26 Jul 2023
Elena Hogg, founder of local culinary company FOOD by Elena, experiments with lavender in a variety of recipes…
I’ve never been a huge fan of lavender. There’s something dusty and old-fashioned about the way it smells, something that instantly transports me to the cat-strewn, heavily ornamented lounge of my octogenarian piano teacher, Mrs Snape, who taught me when I was just seven years old.
They say our sense of smell is a powerful tool when it comes to evoking memories, and the scent of lavender causes an avalanche of recollections for me.
Even the tiny, lavender-filled drawstring bags hand-sewn by my Italian grandmother come catapulting to mind.
She would fashion them from her old nightdresses, because the material was usually patterned with flowers, which seemed fitting. They were intended to ‘freshen’ drawers. Freshen my foot.
But, this all said, I have a newfound admiration for lavender. Not only is it an unrivalled favourite of the bees, which these days is of no small importance, but its use in cookery is game-changing, if you’ve got a light enough touch.
Not a forte of mine, the light touch, but I made a Herculean effort last week in the knowledge that lavender’s soapy quality could outright ruin the butterflied lamb leg I was roasting for a three-course lunch.
I’d wanted the meal to be summery enough to evoke the feeling of sunshine and warmth, even if the sky outside was depressingly leaden. A gastronomic trompe-l’oeil, if you will. Trompe-bouche?
Lavender is as summery as it gets (bar plating up a deconstructed piña colada, which – now that I’ve written it – I realise would‘ve been a great idea for dessert), so I pocketed some scissors and walked down the road quietly assessing the lavender offerings in my neighbourhood’s front drives.
Having chosen a winner, I knocked on the door and asked if I could have a few sprigs of their triumphant lavender. I know the neighbours in question, so they weren’t fazed by my request and kindly indulged me.
Cutting a mere handful of stalks was no mean feat, though. The entire bank of lavender was veritably teeming with bees and I was keen not to impose myself too much, because it feels somehow sacrilegious to disturb a bee mid-pollination and also because of, you know, the small matter of potential swarming…
Happily unscathed, home I went to strip the lavender flowers from their stems, then bash at them with my pestle and mortar along with cloves of garlic, salt, pepper and honey, then massaged it all into the lamb, which I’d liberally stabbed with a pointy knife, not unlike a serial killer on speed, to make little slits for the lavender-honey paste to seep into.
The result was successful and certainly a summery way to cook what can be a very rich meat.
So inspired was I by the ultra-violet splash of colour and the heady fragrance of this punchy little flower that I decided, a few days later, to experiment with a lavender dessert.
My shortlist of contenders included a panna cotta, a milk chocolate semi-freddo and a lemon posset, all of which I thought might be enhanced by the addition of lavender. The winner, mainly on account of time available, was the posset, which turned out to be as tasty as it was easy to make.
What could be simpler than boiling up some cream and honey, adding some lavender to infuse as it cools, then pouring into ramekins to set?
Acutely aware, still, of how cloying its aroma can be, I was sparing with quantities and careful not to allow too long an infusion time.
Twenty minutes at most and just one lavender head per portion. Once the infusion time is up, as well as pulling out the spent heads, my hard-come-by advice would be to strain the mixture to rid it of any stray flowers that have come loose, unless you want to be chasing them around your mouth and spitting them out like an old man with liquorice bark in a 1960s Western. They don’t have good mouth-feel.
Next week, if my neighbours oblige, I’d like to try a lavender and yoghurt loaf cake. I suspect the musty, floral flavour of the lavender would be pleasingly offset by the sharp, yoghurty base notes. And, after all, it’s another welcome way to console the sunshine-starved soul. Come back, thirty-degree heat! All is forgiven!
