Meringues are one of the few egg based foodstuffs that have successfully penetrated my egg aversion. Like all good food, the taste of a meringue is peppered with memories. There was the drive along pockmarked country roads in a car stuffed with 85 of my mother-in-law's pristine meringues, to be delivered in mint condition at a wedding reception. Or the small stall tucked away in a St. Peter's hedge, stuffed with bags of freshly baked meringues. A sugary trail of white dust followed us for the rest of that afternoon's ramble. But only when 6 eggs began dutifully appearing on my doorstep each week from Castel Farm did it occur to me to try making a meringue myself.
Meringue alone is incomplete, though. Meringue needs fruit. Served brimming with strawberries, or stained by a raspberry coolie, or nestled in a hook of melon; the slightly acidic tang of fruit parries deftly with the sweetness of the meringue. We stumbled upon growing soft fruit by accident and it is testament to the resilience of our plants, rather than our skill, that we get any crop at all. We inherited a patch of autumn-fruiting raspberry canes which, despite their name, produce two loads of fruit a year, a first batch in early Summer and a second serving in Autumn. Having left them to their own devices for the past few years, last autumn we got busy with the secateurs and, following advice from the RHS website, pruned the canes down to ground level. Painful though the buzz-cut canes looked, they have rallied and are once again producing fruit.
Our poor strawberry plants could probably apply for a restraining order against us, having spent two miserable years mouldering in an overshadowed grow-bag in our back yard. In February I had the bright idea that the strawberries might be happier in the allotment. Never the best plan to move grow-bags after a solid week of rain, but after much muttering and dark chuntering we eased the benighted plants into trenches filled with well-rotted horse dung. Covered with chicken wire and guarded with old CDs dangled from string our strawberries clearly appreciated being sworn at and being left in poo, as they're now pumping out berries by the punnet load.
Meringue alone is incomplete, though. Meringue needs fruit. Served brimming with strawberries, or stained by a raspberry coolie, or nestled in a hook of melon; the slightly acidic tang of fruit parries deftly with the sweetness of the meringue. We stumbled upon growing soft fruit by accident and it is testament to the resilience of our plants, rather than our skill, that we get any crop at all. We inherited a patch of autumn-fruiting raspberry canes which, despite their name, produce two loads of fruit a year, a first batch in early Summer and a second serving in Autumn. Having left them to their own devices for the past few years, last autumn we got busy with the secateurs and, following advice from the RHS website, pruned the canes down to ground level. Painful though the buzz-cut canes looked, they have rallied and are once again producing fruit.
Our poor strawberry plants could probably apply for a restraining order against us, having spent two miserable years mouldering in an overshadowed grow-bag in our back yard. In February I had the bright idea that the strawberries might be happier in the allotment. Never the best plan to move grow-bags after a solid week of rain, but after much muttering and dark chuntering we eased the benighted plants into trenches filled with well-rotted horse dung. Covered with chicken wire and guarded with old CDs dangled from string our strawberries clearly appreciated being sworn at and being left in poo, as they're now pumping out berries by the punnet load.
Meringue Morsels
I've borrowed this recipe from my mother, who had the inspired idea of adding the rose water. The rosewater adds a heady scent of the Orient to these morsels, perfect for a warm, hazy evening in the back yard.
Makes 16
Ingredients
2 large free-range egg whites
100g caster sugar
½ tablespoon icing sugar
150ml double cream
1 tablespoon of rose water
Method
Preheat the oven to 130°C/250°F.
Line a large baking tray with baking paper.
Break the eggs and separate the whites into a large bowl.
Whisk the whites until they stiffen.
Gradually whisk in the caster sugar, a tablespoonful at a time, until it is completely incorporated
Spoon the meringue mixture inside a piping bag fitted with a large nozzle.
Pipe 32 small meringues onto the baking paper.
Pipe 32 small meringues onto the baking paper.
Put meringues in the centre of the oven and immediately reduce the temperature to IOO°C/225°F,.
Bake for 2 hours until crisp but not coloured.
Turn off the oven and leave to cool.
Shortly before you are ready to unveil your meringues sift the icing sugar over the cream, stir in the rosewater and whip into stiff peaks.
Taking two meringues put a dolop of cream on the underside of one and sandwich against the bottom of the second.
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