This surprises me because, with the frequent stirring advocated by Sue Lawrence and Ballymaloe's Darina Allen, I haven't had any problems with them catching, but I give it a try anyway. If you remember the night before, however, it may save you 5 minutes the next morning.Īnna Louise Batchelor, winner in the 2009 "speciality" category of the Golden Spurtle, with her Spotted Dick Porridge Pudding, makes her porridge in a bain marie, or porringer, which prevents it from sticking to the bottom of the pan, and means that the oats cook more slowly, which apparently gives them more flavour. Simon Humphreys, who came third in the Golden Spurtle in 2007, reckons that soaking is "an absolute must to ensure the perfect consistency" but I'm not convinced, after testing, that it makes much difference. You can soak your oats overnight to speed up the cooking time – oatmeal, particularly pinhead oatmeal, takes longer to cook than the ready-steamed, rolled flakes. Porridge made after soaking the oats overnight. My normal porridge suddenly seems disappointingly gloopy.
Not are the non-steamed oats apparently more nutritious (although Harold McGee disputes this), but, after testing a standard recipe from the Ballymaloe Cookery School bible, they seems to retain a stronger, more distinctive flavour, and a more interesting texture.
Either it will be steamed, then rolled into jumbo oat flakes, or it can be cut in half ("pinhead") and then eaten as is or steamed and rolled to make ordinary oat flakes, or it can be ground into coarse, medium or fine oatmeal.
Chastened, I go back to the books, and acquaint myself with Avena sativa afresh.Īccording to Catherine Brown's Scottish Regional Food, once the outer husk of the oat has been removed, the kernel (or, more medievally, the groat), can take one of three paths. All the porridge big guns use oatmeal instead – indeed, rolled oat flakes are forbidden in the Golden Spurtle World Porridge Championships (yes, it exists) and Sybil Kapoor pronounces them "tasteless and pappy in the porridge". The proper kind which rejoice in the comfortingly stout subtitle "jumbo rolled", and instant sawdust. Prior to my conversion, I thought there were only two types of oats. People may complain, but if you're not prepared to wash up a saucepan, then you should probably stick to Ready Brek. Turns out that, although you can make decent porridge in that contraption, to even approach the foothills of perfection, you need to use a pan. Firstly, one taste of the heavenly porridge at Ballymaloe House in County Cork, and secondly, the realisation that I was sick of cleaning oats from the inside of the microwave. Two things happened to convince me things had to change. Not one to be swayed by the whims and fancies of our dear leader, my love of porridge is of a rather longer standing, but until recently, I was a rank amateur at its production. (This last property can also be blamed for the "porridge glow" many people experience when entering crowded public transport in the mornings.) According to the media (ie people like me) it's also pretty fashionable, although I'm not sure David Cameron and Tim Henman are quite the arbiters of style Quaker Oats believes they are. In other words, porridge takes a goodly while for the body to digest, which means it releases its energy more slowly, keeping you feeling fuller for longer. Porridge, however, is the acceptable face of the traditional British breakfast – note I say British, neatly skirting around the fact that according to the Oxford Companion to Food, it descends from that "thoroughly English institution" the medieval pottage – being high in fibre and protein, proven to lower cholesterol and protect against heart disease (in its more austere guises anyway) and, that holy grail of modern living, "low GI". Kippers and marmalade, laverbread fried in bacon fat, egg sandwiches and black pudding are all fine, upstanding stuff if you're off on a long frosty walk, but less practical on a daily basis if, say, you spend your life pottering around the world wide web.
Overnight of love 2011 full#
But with the barbecue full of rainwater and the soft fruit safely in the freezer, we can finally throw off the shackles of Greek yoghurt, renounce exotic smoothies, and return thankfully to the scenes of our greatest culinary achievements: the breakfast table. Admit it: much though we love to bathe in its rays drinking cider, complaining about the heat and turning quietly lobster-coloured, sunshine doesn't sit well with us. M oan as we might about winter weather, I believe British spirits secretly soar with each slump of the mercury.
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