, it's been an exciting weekend here. My cousin recently returned from visiting his parents in Canada with a big box full of vintage 1970s Betty Crocker recipe cards for me to play with. He promised me that they would be worth waiting for, and oh sweet Jesus, was he right. With delights such as Spunky Zucchini Toss and Baked Prune Whip and over 500 cards in the box, I now have a foul retro recipe for every occasion.

You will be seeing a lot of these horrors over the next few months, but to start you off, I thought I'd share some of the cards from the Children's Party section. If you're ever in the position of having to throw a party for a small child that you loathe, these will be perfect:

What could be more perfect than an LSD themed ladybird cake? Clearly tripping balls -  look at the pupils on that.

 

NOPE.

What is a backyard parade, though? Because I think there might be a euphemism lurking somewhere.

 

That would be what Satan's minion looks like then.

Some sort of woodland demon summoning ritual cake

I am 95% sure that I was at this party and it was a) amazing and b) not for children.

Fuck knows really.

I just...that's not even a thing. Stop trying to make paper bag parties happen.

I mean...why? I can't work out which of these barbaric hellions is most likely to haunt my nightmares for the rest of my days. I get the feeling it's going to be him on the left with the cold dead eyes though.

Miche (that's quiche with a meat crust. Yes.)

Well, I thought it had been a while since we'd dicked around with some mince, so here I am, rectifying that for you. Like all the other recipes on the blog, this is the questionable recipe of someone's mum. She's so traumatized that I can't even mention her name here (possibly she wants to avoid death threats). Our anonymous supplier of this recipe says: "My mum used to make this in the late 70s and early 80s. There was no reason for it to exist then, and there's certainly no reason for it to be resurrected. It is basically quiche, but with a crust made of meat."

I don't know about you, but I was shuddering already. The words 'meat' and 'crust' shouldn't appear next to each other under any circumstances. However, having thought about it a bit, I've realised that this recipe might work for those of you who are on a paleo diet because it doesn't contain any grains or complex carbohydrates (apart from some pointless breadcrumbs that you could omit). When I say it might help you, I mean that it might help you remember why toast and chips were a good idea in the first place.

Serves:  4 people

Preparation time: About an hour

Ingredients: 

A packet of mince. I don't know how much - whatever is in the packet
1 medium onion, chopped
Worcestershire sauce
3 eggs
Some cheese ("some")
Half a carton of cottage cheese
1 tomato
Some breadcrumbs maybe

Method:

1. Put the mince, half the chopped onion and a few drops of Worcestershire sauce in a bowl and mix with your hands.

 

2. Press the mixture into a flan dish, lining it as you would with pastry. Do this in a way that suggests that it's perfectly acceptable behaviour and not a crime against humanity.

 

3. Put this in the oven (which you have preheated to approx 220 degrees by the way. I forgot to tell you) and cook for...a bit. Until it looks like the meat is cooked through and a bit...um...crusty. 

 

This happened. If you're struggling to discern the full horror, the mince shrank away from the sides into a sort of charred disc and became surrounded with watery fat. I reckon you can tip the watery fat in the bin at this point.

4. Now you're going to mix up your filling. Whisk the eggs, the other half of the onion, some cheese and the cottage cheese together. Smile brightly and try not to think of yeast infections.

 

5. Now you're going to tip the cottage cheese mixture into the mince crust. This isn't going to work properly because it's come away from the sides of the dish but fuck it. Top with sliced tomato, breadcrumbs and more cheese.

 

6. Place back in the oven for 20-30 minutes until the eggs are cooked through and the weird meaty quiche is set.

 

7. Cut into slices and serve. Behold the layer of meaty misery. I served it with a bistro salad out of a packet from Aldi, but you may want to add some nice browny green marrowfat peas and floury boiled potatoes a la 70s cuisine.

 

So, my taste testers were obviously overjoyed when they returned home to find my grinning like a maniac and shouting "GUESS WHAT'S FOR TEA??" They're now fairly resigned to finding me in the kitchen dishing up brown vomity substances like her off Butterflies.

 

The child didn't even deign to try it. 

The other one?

"Well, it's fine. It's just fine. It's just...some crusty mince with some sort of...scrambled egg stuff on it isn't it? I mean, nothing surprises me any more. I'm managing to get it down."

Then I told him about the cottage cheese aspect and he stopped being able to get it down. Nobody is really talking to me any more.

Classic 70s and 80s desserts taste test: THE RETURN

You know how we enjoyed testing out some classic no-make puddings from childhood recently? Well, I thought it was time to do it again. There were so many classics that I'd neglected so it was really only fair that we gave them a go. Here are this week's contenders:

Clockwise from top left: Tinned peaches and evaporated milk, Vienetta, jelly mousse, and ice cream with Ice Magic sauce

1. Tinned peaches in evaporated milk. What even is evaporated milk though? Google tells me that it's milk with the water evaporated out of it. But it's still wet so I don't get it. Condensed milk is, incidentally, the same thing but with lots of added sugar. I'm ok with condensed milk - it has a purpose (making caramely things). Evaporated milk's purpose appears to be to be served with tinned peaches (and bread and butter if you believe my friend. What sort of horror childhood she encountered I don't know).

2. Vienetta. Needs no introduction really. Basically the classiest dessert that the 80s had to offer. You were a) probably rich and b) lucky beyond your wildest dreams if this got served in your household.

3. Jelly mousse. This is the wildcard because it didn't come pre-made. You had to make it yourself (method: Make up a jelly with only half a pint of water, leave it until it's nearly set then make up a packet of Dream Topping and whisk it into the jelly. Leave in the fridge to set for a couple of hours). Big favourite of mums who wanted to impress at birthday parties. Best with lemon jelly but I went for raspberry because that was all we had in the cupboard. Felt like I should decorate it with fresh raspberries but nobody ever had them in the 80s so I spunked a load of hundreds and thousands all over it as tradition dictates.

4. Vanilla ice cream with Ice Magic. I had to cheat because Ice Magic no longer exists. I know, I am sad about this too. I had to use an imposter called 'Crackin' made by Askeys.

My brave volunteers couldn't wait this time (remember, these oddballs actually enjoyed fruit cocktail out of a tin last time and spurned butterscotch Angel Delight, so I should really find myself some new testers TBH).

1. Tinned peaches in evaporated milk:

Man: "This is another classic from my Nanny's house."

Boy: "I love tinned peaches, we get them at school."

Man: "Wait..."

Boy: "I'm just..."

*everyone turns green and runs for the bin to spit their mouthful out*

Me: "Do you want some bread with that?"

Verdict: No.

***there had to be a short break here while everyone fought back their nausea and composed themselves***

2. Vienetta

Boy: "I'm going to need the biggest bit of that."

Man: "Always a classic. Satisfying crack to the chocolate as you bite through it...creamy ice cream..."
Boy: "This is delicious."

Man: "This was the poshest ice cream ever in 1985."

Me: "Doesn't really taste of much if I'm honest, but I am feeling so fancy right now."

Verdict: Apparently like crack to children but doesn't actually taste of anything. Needs to be eaten with those little dessert forks for full effect.

3. Jelly mousse

Boy: "You know I don't like mousse..."
Me: "This is special 80s mousse. Try it."
Man: "Oh my God, that's sweet;

Me: "You live on sugar."

Man: "But this is even too sweet for me."

Boy: *is stuffing it in his face as if he hasn't already eaten 2 puddings*

Verdict: Very very very sweet. Children still impressed. Tastes like birthday parties to me. Makes you feel like a real mum when you make it.

4. Vanilla ice cream with (fake) Ice Magic

*everyone gathers around to watch the magical setting chocolate sauce*

Me: "Is it actually doing anything?"

Man: "Hmmmm."

Boy: "It's got a sort of skin on it."

Me: "It's definitely set a bit."

*time passes*
Me: "OK, I think that's it."

Man: "Didn't ice magic used to set completely hard like a shell?"
Me: "I think it did."

Man: "This is like...rubbery stuff. That tastes of lard."
Me (checking label): "That's the main ingredient."

Boy: "I'll eat it."

Verdict: Do not buy the crappy, knock-off Ice Magic. It doesn't set - probably because use of liquid nitrogen in food got banned in the 90s or something. It also tastes like slightly chocolatey fat. The child still ate it though.

Got any other retro delights you'd like us to test? Let me know and I'll make it happen.