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Brianne Moore Biography

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“Our take on a rhubarb and custard," Susan announces. "Rhubarb sorbet on the bottom, topped with whipped custard and a candied rhubarb sweet." It's served in small egg-shaped glasses, so you can see the layers: bright pink sorbet on the bottom, rich lemon-yellow custard, whipped to airy delicacy, topped with a wafer-thin, jewel-like disc of rhubarb that's been roasted, pressed flat, and encased in rhubarb-flavored praline. The chef takes two bites of it, then sits back, sighs, and looks at his plate for a while. Susan feels like melting into the floor. He hates it! What went wrong? Is it too simple? She worried about that. Maybe she should have done a tart or a mille-feuille. "This tastes of summer," the chef says at last. "Every bit of it is delightful and delicious- it's so light and airy and enjoyable." "I totally agree," says the presenter. "It's the perfect follow-up to something as heavy as those ribs, and the flavors remind me of rhubarb and custard sweets, which really takes me back." "Yeah, me too." The blogger nods. "Raiding the sweet shop after school.”

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“Chris looked at the dog, who has finished feasting on her foot and now comes to sit at his feet, looking up at him as if she expects him to do something. She's leggier than most classic English bulldogs, mostly a dark fawn color, but with a large white patch over one eye. She has those droopy bulldog eyes that can look, by turns, sad and judgmental. But now she stands and cocks her head and wags her tail, and Chris finds himself smiling, begrudgingly, and patting the sofa cushion Beth just vacated. "All right, up you come." The dog hops up, and Chris begins scratching her behind one ear. "You going to put up with me?" he asks. She grunts and leans into his hand.”

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“For two weeks every August, the normally private Charlotte Square opens its gates to admit the literary masses. Huge white tents block views of the iron railings that normally keep everyone out, and picnic tables and pastel deck chairs circle the equestrian statue of Prince Albert in the middle of the lawn, inviting readers to relax with their newest signed novel. The tents fill with crowds to see every sort of author: high-flying politicos touting bestselling memoirs; writers of fantasy, chick-lit, sci-fi, young adult (and every possible combination of those). Authors and illustrators enthrall throngs of preschoolers and parents; up-and-comers present their work for appreciative and encouraging audiences. Books are signed by the hundreds and set out for sale in the inviting bookshop tents. People bask in the sunshine, when there is any, or gather in the café tent and grumble good-naturedly about the rain. They shake hands; gush "I love your work"; add to their "to be read" lists, and leave carrying new hardbacks in handy Book Festival-branded tote bags.”

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“What it is is amazing: a fresh burst of sweet, briny crab flavor, beautifully complimented by just a hint of lemon, followed by a soft crunch from the biscuit, which dissolves more slowly than the mousse and has a slightly salty, vegetal flavor. Susan's sorry when it's done; she could happily eat a dozen of these, or just a bowl filled with that mousse. But she doesn't want to show her hand, so she keeps her face as still as she can manage and just makes a little "hmm" noise as she wipes a little mousse off her fingers with a kitchen towel (hard to resist licking them clean). "Is that seaweed?" she asks, indicating a tray of biscuits, lined up nearby. Without the mousse topping, she can see that they weren't really biscuits at all, but many layers of paper-thin seaweed, pressed together to form a semi-firm base. "It is," Gloria confirms. "Foraged from Scottish coasts, with Orkney crab mousse and Scottish salmon roe. Scotland's waters, on a plate.”

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“Gloria's soup is the same creamy white as her mousse, and dotted with crispy haggis croutons arranged in a half-moon shape. The "tattie scone" isn't the classic tattie scone, which is a flat potato-and-flour pancake fried crisp in a pan, but more like the risen scone you have with afternoon tea. Susan picks up the spoon and dips into the soup. "Ohhhhhhh. The soup is perfect, smooth and luscious, with a slight tang from the turnips (the "neeps" of the title) that keeps it from being too heavy. The finishing flavor is smoky, peaty. A little whisky, perhaps? The haggis croutons crunch as she bites into them, and the burst of spice further tames and complements the velvety richness of the soup. She devours every bit, sopping up the last of it with the scone, which is surprisingly fluffy for something made with potato. Like that morning's amuse-bouche, she's sorry when the dish is finished. But then Gloria appears, whisks the bowl away, and replaces it with a plate of seared trout with a lime-green sauce. On the side is rainbow chard and a small potato, split open, insides fluffed, topped with tuna tartare- a cheeky nod to a favorite Scottish meal of tuna salad-topped baked potato. "Trout with a lemony samphire sauce”

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“Dishes are set before him: grilled pheasant and pomegranate salad; the haggis, neeps, and tatties soup; a savory doughnut stuffed with fresh crabmeat; lemon, zucchini, and Anster cheese soufflé; a slab of moist sourdough bread with a pot of freshly made crowdie and preserved lemons to spread on top; and, of course, the pudding. This one was born from Susan's childhood memories: after-school treats of bananas split in half and spread with peanut butter, and her mother's chocolate-chip studded banana bread, lavished with butter or dripping with honey. This pudding starts with a cake: the bottom layer is a rich, dark, fudgy chocolate as luscious as velvet. On top of that a layer of banana honey cake laced with cinnamon- just sweet enough to balance out the bittersweet bottom layer. And finally, a peanut butter mousse that dissolves as soon as it reaches your tongue, melding creamily with the other layers like a slightly salty, addictive sauce. Shards of honey and peanut praline decorate the cake, and it's accompanied by a little peanut-flavored candy-floss "lollipop" on the side.”

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“Before we do anything, here's the first lesson in dessert making: don't stint on any of the good stuff. Fill it up with butter, and cream, and sugar, and fruit. All the things we want loads of but really shouldn't have. It should feel decadent." That's her grandfather talking, of course: "Pudding is an indulgence; it should feel like it," he used to say. She could recall one day, in the kitchen of their house in London, when she was maybe nine or ten, helping her mother frost a birthday cake for one of her sisters (Meg, surely; Julia had given up cake, by that point). Elliott sat on a stool at the kitchen island, watching them, guiding Susan's technique: "Take off just enough of the frosting to give a smooth appearance, but don't scrape it all off. The whole point of cake is the frosting, isn't it? You don't want a bare cake." "Julia would," Susan commented with a wry smile. "Julia doesn't appreciate things like this" was Elliott's response. "Now, now," Susan's mother gently remonstrated with a warning look at her father-in-law. "Well, I worry about Julia," he said. "If you can't indulge in a little cake now and again, what sort of joy do you have in your life? Can you indulge in anything? And yes, cake is an indulgence. You don't need it, but you want it. It should feel celebratory and just a little delightfully naughty when you have it. It's the same with any dessert.”

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“I must congratulate you on your new restaurant, Mr. Baker. I hear it's doing very well. And you are looking quite well. Much better than the last time I saw you." Chris's mouth tightens as he takes her hand, clamping down a little harder than is necessary. "Thank you. I hear your play is going to be quite something. Seems you've found your niche, playing a woman destroying her own family. I wish you well with it." She smiles in a way that suggests she'd love to do him violence.”

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“It's just past eleven o'clock at night, so finally fully dark out, which means it's the perfect time to see the light installations in St. Andrew Square. As they cross the tram tracks and enter the square, Susan gasps, "Will you look at that?" The entire square is softly aglow from hundreds of spherical bulbs planted on stiff stems, like luminescent poppy seed heads. They cover every last inch of grass in the square, and the lights slowly change from white to blue, to green, and back to white, the change staggered by section, so the square seems alive with rippling bands of light, like a tiny aurora borealis come down to earth.”

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