My mother does not believe in poached pears. In (roughly) her words: “you have to peel the pears, then you poach them for hours in your sugar and water, and then you have, well… warm pears. And I don’t like warm pears”. I’m inclined to agree that poaching pears for hours in sugary water doesn’t sound like much of an improvement on what was really quite delicious to start with, thankyouverymuch.
However, I’m sure that had her recipe for poached pears resulted in these pears instead, she would be as taken with them as I am. I can’t be 100% sure, as she didn’t taste any of them – instead of driving them a measly hour down the M4 and presenting them at her door (ta-dah!), five of us had them in a tart full of pecan frangipane for dessert, and then a small sub-section of us had more tart for breakfast the next morning , and possibly also elevenses, although I admit nothing. Yes, I know – I am a bad daughter.
As with most things, the difference between the kind of pears you stare at for a while in the hope that they’ll become more interesting – before giving up and eating something else instead – and the kind you eat off the plate in the fridge for breakfast is wine. (All breakfasts can be improved by the addition of some booze-sodden dessert – don’t tell me you’ve never been caught, coffee in one hand, bowl of tiramisu in the other). Oh, and spices, they help too. Think mulled: star anise, a vanilla pod, cloves, cinnamon, cardamom and ginger, along with the zest of an orange.
katherineeats 