Cream of the Crop: An Ode to Cranachan

I can’t remember how old I am. Definitely not old enough to go to a restaurant without my parents, who are sitting opposite me and asking which dessert I want, but young enough that ordering the one with alcohol feels devilishly naughty. I am a bad girl! I am an adventurous rebel, and I don’t play by the rules! She's a decadent hedonist, only she’s a preteen with a gummy smile! While I wait for my coveted treasure to arrive, I admire the walls. They’re decorated with various colourful tartans, which makes me jealous, because I am an immigrant, so I don’t have my own family tartan. The whole place holds out, before my very eyes, a culture into which I desperately want to fit.

The dessert arrives soon after my brief introspection, resplendent in a glass container and accompanied by the weapon of choice – a long-handled silver spoon. The waiter had said I’d pronounced the dessert’s name well, as if he was speaking to a tourist. "Excuse me, sir, I’ve grown up here. They just don’t do accent training in ESL classes, and I know that I don’t sound like the other kids at school". Anyway, my sweet tooth vibrates with excitement, and I dig in. I pierce through crunchy, sticky, and soft layers, then shovel the whole perfectly constructed spoonful into my mouth.

I was eating my first cranachan; fireworks exploded inside my brain. It seemed like a noteworthy discovery, as if I was unearthing a brilliant secret. Later that week, I recreated it at home. Heather honey, raspberries, oats, and heavy cream were all easily found. I stole the truly exciting ingredient, whisky, from the special shelf only my parents could normally touch, standing on my tiptoes to shakily retrieve it. The glug I poured in was more than generous, because I already knew that this recipe would transform the golden liquid.

Whisky was familiar to me, tasted from the tip of my finger after dipping it into my dad’s glass. It had felt abrasive and burned my throat; overall it was an unimpressive experience, making me feel even more intensely un-Scottish. Frankly, the complexity of a dram was lost on my younger self at this point. Don’t have a go at me, my taste buds hadn’t hit puberty yet! However, in a cranachan, the spirit is calmed by the sugary honey and jammy raspberries. The soft peaks of whipped cream turn everything into a red, oaty, textural concoction.

Looking back, I understand why cranachan resonated with my younger self. The ingredients speak to what Scotland is, and surely suggest why cranachan was an immediate hit with my palate. I won’t start listing them again (you were there two paragraphs ago, keep up), but they are all deeply associated with the agriculture of the country, representing crops that can withstand the climate, or the labour of farming. It is a versatile dish that can be served in any container. Importantly, I think it proves why whisky is so exceptional: the complex flavour notes and tender distillation process shine through when in close proximity to such distinctly Scottish ingredients.

Cranachan was traditionally served after the raspberry harvest, when the berries were at their best. It combines the outstanding elements of this country’s cuisine, including our national pride. Not only a joyful celebration of abundance, it was, to the girl I was then, a private revelation. I may have lacked the family tartan, but I had found a way to identify with a piece of Scotland, and to start building my own connection to whisky.

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Debora Krut writes to spill her guts and soul out. It’s usually silly, nostalgic, or human. She's based between London and Edinburgh

This article is taken from issue three of GNAW, the food and drink magazine from the team behind The Skinny. Pick up your free copy at venues across Scotland and beyond, and follow GNAW on Instagram at @gnawmag