Time for Tea

Campers, you will recall that one of my formerly favorite English tea-time bites was a cherry bakewell. The more curious Yanks amongst you might have been tempted to wonder, 'What on earth is one of those?'

Well, I will tell you. A cherry bakewell (not to be confused with a traditional Bakewell tart, an olde English delicacy from, I believe, Shropshire) is the most excellent of the many little cakes produced by the estimable firm of Mr. Kipling, supplier of sweet factory-made goodies to the masses. Each one consists of an aluminum pie plate roughly 1.75 inches in diameter, filled to the brim with five luscious layers of complex almondy goodness. From bottom to top, the strata are composed as follows:

1. shortcrust pastry base
2. raspberry jam
3. frangipane
4. fondant icing
5. glace cherry (one-half)

They are awesome things and I love them very much. In my previously gluten-filled days, whenever I returned to Blighty I always made a beeline to the supermarket in order to purchase a box of six. I rationed myself to one a day and was utterly content.

Shortly after we arrived in Yorkshire yesterday, we embarked on an expedition to Sainsbury's supermarket in Pocklington (trivia alert for history buffs and Ioan 
Gruffudd fans: Pocklington is where William Wilberforce went to school) to stock up on the various delicacies of which we are deprived for much of the year: Walker's cheese and onion crisps; J20 (the Squid's exotic fruit-juice drink of choice); McVities chocolate digestive biscuits (for the others, of course); and a variety of English cheeses.

My sterling SiL, who had previously researched the g/f situation in preparation for my visit, led me to the appropriate aisle to see if any additional temptations might be found there. And what did I see, about a third of the way down on the right-hand side?

What joy! What excitement! They weren't Mr. Kipling's, but who was I to argue with a box of gluten-free cherry bakewells, whatever their provenance?

I noted on the back of the box that British regulations require rather more information than is required or, possibly, desired by the average American gluten guerrilla:

I am still not sure how I feel about the proviso 'suitable for coeliacs' rather than the less judgemental 'gluten-free' assurance to be found on many American products, but at that moment I decided to let it slide. I was too pleased by my new found treasures and too eager to get them back to the house to fret overmuch about such linguistic subtleties!

I organized a family tasting project during afternoon tea: present were Sir, SiL, BiL (aka 'The Knees'), and myself. The Kid Squid is now boycotting all g/f sampling experiments and refused to participate, so I was additionally gratified by the willingness of the others to serve a guinea pigs.

I sliced two of the cakes into halves, carefully ensuring that each contained a sliver of cherry. I was immediately dismayed by the bakewells' crumbly texture and too-thick layer of fondant:

Persevering, I presented each victim (sorry, I mean taster, of course) with a portion. BiL, foreseeing disaster in an uncanny display of prescience, requested that his half be cut into quarters and I dutifully complied.

We all took a bite of cake and chewed thoughtfully. The taste wasn't bad: a quick check of the label revealed no untoward substances such as lentil powder or bamboo fiber but rather more conventional ingredients such as tapioca starch, rice flour, and a touch of xanthan gum for its adhesive qualities.

Clearly, the xanthan wasn't up to the task - or possibly Sainsbury's inattentive food scientists had misjudged the quantities required. Somehow, the tarts were both too dry and too gummy at the same time - a combination I would not previously have thought possible. BiL was of the opinion that the frangipane lacked the necessary binding to hold it together while SiL declared the tarts 'dry' and 'heavy'. Our jaws and molars received an undeniably vigorous workout, as we chewed and chewed and chewed to aid what would no doubt be a challenging digestion situation later on. The fondant layer, earlier judged too thick, was also too sweet: presumably, posited BiL, to distract the consumer's attention from the unappetizing textures beneath. I myself was moved to brush my teeth shortly afterwards.

The remaining half (I consumed BiL's rejected quarter) was eventually consigned to the compost bin, since no one found the tarts to be worth the 245 calories contained within each. The uneaten two (unlike my adored Mr. Kipling's, Sainsbury's tarts come in boxes of four) are even now sitting in their box on the kitchen counter, somewhat lonely and forlorn, surrounded by more popular goodies such as Tunnock's caramel wafers and sweets from the Hotel Chocolat in York.

Thus ended my first experience of gluten-free products here in Jolly Olde. I am trying to remain upbeat and positive, an effort greatly aided by liberal applications of salted caramels and chocolate-covered sticky toffees.

But nothing will ever quite supplant the place in my heart occupied by the fond memory of Mr. Kipling's cherry bakewells.