Читать книгу Eating for England: The Delights and Eccentricities of the British at Table - Nigel Slater - Страница 26

Is this the infamous Ibby-Jibby Custard Green Snot Pie (all mixed in with a dead dog’s eye) of the delightful children’s poem?

If it is true that we eat with our eyes, then it is somewhat curious that rhubarb and custard ever made it into our lexicon of national puddings. Perhaps this is a dessert for our hidden child, the one who likes all things ghoulish, spooky and slightly scary. Nothing curdles quite like warm custard poured into poached rhubarb. If you are really unlucky the custard separates into globular forms like those that rise and fall in a lava lamp.

I seem to remember ‘rhubarb-n-custard’ was the nickname of a particularly acne-ridden boy at school. Nowadays he would probably be called ‘pizza face’.

Blood and pus aside, the idea is gastronomically sound enough. Sweet, smooth custard sauce to soften the astringent blow of the fruit; a yellow blanket to put out the acid fire. This is why it is best not to oversweeten the rhubarb, so you get a pleasing hit of both sharp and smooth in the mouth. Scientifically, sweetening the fruit is less effective, as it is the action of the oxalic acid in the rhubarb that curdles the proteins in the egg custard.

Aficionados will surely agree with me that a love of rhubarb and custard, of slithery pink-and-green stems with wibbly wobbly custard, is purely a matter of allowing flavour and sensuality to get the better of aesthetics. That, and trying to forget the spotty kid at school.

If you take the genre a step further you can whip chilled rhubarb and custard into a bowl of sleepy, lightly beaten cream to make a fruit fool. Even then, it will curdle a little, though the effect of pale pink fruit swirled through custard and cream like a raspberry ripple will take any squeamish eater’s mind off it.