
Chef Thomas
Apple Charlotte
Buttered bread baked to a deep mahogany around a filling of spiced Bramley apples, turned out at the table in a small moment of drama, cold cream poured from a jug alongside.
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Created by Chef Thomas
Sharp, fat gooseberries collapsing into their own juices beneath a craggy oat crumble, the kind of pudding that only makes sense for six weeks a year and rewards you for paying attention.
Gooseberries have a short temper and a shorter season. Six weeks, sometimes less, between the tail end of June and the middle of July, and then they're gone until next year. If you blink you'll miss them. I don't, because I grow a scraggly bush at the bottom of the garden that produces more than I can reasonably use, and because the market has them in crates during those weeks for anyone paying attention.
This is a pudding for a warm evening that's gone slightly cool after supper, when the light is still in the kitchen and you want something honest to end the day on. The gooseberries are sharp, almost shockingly so, and they need the sugar and the crumble to round them off. But you don't want them tame. The whole point of a gooseberry crumble is that first spoonful where the fruit wakes you up and the oats and butter talk you back down again. Sweet and sharp, soft and crunchy, hot and cold from the cream. We're only making dinner, but this is the sort of dinner that writes itself into the notebook.
Elderflower and gooseberry is one of those pairings that feels like it was always going to happen. They're in season at the same time, they grow in the same hedgerows, and a spoonful of elderflower cordial stirred through the fruit gives the pudding a quiet perfume that tastes like the end of June. If you haven't got any, leave it out. The gooseberries will carry the day on their own.
Don't be tempted to make this out of season. Frozen gooseberries are a reasonable thing, but they'll give you a wetter, sadder pudding than the real ones. And the fruit the supermarkets sometimes carry in March, pale and tight and shipped from somewhere that isn't telling, isn't worth the trouble. Wait. Come July, you'll be glad you did.
Quantity
700g
topped and tailed
Quantity
100g, plus 1 tablespoon for the fruit
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
150g
Quantity
100g
cubed
Quantity
75g
Quantity
75g
Quantity
pinch
Quantity
to serve
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| gooseberriestopped and tailed | 700g |
| golden caster sugar | 100g, plus 1 tablespoon for the fruit |
| elderflower cordial (optional) | 1 tablespoon |
| plain flour | 150g |
| cold unsalted buttercubed | 100g |
| demerara sugar | 75g |
| rolled oats | 75g |
| fine sea salt | pinch |
| double cream or proper custard | to serve |
Set the oven to 180C/160C fan. Top and tail the gooseberries with a small knife or a pair of kitchen scissors. It's fiddly work, the kind you do standing at the counter with the radio on. Don't be precious about it. A stray whisker here and there won't hurt anyone.
Tumble the gooseberries into a baking dish, something around 20cm square or a shallow oval that holds them in a generous single layer. Scatter over the caster sugar and the tablespoon reserved for the fruit, and the elderflower cordial if you have it. Give them a gentle toss with your hands. The berries will look like pale, veined marbles. A few will burst straightaway. That's fine.
Put the flour and salt in a wide bowl and add the cold cubed butter. Rub the butter into the flour with your fingertips, lifting your hands high as you work so the mixture gets some air. Stop when it looks like coarse, uneven breadcrumbs with a few larger lumps still holding on. Those lumps matter. They become the crunchy bits you fight over.
Stir the oats and demerara sugar through the crumble with a fork. The demerara is what gives you those golden, slightly caramelized edges on top. Don't substitute caster here. It isn't the same thing.
Scatter the crumble over the gooseberries in a loose, uneven layer. Don't press it down. You want the juices to bubble up around the edges as it bakes. Leave it craggy. A smooth crumble is a sad crumble.
Slide the dish onto the middle shelf of the oven and bake for thirty-five to forty minutes. You're looking for the top to go a proper biscuit-gold, and for the fruit to bubble up through the crumble in thick, sticky, pink-tinged rivulets at the edges. That bubbling is how you know the gooseberries have collapsed and the starches in the flour have done their work. Your nose will tell you before your eyes do.
Take the crumble out and let it sit for at least ten minutes before spooning it into bowls. Straight from the oven, the fruit is molten and will burn the roof of your mouth. Let it settle. Serve with cold double cream poured from a jug, or with proper custard if you've got the patience to make it. Both are correct. Neither is optional.
1 serving (about 200g)
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