Sour by Mark Diacono: Part 2
Cook the Books - Issue #4
When I last left you, my kitchen looked like a crime scene, the cherries were quietly fermenting under a makeshift muffin-case weight and I had just declared
a master of flavour.You can catch up on Part 1 here »
Sour by Mark Diacono: Part 1
·Can you remember your first sherbet lemon? That cheek puckering, eye squinting bolt - the way your tongue twisted, unsure whether to escape the shock or chase it down. It’s that bright, electric jolt that Sour: The Magical Element That Will Transform Your Cooking
The Magical Element That Will Transform Your Cooking, the book proclaims. But what it doesn’t shout about is how it quietly, insistently and perhaps most importantly shifts the way you think about food - the ingredients, the balance, the flavour.
A divine awakening of your taste buds.
This week’s bakes pushed me even further into the world of Sour - and I’ve come out the other side fizzing with ideas.
And as ever with Cook the Books, I’ve baked my way through a handful of recipes, snapping photos, scribbling notes and trying not to eat everything before I could write about it.
Let’s get stuck in, shall we?
Cherry Sour Cream Clafoutis - (p.224)
Some bakes ask for patience. This one, just over a week, begins with a jar of cherries and a little waiting. Soured by time, they sing through a batter not unlike that of a Dutch baby.
As I twisted off the lid, it burst open with a pffft - like the air inside couldn’t wait a second longer to escape, or like someone exhaling hard after holding their breath far too long. The scent that followed was sharp and sweet, almost fizzy. A little wild.
It was almost like it was bright and musty, all at once. I was equal parts cautious and thrilled it had worked! It smelled… alive.
The cherries had darkened, slightly wrinkled now, sitting in their own sour-slicked juices. I tried a bite - it was salty, acidic, fruity? Intense. Not unpleasant, but at the same time… not not unpleasant? Didn’t stop me going back for another, mind!
Still unsure whether I actually liked the fermented cherries or not, I hedged my bets and made half the clafoutis with the fermented ones, half with fresh.
The batter came together with the ease of a Dutch baby and bakes in to a delicate custard flan. Wobbly, silky and just sweet enough to let the cherries shine.
And those cherries! Deep as garnets, glistening like little rubies tucked into the batter. They looked like treasure and tasted just as bold.
Unlike a Dutch baby though, clafoutis are served in slices. More dignified, I suppose - though not by much when you’re standing barefoot at the counter, slicing into a still-warm pan and devouring the lot for breakfast.
The fresh cherries were lovely: soft, sweet, familiar. But the fermented ones… they had an undeniable edge. A punchy, lip-smacking tang that caught me off guard - and then pulled me right back in! Not subtle, and certainly unforgettable.
Blackberry Yogurt Cake (p.248)
This was my first time baking from a recipe without a photo - and oddly, that’s exactly what drew me in.
Mark’s instructions so far had led to bakes that looked almost exactly like the ones in the book, which gave me a quiet kind of confidence. I wanted to see if I could do the same here. Could what I made look like it belonged on page 248, even without knowing what I was aiming for?
I couldn’t find blackcurrants, so I swapped in blackberries that were deep purple and heavy with juice. I used the same weight as the recipe called for, but in hindsight I probably could’ve doubled it. Blackcurrants are smaller, so I should have realised that gram for gram you’d get far more of them - and more bursts of fruit scattered throughout.
Still, the batter came together easily and the result was a rich, moist cake, with those blackberry pockets cutting through the sweetness and adding just the right amount of tang.
Turns out, trusting the process was enough. Even without a picture to follow, it baked into something golden, tender, and quietly beautiful. It smells and tastes like a warm summer’s afternoon.
My friend Sue from Netherton Foundry did however, manage to get her hands on some blackcurrants - and baked this recipe as it was originally intended. You can see her version here on Instagram, if you’re curious what it might’ve looked like.
Gooseberry and Oat Cake (p.244)
I’m a devoted gooseberry lover, not that I have them very often, so when I do - it feels like a real treat. And so, I knew from my original flick-through of the book that this was one I would most definitely be making.
I should confess, friends - this was actually my second attempt at baking this. The first looked just the same on the outside, but inside… it was closer to porridge than cake. One of the steps involves whizzing rolled oats into a coarse flour, and let’s just say mine were a little too coarse. Lesson promptly learned!
Gooseberries are scattered over the batter before baking, and though they started out as a bold green topping, they soon vanished into the cake as it rose.
A generous sprinkle of demerara sugar just before baking created the most delicate golden crust across the top - you can see where it’s begun to caramelise at the edges, catching just enough to add a little extra crunch and colour.
For the cake itself, the crumb was light and tender, with those beautiful soggy little explosions of flavour hidden throughout.
Although this is a simple recipe in instruction, the flavours are much more complex. A gentle dance between the twang of gooseberries and the vanilla-laced crumb beneath them.
The recipe doesn’t call for a topping, but I couldn’t resist a scattering of desiccated coconut once it cooled. Just a little something to echo the crust’s crunch and make it feel a touch more celebratory.
The sharp/sweet contrast of this cake keeps you coming back for one more slice - bright, fragrant and just indulgent enough.
Lime Possets (p.238)
We’ve come to the final recipe for this edition of Cook the Books - and funnily enough, this one isn’t actually a bake at all!
After several oven-heavy days, it felt refreshing (literally) to use the hob for a change. These lime possets are simple in method, but luxurious in every other sense - rich, creamy, tart and entirely irresistible.
Having never heard of kaffir lime leaves before, I was completely taken in by their fragrance. Like lime zest crossed with something greener? More floral, more mysterious. I found myself lifting the lid of the jar again and again, just to smell them.
Reminds me of how captivating that scent was from the sweet and sour apricots.
If you close your eyes, it’s like being transported somewhere warmer, brighter. Somewhere the air carries citrus and spice, and the pace of everything slows right down.
I’ve been collecting jars for a while now, waiting for the perfect moment to use them and this felt like it.
The cream gently simmered with sugar and those heady leaves, then brightened with lime juice and poured into the jars like liquid silk.
Once chilled, they set into something so smooth, so indulgent - each spoonful sharp and silky, rich and refreshing.
These little jars of sunshine are the perfect thing to cool down with on a hot summer’s evening. So decadent. So moreish. And the perfect way to end this round of Sour, don’t you think.
Each Cook the Books post feels like a love letter - to the things I’ve made and to the quiet lessons I’ve learned working my way through the pages. And with Sour, that love letter feels especially well deserved.
In fact, it’s been transformative. These recipes haven’t just added flavour to my kitchen - they’ve rewired how I think about balance, patience and even what counts as success. They’ve reminded me to trust the process, to savour each moment and to always stay curious.
Whether it’s fermenting cherries, blitzing oats (a little more finely this time), or spooning posset into jars like liquid silk - there’s joy in the details.
It’s hard to put into words just how much Mark’s work has influenced me, he says - practically dedicating two full posts of how he’s done just that! But from awakening my passion for food and storytelling, to unlocking new chapters in my own flavour journey - it’s been profound. His writing slows you down. It reminds you that flavour is built moment by moment and that cooking, at its heart, is in itself a kind of love story.
Thank you for reading, friends - and for following along as I cook my way through these pages.
See you next time,
Mark + Hiro 🐾
Oh Mark, such a delightful and inspirational read. I have red gooseberries in the garden just waiting to be plucked.
Look at you Mark! Great post, you’ve obviously found your mentor and inspiration. Bravo.