
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
A bright, silky posset of cream, sugar, and lemon set cold in small pots. Three ingredients, ten minutes at the hob, and a pudding that makes a dinner party look deliberate.
Late winter is when I start craving lemons. The weather is still grey and the garden has nothing to offer, but the citrus at the market is at its best: heavy in the hand, fragrant at the skin, juice that genuinely tastes of something. A posset is what I make with them when I want something bright at the end of a long evening.
It's the kind of recipe you almost can't believe works the first time. You simmer cream with sugar. You stir in lemon juice. You pour it into little glasses and put it in the fridge. Four hours later, it has set into something silky and cold and entirely right, with no help from eggs or gelatine or any of the usual scaffolding. The acid in the lemon does the whole job. That's it. That's the whole trick.
I've written it down in the notebook under "puddings worth the trouble," which is funny because it's barely any trouble at all. Ten minutes at the hob, then the fridge does the rest. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract: use lime if you've got no lemons, add a spoonful of limoncello if you're feeling festive, scatter a few raspberries on top in June. The principle holds.
Serve it cold in small glasses with a piece of shortbread on the side. Nothing else. There are few better feelings than putting something this simple in front of people at the end of a meal and watching them go quiet for a moment.
Quantity
600ml
Quantity
150g
Quantity
2
zest and juice, about 75ml juice
Quantity
a handful
to serve
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| double cream | 600ml |
| caster sugar | 150g |
| unwaxed lemonszest and juice, about 75ml juice | 2 |
| shortbread (optional)to serve | a handful |
Zest the lemons first, before you cut them. A fine grater, and only the yellow, never the white pith underneath which turns everything bitter. Then halve them and squeeze out the juice. You want around 75ml between the two. If your lemons are on the small side, you might need a third. Taste the juice. It should make you wince a little. That's what sets the cream.
Pour the cream into a wide, heavy-bottomed saucepan and add the sugar. Set it over a medium heat and stir gently until the sugar has dissolved. Bring it up to a proper simmer, the kind where the surface is moving in slow ripples and the edges threaten to climb the pan. Let it bubble away for two to three minutes, stirring now and then so the bottom doesn't catch. The cream will thicken very slightly and take on a faint ivory colour. Watch it. Cream boils over in a blink.
Take the pan off the heat and let it settle for a minute. Pour in the lemon juice and scatter the zest over the top. Whisk it through. Something small and lovely happens here: the cream thickens visibly under the whisk, going from loose and pourable to something that coats the back of a spoon. That's the acid doing its work. No gelatine required. Let it sit for ten minutes so the zest can give up its oils into the cream.
Divide the mixture between six small glasses, teacups, or little ramekins. Anything that holds about 100ml. Don't overfill them. A posset is rich, and a small pot is generous enough. Wipe any drips from the rims with a damp cloth so they look tidy.
Cover loosely and chill for at least four hours, though overnight is better. The posset sets from the bottom up and needs proper cold time to firm into that silky, just-wobbling texture that's the whole point. When they're ready, the surface should barely give under a finger. Serve straight from the fridge, cold enough to mist the glass, with a piece of shortbread on the side for scooping.
1 serving (about 130g)
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