In her book of English puddings, and in the delightful chapter about jellies, blancmanges and flummeries, Mary Norwak notes that the art of thickening began in medieval times. Fruit pectin had long been used as a way of preserving and thickening, but it was the practice of extracting collagen from fish or meat bones that, in the 1300s, allowed for new ways of setting jellies – first savoury, then sweet – in (privileged) kitchens. Then, in the 16th century, isinglass, made from the dried swim bladders of sturgeon, made its way from Russia to England via Dutch traders. Primarily used for the clarification of beer, isinglass provided another means of setting, until the process was revolutionised again in the early 1700s by the invention of the pressure cooker. Denis Papin’s “digester”, as it was called, meant that bones could be boiled down efficiently, paving the way for powders, capsules, blocks and, eventually, leaves and latticed sheets of gelatine, which opened to everyone a world of puddings that wobble.
In his Gran Dizionario Della Gastronomia Del Piemonte, Sandro Doglio makes reference to the story that a Hungarian woman introduced panna cotta to Piedmont in the early 19th century; Anna Del Conte, meanwhile, suggests it has been served there for centuries. Either way, it is a lovely pudding; tender and slightly amusing. I do think Panna-leggermente-riscaldata (gently warmed cream) or panna-leggermente-impostata (gently set cream) are more accurate descriptions than panna-cotta (cooked cream), but somehow I don’t think either of my suggestions will catch on.
How many leaves of gelatine, though? It depends on how you like your set, and on how long you leave it in the fridge. Based on half a litre of single cream and 2g dry leaves: if you want the consistency of a car tyre, use five sheets (which, incidentally, is the quantity my packet of Italian gelatine suggests for 500ml). If you want a firm consistency with a swaying wobble when nudged, use four sheets. For a softer set into which a spoon will sink, take my friend Gaia’s advice and use three. And if you want a risky set that means you worry it won’t turn out and, when it does, it sinks slightly, but which is also tender and, for me, most enjoyable to eat (it’s such a personal thing), use two-and-a-half sheets.
After leaving the freezer door open due to over-stuffing it recently, I have made a commitment to eating everything in our (not very big) freezer over the next few weeks. This includes a bag of frozen mixed berries, which, like peas, are a food that both freezes well and provides convenient, undemanding pleasure. Mixed berries are also the perfect partner for panna cotta, both for their tart sharpness and for their colour: defiant lipstick for a pudding.
Panna cotta with (frozen) fruit compote
Prep 15 min
Cook 10 min
Set 2 hr +
Serves 4-6
500ml single cream
1 vanilla pod
50g icing sugar, plus 1 level tbsp for the compote
2½ gelatine sheets
200g frozen fruit
Put the cream in a pan. Split the vanilla pod, scrape out the seeds with the blade of a knife, then put the pod, seeds and icing sugar in the cream pan and bring slowly to a simmer. Once it is warm, pull out the pod.
Meanwhile, soak the gelatine in a little cold water until soft. Squeeze out the excess water, add the leaves to the pan, take off the heat, immediately add the gelatine leaves and stir until they dissolve.
Divide the mixture between four to six ramekins or little glasses (or metal ramekins or dariole moulds if you want to invert the set creams later), leave to cool, then put in the fridge to set – two hours seems optimal to me, but they can stay in there for much longer.
While it sets, warm the fruit with a tablespoon of icing sugar until the sugar dissolves. Remove half the fruit, pass it through a sieve, then return the puree to the pan with the rest of the fruit.
To serve, invert the panna cottas on to plates (in which case, dip the bases in boiling water to loosen them first) and serve with fruit poured over; alternatively, spoon a layer of fruit directly on top of the creams in their ramekins/glasses for a two-tone, gently warmed, softly set pudding.
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This article was edited on May 13 2024. An earlier version said that isinglass was used primarily to calcify beer, rather than clarify it. This has been corrected.
