Recipe II: Beetroot risotto

My first memory of beetroot was of that of the pickled sort. It was always served as part of a side salad, either grated or in thin slices, leaving a purple-red stain on the leaves below. Sometimes at the weekend it would be promoted in status, ascertaining a separate plate of its own but with the warning from my mother of “Don’t spill it on the tablecloth as you’ll stain it”. This was usually aimed at my father who was prone to spilling something when serving himself from the medley of dishes spread out proudly across the dining table on a Sunday. In both cases, it was cold and whilst I could happily eat it, I had decided that pickling was best left for shallots.

Imagine my fascination therefore, when, returning from a holiday somewhere in the UK, we stopped off at a pub for dinner, and I was served hot cubed beetroot. I do not know whether it had been roasted or boiled, but it was one of the vegetable accompaniments to my main meal, the other details of which elude me, clearly paling in comparison as the “take it or leave it” beetroot was elevated to a whole new level in my mind. I remember being accosted by an earthy flavour I had not previously equated with beetroot, its usual taste being more of the pickling vinegar than of the vegetable itself. It was divine. Better even than new potatoes still with traces of soil thereon. I tried numerous times throughout my childhood to persuade my mother to cook beetroot and serve it hot with something, but it was to no avail. I think it was probably dismissed as too messy.

I had largely forgotten about the humble beetroot until at a pub in my twenties I saw beetroot risotto on the menu. I actually thought at that time that I hated risotto, my mother’s attempts at the dish unfortunately being, by her own admission, unsuccessful. Indeed the memory of the bland, dry, crunchy rice still sticks with me. Yet, I was so drawn by the mention of beetroot, its name somehow reigniting my delight from years previously, that I decided to take a chance on it. The server brought it out in a shiny white bowl and the contrast with the moist purple red risotto was so striking that it certainly looked very tempting. It exceeded my expectations: it was sublime. I had rediscovered beetroot and also risotto!

I was by this time living on my own and had always avoided making risotto, being sure that I would be unsuccessful in my attempts. Eventually I decided enough was enough. It could, after all, be no worse than my mum’s and if I didn’t succeed I could always quickly rustle up something else. The first risotto I made was butternut squash, feta, sage and chilli. It was a triumph, even by my own admission. As the seasons changed I moved on to other risottos: courgette, fennel and lemon, mushroom (sometimes with blue cheese)…until eventually deciding to try to create my own beetroot risotto.

I took four medium sized beets and wrapped them up individually in little foil packets. After placing them in the oven on a baking sheet, I baked for about 45 minutes until they passed the scrape test. In essence, you unwrap one and give it a gentle scrape with your fingernail: if the skin comes away easily the beets are done. Meanwhile I had sautéed off some onion and garlic in a mixture of oil and butter. With the beets out the oven, I added the risotto rice, stirred well to coat, and then started adding my hot vegetable stock, one ladleful at a time, stirring lovingly between each addition. Once the rice still retained a bit of bite, I turned off the heat and turned my attention back to the beetroot. I quickly scraped off the beetroot skin and whizzed up three quarters of it in my mini chopper. Once pureed, I stirred this into the risotto, along with some crumbled feta, chopped fresh mint and some black pepper. After turning out into a bowl, I cut the remaining beetroot into quarters and arranged these on top, along with a sprinkling of feta and a little more mint. It certainly looked the part but would it live up to expectations? I tucked in cautiously, suddenly feeling an overwhelming pressure to have made a decent stab at it and to not have tarnished a fond food memory. I need not have worried: the bowl was soon empty, the only tell-tale sign of its contents being the purple-red stain left behind. Thankfully I had not managed to spill it on the tablecloth!

Recipe: Lemon polenta buns (Betty’s Buns)

Task for the week: we were asked to bring in a favourite recipe and then, after sharing said recipes, to write a short story inspired by them.

Sometimes there are those days when the only solution is to bake a cake. The only downside is that plenty of those days in succession can result in enough cake to keep a small patisserie in business. Good if you’re running said shop; not so good otherwise, unless you have a large family to feed, which I don’t. There is just me, my mum and dad, and my gran. So it was on one of those days, when the whole family was drowning in cake, that Betty received an unexpected gift of three buns.

Betty, in her 80s, lives next door to my parents. In the course of conversation over the garden fence, my parents had ascertained that not only did she love home-baked goods (which she was sadly no longer able to make herself), but she also has a love of lemons. Indeed, as a child Betty would happily suck on a lemon, rejoicing in its tongue-culrling tang. This was rather apt as these were no ordinary buns, they were my lemon polenta buns.

Each bun’s golden exterior yields a lemon hit that shoots the consumer to lemon heaven: tangy enough to know it’s lemon but with a slightly sweet edge to hook you in and keep you returning for more. The sponge itself is feather light, but it’s chock full of lemon syrup. The polenta helps it retain the texture, meaning you can inject more syrup to provide a bun that is super moist and super sticky. They have won many admirers and it seems, they were about to acquire one more.

A ring came on my parents’ doorbell the following morning. At the door was a squat shadow that revealed itself to be Betty. She was bearing a card for me and was gushing with enthusiasm about the buns. Her little face was, apparently, bright and fresh and her eyes alight with passion. Only later, in the course of conversation, did it transpire that she had eaten all three large, muffin-sized buns, in one sitting, unable to resist the pull of light sponge, dripping with lemon.

Betty has been the recipient of much more baking which she has enjoyed, but nothing has beaten the unbridled joy of the lemon polenta buns, now named in her honour as Betty’s Buns.