For breakfast this morning I enjoyed a man size portion of Pecan pie served with fresh cream and a smidgen of stewed pear. I accompanied my feast with a cup of green tea infused with mandarin and herb. It keeps me regular. About 9am to usually a quarter past for those who like to be exact. It was moreish, succulent, exquisitely flavoured, and if I am totally honest, my third attempt. Tis the Pecan pie I am talking about here, not the bowel movement. Stay with me people, focus, focus! I used a recipe sent to me by a very nice young lady by the name of Hope. If you are not regular readers of Hope, then why not? Pecans have a unique flavour that blends so well with literally hundreds of dessert recipes. They do not get enough publicity, which in itself is a crime against culinary humanity. I advise you to go to her blog and copy the recipe for yourselves. You will not be disappointed, trust me.
Because I am still full of the milk of human kindness, not to mention Pecan pie, I am going to dish out a recipe of which my own grand mammy handed down when her parents were still picking potatoes back in the republic of Roscommon. If I may digress for a moment, just down the road from Roscommon, not a million miles away from my old hoose, is where another raggedy-arse, snot-nosed street urchin was dragged out of the mud and given a proper job. Aye, that one. Wee Mhàirtin himself. Or, as he was known locally, 'Stumpy'. Not these days though, oh no! These days he is known across Ireland as 'Stumpy Doonican' the favourite crooner of many, many housewives and single ladies over the age of 75.
Today's recipe is dedicated to the little singing fella, Mhàirtin , for putting up with me borrowing his hedge trimmers and breaking them. I haven't told him as yet, but the dry croak you can probably hear right about now is him reading it for the first time. Hopefully this will sweeten him up a smidge, so what better way than a nice tasty piece of Roscommon Patsy to fill his gob the night. This ones for you pal, especially as I know you are sick and tired of the same oul Belgian waffle that is most definitely past its sell by date.
1 cup self raising flour
1/4 cup brown sugar
6 large rosy apples
1 beaten free range egg
2 ounces Irish butter
1/4 cup full fat milk
pinch of sea salt
1/2 teaspoon ground fresh ginger
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg.
For this recipe you must first think of Ireland. No, not the faux green plastic shamrock Ireland you see on the TV during St. Pats from some dismal bar in downtown Boston. That Ireland only exists in the heads of those 5th generation eejits trying to find an identity. The real Ireland. Where the colour green has always been considered unlucky to the Irish. So let's get that straight before we start. No green clothes, right? Okay, let's go. Sift flour, ginger, salt and sugar. Rub in the fat. Add milk and eggs to bake a soft dough. Roll out on a floured board. Cover the base of a greased pie dish with the pastry. Cross yourself several times and then grate the apples onto the pastry. Dot with wee dods of butter. Sprinkle cinnamon and nutmeg over top. Bake in a moderate oven for 1/2 hour. Serve hot with homemade custard or fresh cream. For the love of the little Pope fella himself, no synthetic creams, got it?
For those who prefer a softer filling, cook for 45 minutes on a moderate heat until golden brown, follow it down with good fresh hot coffee. Enjoy.