[Jayne Osborn]

I'm standing in for John this week, as he's got his gig in the States. He'll be back in the saddle for next week's results.

We have winners with our own Bill Greenwell and George Simmers, and an Hon Mensh for Frank Osen. Many congratulations, gentlemen; you faced tough competition this week.

Jayne

Competition: Cooking the books
LUCY VICKERY SATURDAY, 21ST APRIL 2012

In Competition No. 2743 you were invited to submit a recipe as it might have been written by an author of your choice.
Kafka’s Soup, a complete history of world literature in 14 recipes by Mark Crick gave me the idea for this challenge. It contains such gastronomic delights as Cheese on Toast à la Harold Pinter and Fenkata à la Homer and is a masterclass in literary impersonation.
You gave Mr Crick a run for his money. This was another cracking entry and competition was stiff for the top spots. Commendations to unlucky losers Alannah Blake, Frank Osen and W.J. Webster. The winners are printed below and are rewarded with £25 each. Mike Morrison pockets the bonus fiver.

This warming winter fare inexorably mates penury with privilege, bringing together the yin of male coarseness and the yang of feminine finesse. Sacrifice two pounds of succulent primeval beef, raw to the very core of its being; blood, bone and sinew forged by the incandescent throb and heave of intractable nature. Force it to surrender to the caresses and thrusts of cold, relentless Sheffield steel with a blade certain of its purpose, assured in its unforgiving mastery. Sear the flesh in a naked urgent flame. Prepare the mirepoix using only vegetables wrested from the dark, moist, submissive earth by calloused hands long ago made hard and harsh from simple selfless labour. Such a dish will flourish, triumph, yield its all if simmered and roiled in exquisite alternation.
Mike Morrison/D.H. Lawrence’s Boeuf Chatterley

Gather unto thyself the fruits of the forest, kindling and wood, a stone wherewith to pummel grain and sufficient barley as may be required. Prepare for thyself a solid crust in a pot of clay and let this be thy firm foundation. Put aside whatsoever is left to cover thy work when the time cometh. Pour thou the fruits of the forest over the crust that is in thy pot. Kindle a fire from the kindling and place thy pot thereon. Be you now patient, taking no thought for the outcome but putting thy trust in the flames of the fire to accomplish thy ends. Whensoever the fruits have simmered, take whatsoever crust remaineth from that which thou didst prepare before, and cover the fruits of thy labour. Remove the pot of clay from the fire and reap thy reward, giving thanks and spreading abroad the glories of Humble Pie.
Alan Millard/Saint Paul

Yes, she thought, stirring the flour into the melted ounce of butter — the lukewarm milk, the smooth texture, ten minutes — one needed ten minutes, smoothing. For when the beaten, quite thoroughly beaten yolks, and the parmesan were added, still she must stir a little. And only then would cayenne, salt be added. To butter the dish; to place the sheet low in the oven; to turn it to Gas Mark 6. And now the whisking of the whites, until they were creamy peaks on the whisk; half to be inmixed, the bowl rotating in one’s hand. One had to do this twice (she prepared here to turn out everything into the dish). Was it bubbly and spongy enough? And taking the palette-knife, she scored a deep circle an inch from the edge, that it might resemble a loaf when risen. There was still the guesswork: twenty-five, thirty minutes? Such wonder.
Bill Greenwell/Virginia Woolf’s cheese soufflé

Line up your cast: a single large apple, green and girlish, blushing faintly at its impudeur; four ounces (for we are not bonapartistes here) of wedding-white flour; two ounces of sugar uninhibited by its refinement; and two ounces of butter, bien chambré. Disrobe the apple, then penetrate to the core of its fecundity. Remove and dispose of it cum veneratio. Slice the flesh and lay the sweetened pieces in a greased baking dish. Now rub the butter into the flour and sugar with sensitive finger-tips, for this is an act not of abrasion, but of lubrication, even lubricity. Do not be squeamish — the proof of the pudding may be in the eating, but the prurience is in the preparation. Lick the fingers, one at a time, molto lentamente. Place the dish in the oven at a prosaic Mark 4. Wallow in expectancy for a teasing demi-heure. Serves one.
Noel Petty/Nabokov’s apple crumble

Though never much of a baker, I do occasionally attempt scones, with some success. The recipe is my mother’s, and I remember how she would serve them to us at teatime with a slightly abashed air, as though feeling guilty for not offering fondant fancies, or Kunzle cakes, or some other shop-bought delicacy. The process of manufacture is simple enough, and not at all fussy. You stir together flour, salt, butter, milk and the all-important baking powder, in appropriate quantities. Then you cut the resulting dough into circles, and bake for a while at 180º. The approved method of serving is straight from the oven, embellished with generous helpings of butter, but these days I tend to keep mine in an airtight tin for a week or so before consuming. I find that a touch of staleness adds a certain poignancy to what would otherwise be merely tasty.
George Simmers/Alan Bennett’s scones

Now, you know that I am not one for overseeing the ins-and-outs of the welfare of the inner man: I leave that to Jeeves. However, there are times when it behoves a chap to demonstrate that he understands how to butter and, indeed, embellish his slice of toast and never let it be said that Bertram falls at that fence. I had this tip re cuisine from Gussie. It gives a chap a lift to know he can manage perfectly well without Jeeves: Aunt Dahlia is absurdly impressed by his schemes, so this corker is one to try out on said relative when next she materialises to chew the fat. It goes like this: select a slice of bread, give same a jolly good grilling and, simultaneously, carve open a jar of the finest anchovies. Butter the grilled slices, apply salted fillets, present to fond aunt: await applause and cheque.
Carolyn Thomas-Coxhead/Bertram’s anchovy toast, as dictated by P.G. Wodehouse