In Time For Thanksgiving - Pumpkin Pie!!

Yeah, so it's safe to say that my baking has been going a bit downhill since starting uni. It's taken me a while to find my baking feet. I'll never forget the horrendous and awfully egg-y Victoria sponge that I served up on the 2nd week. It's sad but the pessamistic side of me lets me hang my head in shame and not expect anything from the culinary 'delights' that make their way into the oven. 

But tonight I've actually done it! Pumpkin pie that's actually edible and looks good! - apart from the section I've stuffed the oven glove into (hence the large missing slice!) But here it is! 

I absolutely love pumpkin. It's a brilliant smokey autumn flavour and a perfect substitute for potatoes. With its cousin: the butternut squash, you can mash it, roast it, boil it and bake it - any way it tastes great!

Here's my take on the classic American pumpkin pie!

Pumpkin Pie (£3.50)Serves 6

You will need:

• 375g pumpkin or butternut squash (you may find that butternut squash is more commonly available in supermarkets than pumpkin)
• 375g ready rolled shortcrust pastry (I actually only used 2/3 of the pastry)
• 70g granulated sugar
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1 1/2 tsp cinnamon
• 1 egg
• 25g melted butter
• 90ml semi-skimmed milk

Method:

1. Peel, dice and boil the pumpkin/ butternut squash for 15 minutes until tender. (You should easily be able to insert a fork)
2. Drain and place in a clean bowl
3. Leave to cool
4. NEXT, heat your oven to 180 degrees C
5. Butter a pie dish and roll out the pastry to cover the tin
6. Trim the edges of the pastry and put to one side
7. Smooth it out to ensure that all the pie dish is covered and patch holes up with the spare pastry
8. Once completed, discard the pastry
9. Prick the base with a fork and bake for 15 minutes (Watch to ensure that the base doesn't rise. You need to make sure that it stays flat.)
   
10. Remove the pie from the oven
11. Turn the oven to 200 degrees C
12. THEN, when completely cool, puree the pumpkin/ butternut squash into a clean bowl by squishing it through a sieve with a fork (This can take a while but persevere - the end result makes it all worth it!)
13. In a separate bowl, mix the sugar, salt, cinnamon, egg, butter and milk
14. Add the pumpkin puree to the mixture and stir until combined
15. Pour this mixture into the half-baked pastry case and return to the oven for 10 minutes
16. Reduce the heat to 180 degrees C and bake for a further 30-40 minutes
17. Remove from the oven and leave to cool
18. Serve cold

Thanksgiving 2014: Thursday 27th November

Whiskey Starlight

Bonfire night is one of my absolute favourite times of the year! I love it! The dark, the fire, the colours, the warmth and, of course, the food! It's such a beautiful and happy time of year. 

I wanted to share my experience with you guys of the other weekend that I spent at my auntie and uncle's annual fireworks party but I couldn't quite represent the sentiment the same way with a piece of prose as I could with a poem. 

I'm not a natural poet by any stretch of the imagination but I think that even if you can't write poetry, there's something liberating about describing something in this way. The colours are the things that are special for me. In this one I really tried to focus on the orange glow of the fire and stars and the silky midnight hue of the night sky that's not as harsh as black but not as mellow as blue. 

Take a read: 

WHISKY STARLIGHT: 

Whiskey starlight 

O'er the fields I see 

Ever stoking the fright

Of sheep and we 

Eat the mallows 

Fire-ripened down to their core 

Sleeps past All Hallows' 

Eve of life no more. 

Each golden juice pimple 

Sky's lantern anew 

The show of fifty a dimple

Smiles among people who 

Shout, laugh and chatter 

Pulling children from fire 

Caution never their matter 

As night becomes Sire. 

London's Eye

Despite a morning that felt far to early to be past the boundaries of the night before, I was glad to be in London. It seems to me like London is the city of every season. I tell myself that I like it more in the cold but then I catch myself at Kings Cross in the summer months and I take it all back. 

Today was as beautiful as the day suggested: Sun-day. The light streamed across the pale blue of the sky that was brushed with clouds and the air was crisp and raw. It was beautiful. Really beautiful. I like travelling through London at the best of times but today was particularly special. It's Remembrance Sunday and all the natural beauty of the morning was complimented with the jingling of medals as war veterans passed by in their suits and poppies, their canes and hats. On the train earlier we'd picked up a group of suited school children who were destined to attend one of the services. There is something so festive and communal about seeing such sights. 

I'm not an advocate of war. And, like many other people I know, I don't think that the act of fighting and killing can ever be just. But today: Remberance Sunday, is not about the war (though without it the day wouldn't exist). On the 100th anniversary since World War I, it's about courage. 100 years of selfless bravery. 

People are different. People went into the war with different motives. Some went because they believed that their actions would lead to a greater good. Others were forced. But whatever the reason, those who made it through and those who didn't met with the same fate; they saw war. I look into the eyes of the people that pass by me with their tailored suits and medals. The eyes that now look out on the fabricated, technologically 'advanced', urban landscape that is London and the underground. Those eyes that look out onto the Gucci, Selfridges, Hollister and Burberry. Those eyes were the same eyes that saw guns, scaled pathways, watched the insides of eyelids as they slept in wait of the days, weeks, months ahead. Those eyes carry experience. Experience of it all. The then and now. The here and there. Stories, memories, experiences: told and untold, and etched into the dewy layers of the eyeball's gaze.

There is a different London this morning. Not the cosmopolitan hub of all-too-busy and not-too-bothered commuters as I usually come across. This is a morning in London marked and ruled by history. It is the hub of millions of stories: told, untold and yet to be told.

And so as I leave Waterloo, the rising sun awakening the country, the thoughts of a ugly morning fade. How glad am I that I was up at 6:30am on a Sunday to see it all? The answer is very.