by Kim M Watt
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Using an electric whisk, beat the butter and sugar together until pale, light and fluffy (you may want a book to read during this step. I know it always bores me and I stop too soon). Add the eggs and mix again.
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Add the flour, baking powder, lemon zest, lemon curd and milk, and mix with a wooden spoon until all the ingredients are thoroughly combined.
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Pour the mixture into the prepared tin and bake for 25-30 mins or until a skewer comes out clean.
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Mix the sugar and lemon juice together and pour over the hot cake. Leave to cool in the tin (if you can wait that long).
Gluten-Free Lemon Tart
For the crust:
200 g / 2 cups + 2 Tbsp ground almonds
35 g / ¼ cup + 1 Tbsp cornflour
50 g / ¼ cup caster sugar
100 g / 3.5 oz unsalted butter, chilled and diced
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For the filling:
2 medium unwaxed lemons, preferably thin-skinned
15 g / 2 Tbsp cornflour
185 g / ¾ cup + 3 Tbsp caster sugar
1 medium egg, plus 1 yolk, at room temperature
100 g / 3½ oz unsalted butter, melted and cooled
Icing sugar, for dusting
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To make the crust, put the ground almonds, cornflour and sugar into a food processor and pulse just to combine. Add the butter and blitz just until the mixture looks like fine crumbs. Tip the crumbs into a buttered tart tin or springform pan and press evenly over the base and up the sides (right to the rim) using the back of a spoon – the crust will be about 5 mm ( around 1/5 of an inch, I think) thick. Chill for 20 minutes.
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Heat the oven to 180C/350F and put a baking sheet into the oven to heat up. Pop the crust in and bake for 12–16 minutes until a very light gold colour.
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Meanwhile, make the topping. Remove pips from the lemons, cut them into wedges and chuck them in the food processor. Combine the cornflour and caster sugar and add to the processor bowl. Blitz just until the lemon is coarsely chopped. Add the egg and yolk and blitz briefly until combined. With the machine running, pour in the cooled butter through the feed tube. Stop the machine as soon as all the butter has been added – the mixture won’t be smooth but should have a few visible tiny pieces of lemon.
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Remove the crust from the oven and set it (in its tin) on the heated baking sheet (hopefully you didn’t forget it was in there, she says from experience). Turn down the oven temperature to 170C / 325F. Pour the lemon mixture into the hot crust to fill it almost up to the rim. Carefully (carefully!) return to the oven and bake for 30–35 minutes until the lemon filling is just starting to colour and is firm when you gently jiggle the baking sheet (don’t let dragons do the jiggling).
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Remove from the oven and leave to cool completely, then cover lightly and chill for at least 3 hours, or overnight. To serve, run a thin, round-bladed knife around the inside of the tin to loosen the crust, then carefully unmould the tart. Dust with icing sugar and serve with whipped cream or ice cream. Store in an airtight container in the fridge.
Afterword
Beaufort Scales was the result of a misread tweet and a fairly strange-as-usual conversation with my dad, in which he decided that Beaufort Scales was a better name for a badger than it was for a measure of wind strength.
I disagreed with the badger part, because scales, and I’m the one writing the stories, so …
Thank you so much for taking the time to read Baking Bad! I hope you enjoyed it, and if you did (or didn’t), I’d appreciate it so much if you could take the time to pop a quick review up on GoodReads, or the website of your choice. It helps me reach more readers, encourages others to pick up my books, and makes me terribly happy. Plus, it strokes my fragile writer’s ego, leading to more dragons.
And, because you’re wonderful, I have free things for you! You can grab yourself a free collection of Beaufort short stories (plus find more recipes and regular stories featuring other characters) by heading over to www.kmwatt.com and getting yourself signed up for the newsletter.
By signing up, you’ll also have the opportunity to enter giveaways, and be the first to know when new books (Beaufort and otherwise) are released. And, of course, you can always jump straight into Beaufort’s second adventure, Yule Be Sorry – expect a festive tale of kidnapping, exploding baubles, and stolen turkeys!
Thanks again for reading, lovely people.
Read on!
Need more dragons?
More dragons.
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More tea.
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More chaos.
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More murder …
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Grab the first four books in the Beaufort Scales cozy mystery with dragons series for only $7.99/£6.49 at your favourite retailer now! (That’s a saving of almost 40%!)
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And if you’d like to try a taster of book two, Yule Be Sorry, read on!
Yule Be Sorry Chapter 1: Mortimer
The air was crisp and still, sparkling with the promise of frost, and the stars pocked across the sky were dim beyond the Christmas lights. The scent of mulled wine and roasting chestnuts rolled across the cobbled streets, and yellow light spilled from the steamed windows of the pubs (both the nice one with foodie aspirations, and the other one, where the carpet was always sticky and it still smelt of cigarettes from the 90s). The smattering of shops and businesses that crowded the little village square had fairy lights and decorations and fake snow in their windows, and even the butcher’s empty display cases with their dubious plastic holly managed to look grudgingly festive.
But no one was window-shopping tonight. All eyes were on the tented market stalls blossoming across the square, crowded by shoppers with red noses and heavy jackets, while the stall holders chattered through their spiels and breathed mist onto the night.
The fairy lights and lanterns of the stalls shone on hand-tooled leather bags and knitted beanies, paintings in small frames and bird houses waiting for a distant summer. There was jewellery with hand-lettered labels, and cakes wrapped clumsily in cling-film, cupcakes with towering domes of wintry frosting and novelty T-shirts with flashing lights and tinsel. There were toys and puzzles, journals and pickles and nougat and gingerbread. There were wreaths and trees and brightly coloured soaps, wooden toys and dried flowers and bacon sizzling on a grill and a stall selling hot chocolate and spiced cider. It was, in short, a wonderland, the sort of place that required immediate exploration, and Mortimer was more than a little worried that was exactly what was on Beaufort’s mind. The old dragon had wriggled his scaly head out under the canvas at the back of the Women’s Institute stall and was peering around eagerly.
“Um, Beaufort?” Mortimer said. “No one can see you, can they?”
“Of course not, lad,” he said. “We’re dragons. No one sees dragons unless they’re expecting to see dragons.”
Mortimer could think of at least half a dozen occasions in the last year alone where humans had seen dragons whether they expected to or not. It was one thing spending time with the Toot Hansell Women’s Institute, who were not only remarkably well-disposed to see dragons, but were very indisposed to share that knowledge with anyone else. It was quite another being in the middle of a crowded market place where anyone Sensitive enough could see them. All they needed was some reporter over from Skipton, writing a story on the Christmas market for the local paper and being all observant.
“Beaufort, do come back in,” Alice said, not looking up from restocking the mince pie plate. Mortimer watched carefully to make sure she didn’t drop any. Although, with Alice, that was unlikely.
Beaufort gave a very pointed sigh and retreated, bumping into Miriam’s legs.
“Oh! Sorry, Beaufort. Are you alright?” Miriam was pink-cheeked in the soft light, hair escaping in all
directions from under a misshapen wool hat.
“Just keeping an eye on things. It’s terribly busy out there, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Miriam checked for eavesdropping customers before she kept talking. “I don’t think anything needs keeping an eye on, though. And you do need to be careful – we don’t want a repeat of the first Christmas market.”
Beaufort Scales, High Lord of the Cloverly dragons, veteran of more battles than he cared to remember and possessor of a most impressive set of age-yellowed teeth, looked suitably chastened. He sat down next to Mortimer, out of the way of the two women selling Christmas cake and chutney and hot drinks, and Mortimer’s own enchanted dragon-scale baubles and magical boats.
“That market was more fun, though, don’t you think?” he said to the younger dragon.
Mortimer snorted. “You made us wear dog suits, Amelia almost ate a dog, and then you caught fire. I guess it depends on your definition of fun.”
“It was more fun than sitting behind the counter, not being allowed to talk to anyone.”
Mortimer inspected him for a moment, then held out a plate. “Christmas cake?”
“May as well.”
Mortimer had never imagined what would come from such a little thing as suggesting to the High Lord that time spent searching for treasure troves would be better used collecting barbecues and gas bottles for dragons to sleep on. Beaufort had abruptly transformed from a bored old dragon to a very interested old dragon. Interested in everything, and once Mortimer had met Miriam and come up with the idea of restarting the dragon-scale trade (only instead of selling scales to knights for armour, he made magical baubles that unfolded into flowers and floated in mid-air when lit, or boats that blossomed into intricate sailing ships once they touched water, or gliders that were delicate and beautiful and near enough unbreakable. He felt it was an improvement), Beaufort had gone from interested to involved. It still made Mortimer shudder, thinking of the old dragon crashing the Women’s Institute meeting almost two years ago. Although that was nothing compared to the murder investigation they’d crashed this last summer.
Miriam held out a jug of mulled wine to the dragons. “Beaufort?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“Mortimer?”
He took a paper cup with a wary glance at Beaufort. “Not too much.”
“Mortimer, the wine had nothing to do with last time.”
Mortimer had his own thoughts regarding that. He still distinctly remembered Beaufort, in a dog costume, wandering off to buy mulled wine from a very confused stall holder. He had nightmares about it, in fact. “Well. Just – it’s for the customers, isn’t it?”
“We always make extra,” Miriam said, pouring some for Alice, who took it with a smile and wrapped her hands around the cup.
Mortimer sighed. Beaufort had already finished his wine and was looking at the tureen expectantly. The High Lord was bored. It never did for the High Lord to get bored. He’d start Thinking About Things, and that never ended well.
Alice tipped her mug to the dragons in a gap between customers, white hair falling in neat lines to her chin from under her rather fetching felt hat. “The baubles are selling very well, Mortimer. I hope you have more.”
“I do. And the boats?”
“Not as well, but they’re still popular.” Alice leaned forward to watch the dragon-scale baubles bobbing softly at the ends of their tethers, like gently lit balloons. Some of them looked like birds, others like stars or butterflies or flowers, others just globes with fanciful patterns carved in their sides. They burned without using fuel or releasing heat, and had proved so popular that Miriam had introduced the dragons to something called the Etsy. The income was handy for things like gas bottles and barbecues, which the Cloverly dragons had embraced eagerly. But Mortimer felt that was only the start. He was currently trying to figure out whether to invest in AGAs, or if the logistics of underfloor heating in the caverns was a possibility. There were many options available for a modern dragon.
Miriam sat down on a folding chair next to the dragons, and Mortimer shuffled a little closer to her, letting the heat of his breath warm her hands. Beaufort sat by the counter, watching the passage of customers with old gold eyes while their gaze passed unseeing over the dragons, draped in fireproof blankets and half-hidden in the shadows.
“I feel like a horse,” he grumbled, shaking his wings so violently that the blanket almost fell off.
“Well, you don’t look like one,” Alice said, stooping to pull the blanket up again and patting him on the shoulder. “Not to me, anyway.”
“It’s better than looking like a dog,” Mortimer said under his breath, and Miriam snorted.
Beaufort looked back at them both and grinned suddenly, exposing those fearsome teeth. “Never mind, lad,” he said. “I’m sure something exciting will happen soon.”
Mortimer fervently hoped not.
It was getting late, the customers dwindling, heading home to firesides and warm beds. The mulled wine was almost finished, the boxes of chutneys and cakes and baubles under the counter all but empty. It had been a good night for the Women’s Institute, and Alice and Miriam were the last ones to take their turn standing in the cold (relative cold, thanks to the dragons, who radiated a lot more heat than the gas heaters some of the other stallholders were using). Gert and Jasmine had stayed to help them pack up, but it was mostly just empty boxes. The stall was rented and would be collected the next day.
“I think that’s the last of them,” Alice said, handing Gert a shopping bag full of flattened boxes.
“How did my cordial sell?” Gert had an enormous scarf on over a puffy coat, and bore a startling resemblance to a large purple bear.
“All gone. I think telling people that it might be a teeny bit alcoholic and that they shouldn’t serve it to kids was actually a selling point.”
“Of course it was.” Gert tucked the bag under one arm and picked up the empty mulled wine urn with the other. “You ready?”
“Oh, no. You go on. We’ll pack up the rubbish then walk back. No sense all of us hanging around.”
“Are you sure?”
“The walk’ll be nice,” Miriam said.
“If you prefer, then,” Gert said. “Come on, Jas. Let’s get out of the cold.” The younger woman nodded and picked up a storage crate full of paper plates and mugs and napkins.
“Lovely sandwiches, Jasmine,” Beaufort said from the shadows.
“Oh, really?” She gave the old dragon an enormous smile. “You really liked them?”
“They were wonderful,” Beaufort assured her, while Miriam and Alice made agreeable noises. Mortimer nodded vigorously. Fire breathing doesn’t lend itself to a very refined palate, so he hadn’t minded the sandwiches, although somehow they’d been both soggy and dry, and while the filling had looked like turkey and cranberry, it had tasted more like some sort of foam insulation. He imagined that was why Alice had asked Jasmine to be in charge of transport rather than, well, anything else. The younger woman had made some lovely wreaths for the stall, but so many bits had fallen off on the way here that they’d had to just use them for decoration at the back, where no one could see the gaps.
“Well, I’m so glad you liked them.” Jasmine’s cheeks had flushed a rather pretty shade of pink, and she was still grinning. “Okay – ’night everyone!” She all but skipped off toward the van, leaving a trail of paper cups behind her.
“I’ll get them.” Miriam hurried off in a swirl of bright skirts and multi-coloured thermal tights, collecting the spilled cups and calling to Jasmine to slow down. Alice smiled, and went back to wiping off the counters.
Beaufort stretched, and brushed Christmas cake crumbs off his snout. “Is there any mulled wine left?”
Alice raised her eyebrows, tucking the cash box into her bag. “There is.”
“It will keep, you know,” Mortimer pointed out, although he supposed the danger was past. They were one of the last stalls still packing up. E
ven if Beaufort got it in his head to start wandering around, hopefully anyone perceptive enough to see him would be coming out of the pub and would either think they were hallucinating or that he was a very odd, slightly oversized Shetland pony.
“But I thought this market was a one night only thing,” Beaufort said.
“We could take it to the W.I. meeting next week.” Alice sounded as if she was smiling, although she didn’t look up from what she was doing.
“Well. Of course. That's right. We should do that. You, I mean.” Beaufort had a disappointed little droop to his shoulders.
“That seems like a good idea,” Mortimer said, trying to help Alice by taking the bin bag out but only succeeding in puncturing it with his claws. “Oh. Sorry.”
Alice took the bag off him. “Leave that, and do try to relax a little, Mortimer. It all went perfectly, no one looked twice at either of you, and there’s just enough mulled wine for four good glasses. A perfect evening, in other words. There’s no reason for you to fuss so much.”
Mortimer felt his scales flush a slightly ashamed yellow. Alice hadn’t even raised her voice, but it was worse than being shouted at by Lord Margery.
“Too late, am I?” A man leaned over the stall counter and peered into the shadows beyond, smelling of beer and chips and some undefined hunger that made Mortimer’s stomach tighten. The young dragon froze where he was, taking on the pale, murky colours of the tent canvas and the cobbled street underfoot, feeling Beaufort doing the same. The man felt aware, and combined with that hungry smell, it didn’t seem like a good thing.