Exact Measurements

My grandmother taught me to love food. I struggle, honestly, to remember her outside of the kitchen, where, when I was too small to peer over the counter-top, she provided a designated stool, so that I might stir (and taste, when required). It was a joy to watch her move in the kitchen, her diminutive figure seemingly physically attached to the food she was preparing. A pinch of a certain spice, handful of an unidentified white powder, deft flick of the spoon – it was very much like some kind of benevolent witchcraft, and I was an eager apprentice.

It was probably in learning to cook risotto that I discovered I might have a problem. It occurred to me that she didn’t measure anything. I’d been idling my tenth or eleventh winter away with a chemistry set in our basement. None of the experiments worked quite right if my measurements weren’t exact. I became master of beakers and eyedroppers, menisci and dilutions. By extension, if I wanted to reproduce what grandma was cooking, I was going to need some concrete figures.

She, ever obliging, provided. Cups of this, half cups of that, teaspoon of such. And mine was never right. What she didn’t explain, and I now know (and what you must find painfully obvious) is that her recipes are variable because the ingredients are variable. One tomato is more acidic than the others you’ve just brought home, even though they are all on the same truss. This bag of rice has a much lower starch content than the other brand. This jalapeno has no heat at all. Must be the saltiest batch of mussels I’ve ever steamed open.

Cook and taste, adjust and taste, adjust and taste; it’s so simple. I’m a slow learner.

On the other hand, desserts – “Pastry” as the trade is collectively called – were something I could understand. They require exact measurements and precise cooking temperatures to achieve consistent results. Pastry, I said to myself with a satisfied nod, is science. And so nearly abandoned savory cooking in the pursuit of charts and graphs.

Now, ironically, as a professional cook I find that I am hopeless at any kind of pastry work. I lack a certain, required touch. My shortcrust is never quite supple enough, my sponges a bit too dense, my crème caramel never set.

That’s not to say I can’t bake anything at all. I make a mean spice bread.



This moist, spicy, richly-sweet loaf is ghostly reminiscent of gingerbread. It pairs equally well warm with coffee or as crisps with salty cheeses. I sometimes serve it with pâté.

Pain d'épices

300 ml milk
200 g muscovado sugar
500 g honey
500 g flour
½ tsp cinnamon
1 tsp ground toasked aniseed
½ tsp ground cloves
½ tsp salt
2 egg yolks
2tsp bicarb soda (baking soda)
1 tbsp water

Heat milk and sugar until dissolved, remove from heat. Stir in honey (if the milk is too hot the honey will curdle the milk). In a bowl mix flour, spices and salt, and then fold this into the milk mixture. Cool and leave overnight in your refrigerator.

The next day remove the batter from the fridge and bring to room temperature. Preheat oven to 140ºC (280ºF). Mix yolks, bicarb soda, and water and then stir into flour and milk mix. Pour into tins lined with baking paper (I use two 2inX2inX10in loaf tins; just be sure not to fill your loaf tin more than half full, as this will rise quite a bit) and bake covered with foil for 30 min and then uncovered for approximately 90 min – or until a skewer inserted into the center comes out clean. Turn out onto racks to cool.

This bread freezes well (and slices better frozen).

To make crisps, slice the bread as thinly as possible (try freezing it first) and then lay the slices out on a baking paper-lined tray. Bake these in a 150ºC (300ºF) oven until they begin to appear dry, but before they start to darken in color. Upon cooling they will become incredibly brittle.