A political quandary

And so another round of uni holidays begins with another broken down car.  And a broken down Labor party. Woe is me. And woe is the Brumby clan on this windy spring eve I imagine.

Tomorrow I will trudge off to work, deep in Liberal heartland. Bravely I will forge a left wing path into a sea of Baillieu mania, hawking my small ‘l’ liberal views to a hostile crowd.

I might even wear a red shirt just to really agitate things. “Don’t you know this man wants to abolish suspended sentences and build more prisons??” I will holler. “It’s a blue blooded OUTRAGE!”.

I’m lying, not about my concerns over this new government’s policies on law and order, but certainly about the forging and hawking. The reality is I will smile and be super friendly as always as I make lattes and take orders for $55 organic Christmas chickens for Melbourne’s elite. I’ll have a laugh about the kids as the lady with a diamond the size of a five cent piece drops $50 on after-school snacks for the rug rats then bundles them all into the Range Rover for the ride home through the urban jungle.

Is it wrong when you don’t quite live the way you vote? I mean thus far, I haven’t really lived the Labor dream. Sure, I’m a struggling uni student working in a café, freaking out about where I will find the money to fix my busted radiator, but at the same time I have private health insurance courtesy of my mum, I went to boarding school, and I live in one of the toffiest suburbs in Melbourne, albeit in a shoebox of an apartment.

But it’s pretty around here you see, and I’ve become comfortable in the land of the Lexus. My street has really nice big trees and people have cute golden retrievers.  I don’t think twice anymore when a customer at work spends hundreds of dollars buying Christmas food they could make themselves.

But hey, I’m a massive wrap for unions, and I still thought it was unbelievably outrageous when a hoity toity Armadale lady complained about only getting the fish at a charity lunch at Rockpool. Yeah… a charity lunch… at Rockpool.

Is it ok to vote like you live in Fitzroy, when really you swan about south of the river? I’m not sure. But what I do know is my allegiance to the left goes beyond my big fat crush on John Brumby (come on, he’s hot), I promise I'll stay loyal even if Daniel Andrews takes the lead (shudder).  Regardless of my post code, I just can’t see myself putting pen to paper for the Libs anytime soon. Call me hypocritical, it’s the way I roll. And as a Gen Y, I guess I’m just being selfishly true to type. I want to have my union and eat my private hospital food too.

The niceness of being wrong, and Zabaglione Ice Cream.

I am wrong about stuff all the time. A little more than I would like to be, but it is what it is. 

Example, for a while I thought I could get away with having long hair. Wrong.

At one stage in my youth I thought purple corduroys were a good way to spend my hard earned dosh from the local fish and chip shop. Wrong again. 

There was also that brief moment in 2008 when I thought Bill Shorten was a nice guy. Definitely wrong. 

Then there was that day last semester when I thought I was grown up enough to manage an unlidded coffee in the computer area at the library. Yeah… wrong.

Being wrong can be bad. It often makes me look like an idiot. But sometimes discovering you are wrong turns out to be a good thing.

Like when an initial reading of someone turns out to be off and they’re actually a lovely person who you look forward to spending time with.

Or like how I used to think whiskey wasn’t the drink for me. It’s actually heaven in a tumbler. I see that now.

I also used to think I didn’t really like ice cream. Wrong again. I’ve discovered it’s actually pretty great. And it has restorative powers for those times you’re wallowing in your own wrongness.

I created this recipe using Maggie Beer and Stephanie Alexander’s recipe for zabaglione from their Tuscan cookbook as a base.  The brandy comes through quite intensely. I made it to have with Maggie’s Walnut and Fig Tart, a recipe for which you can find here. The overall effect was quite Christmas Pudding-y.

I’d say this recipe would fit quite nicely on a low calorie eating plan. Joke.

Zabaglione Ice Cream

6 egg yolks

1/3 cup caster sugar

1/2 cup brandy

400ml cream

Heaped tablespoon brown sugar

First, in a fairly decent sized bowl whip the cream to soft peaks then mix through the brown sugar. Pop in the fridge while you make the zabaglione.

To make the zabaglione, whisk the egg yolks, caster sugar and brandy in a bowl over a saucepan of simmering water until thick. Remove from the heat and continue to whisk till cool. To speed this up, I sit the bowl in a sink of cool water as I whisk.

Then just fold the cooled zabaglione through the cream and freeze. I did mine in a loaf pan lined with plastic wrap.

When frozen, go mental and eat as much as you want. 

A meandering on youth and a nice lemon cake.

Brace yourself, I’m headed down a slightly self-indulgent path with this one. Though I like to think I represent the reality of my generational peers and not just me.

At the risk of sounding whiney, precocious and pissing off everyone older than me, I think our mid-twenties can be a tricky time.

It seems like yesterday we were all babes in the woods together at uni. Writing ourselves off on an altogether too regular basis, writing assignments on an altogether too irregular basis, meeting incredible new people, getting our feelings hurt and hurting feelings in return, discovering our personal strengths and playing at being adults.

Now we really are adults and that time in our late teens and early twenties is a brief snapshot in our past where once it seemed to stretch forever in front of us.

Save for a small handful of us (including me, perpetual student), most of the people around me now have proper jobs with the associated responsibility, rent and bills to pay, and possibly relationships to maintain. An air of routine has descended and the years seem to gain momentum. Days, weeks and months pass in an increasingly speedy blur. But there is an undercurrent of discontent amongst a few of us, and possibly a longing for the vivacity of our early days in the big confusing city. It’s a hum that steadily increases in volume till we can’t escape it anymore.

I wouldn’t call it a crisis (though I now understand the sports cars and young lovers associated with the so-called mid-life crisis), more a questioning wrapped up in nostalgia and served with a sense of urgency. What to do? Where to work? Where to live? When to travel? Who to love? How to love? We have realised our routine may need a shakeup so we aren’t eaten alive by the potential drudgery of a nine to five law abiding existence.

I can see us reaching out to some old ties and simultaneously rejecting others.

I think it’s about seeking the truth of who we are. A daunting life-long process, but an extremely valuable one. The changes I’m watching in some people’s lives are drastic. Onset or acknowledgment of depression, breakdown of long term live-in relationships, returning to study, embarking on huge overseas adventures, coming out, moving in, becoming engaged, getting married etc.

In others it’s a quieter shift. Opening up the careers section of the paper to see what’s around, picking up an old musical instrument, spending more time with family and friends, resolving to wash the sheets more often just like mum, that kind of thing.

Me? I’ve joined a gospel choir, started a blog, and hopefully soon will be volunteering in the prison system. I’ve sat back and had a think about where my study can take me, and where I want it to take me. I’ve also had a think about all the things and people in my life (good and bad) who make it so brilliantly colourful. I’m endeavouring to surround myself with more of the good and less of the bad. I’ve developed the odd habit of smiling to myself about the smallest of things – a clear morning on my pretty street, my collection of recipe books, an everyday conversation with my brother, an average day spent at my café job. For me at the moment, my world is filled with promise. Which is not to say everything around me is good all the time.

I’m currently bearing witness to a devastating manifestation of this introspective phase in a dear and special friend. Our friendship is unravelling, and it hurts to be so disconnected from someone I’ve known since school when I thought our lives would be intertwined forever.

I’ve done a bit of self-reflection over the past few months, and tried to face honestly some things in my life I wish I’d done differently. Never a pleasant task.

I’ve also encountered a bit of sadness about the fact that my grandparents won’t live forever though I desperately wish they would. As we age, milestone birthdays bring celebration with a hint of melancholy.

But far from tainting everything with negativity, these experiences serve only to accentuate the beauty in the clear mornings and the recipe books.

This thing we call life is ultimately a very individual pursuit and when all is said and done we only have ourselves to reckon with.  For some of us youngsters, I think that is becoming clear for the first time.

So here’s to us. I can’t wait to see where we all end up.

And now to a somewhat tenuous link to food. In some ways, I think the aforementioned tricky phase of life can be well analogised through a study of the seasons. Mid twenties kind of equates to spring. Spring is a bit complex. Up and down, hot and cold. But the promise of happiness and long summer days is right around the corner. Sometimes it's hard to know what to eat in this in between weather. Salad or stodge? There you have it, that’s my questionable segue to a recipe for cake.

Right now I am blessed with an abundance of meyer lemons courtesy of my aunt and uncle. I think lemon syrup cake bridges the gap between winter and summer rather deliciously. It has spring written all over it. The subtle tang of the lemon and the pretty yellow of the cake foreshadow the days of hats, sunscreen and picknicking lurking around the corner, while the addition of syrup keeps the memory of cold weather puddings alive.

I stole this recipe from Matthew Evans, he of Gourmet Farmer fame. Make it, its pretty nice.

Yoghurt Cake with Lemon Syrup
(serves 8-10)

125g butter, softened
200g (1 cup) caster sugar
3 eggs
zest and strained juice of half a lemon
200g (1 1/2 cups) self-raising flour
200g (3/4 cup) natural yoghurt
1/3 cup water
150g (3/4 cup) sugar
thickened cream for serving

Cooking time: Allow over an hour until it comes from the oven, but eat the cake cool
You’ll also need: a 20cm cake tin

Preheat the oven to 180C.
Cream the butter and sugar until pale and light. Beat in the eggs, one at a time. It may look a bit curdled but don’t worry, we’ll fix that. Fold in the lemon zest and flour gently and then fold in the yoghurt too. Use a spatula to scrape into a lined 20cm cake tin, making the centre a little lower compared to the edges. Bake for about 30-40 mins or until a skewer comes out clean.
While the cake cooks, heat the water, sugar and lemon juice in a small saucepan and simmer for 5 minutes. When the cake is cooked, leave it in the tin, poke a fine skewer into the cake all over about 30 times and spoon the hot lemon syrup over the top. Try to spoon it so it soaks into the holes evenly rather than all soaking into the edges around the tin. Allow to cool and serve with lightly whipped cream, coffee and a grin.

Apple and Cinnamon Cake for when you’re broke.

Mid year uni holidays. I had such grand plans for you. Days I was going to spend reading the classics (or at least a classic), cleaning out my pantry, sleeping, having coffee out, and most of all…cooking.

Instead the weeks were lost in a haze of work, clerkship applications, broken down cars, and more work. I object. Retrospectively. But however vehement my objection, it seems I can’t do a thing about it at this late stage.

Given the fact that I’ve been working over the break, I’m disappointed that I’ve ended up with an acute lack of funds.

Perhaps the holiday upgrade from You’ll Love Coles handwash (Fiona, Soft Hands) to Palmolive Antibacterial handwash wasn’t such a wise choice.  Likewise the temporary switch from Homebrand Tasty cheese to Cracker Barrel.

And I guess it wasn’t all work and no play. I think a fair bit of cash was dropped on vino.

Last night I was confronted with the fallout from my reckless spending. What to make when my budget had hit rock bottom? Had to be something for which I already had all the ingredients. Bless you Stephanie Alexander for providing the answer.

APPLE & CINNAMON CAKE

Serves 8

60g butter, plus extra for greasing

4 Granny Smith apples, peeled, quartered and very finely sliced

2 teaspoons white sugar

½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

½ cup fresh breadcrumbs

2 free-range eggs

150g caster sugar

1 cup plain flour

Preheat oven to 180°C.

Melt butter in a large frying pan. Tip sliced apples into the melted butter and cook over medium-high heat, stirring and shaking, for 3 minutes. Tip apple into large bowl and leave to cool.

Mix sugar and cinnamon and set aside until needed.

Thoroughly grease a 20cm springform cake tin with extra butter. Tip in breadcrumbs, then turn and shake the tin until its base and side are well coated.  

Beat eggs and caster sugar in an electric mixer until pale and thick. Sift flour over egg mixture and fold in lightly but thoroughly using a large metal spoon. Tip in apple and quickly fold in. It doesn’t matter if the apple is not thoroughly mixed – speed is more essential so as not to deflate the batter.

Tip batter into the prepared tin. Smooth the top and scatter over cinnamon sugar mixture. Bake for 30 minutes or until the cake tests clean when tested with a fine skewer. Leave to cool in tin a little before serving warm, or cool completely in tin and then serve. 

Easy orange muffins to make when you should be doing Other Important Things.

Here follows a list of Really Useful Things I Could Have Done Tonight:

1. Got the washing off the line, which has been there for three days enduring intermittent showers.
2. Folded the other washing that is hanging on a clothes horse in the loungeroom.
3. Changed my sheets and put my new doona cover on my bed.
4. Written a letter to Kevin Rudd outlining my detailed plan to reinvigorate support for the ALP following the recent opinion polls.
5. Nutted out above mentioned detailed plan.
6. Called my grandmother to let her know I still love her and haven’t forgotten about her.
7. Opened my case book for Contracts and started reading the long list of cases I should have started reading in week one.
8. Opened my evidence book and started some preparation for my moot.
9. Done some reading for my tute in the morning.

Were I to place these in order of importance, the last three really should go in positions one, two and three. You know, seeing as how, at week 12, I’d say we’re at the pointy end of the semester.

Here follows a list of Things I Actually Did Tonight/Look At All The Faffing I Can Do:

1. Checked Facebook.
2. Watched Bold and the Beautiful
3. Watched Mash
4. Checked emails
5. Checked Facebook
6. Ate
7. Watched Home and Away
8. Mulled over when would be an appropriate time to mention to the customer at work - who happens to be a cast member of a particularly brilliant Australian comedy sketch show from the 1980s/90s - that I think she is like…way funny and its an honour to make her weak skinny latte on a semi-regular basis.
9. Made orange muffins. See below.

ORANGE MUFFINS

1 orange

2/3 cup sugar

1 large egg

1/2 cup orange juice

100g butter, melted

1 ½ cups plain flour

1 tsp baking powder

1 tsp bi-carb soda (don’t ask me the difference between the two, I can offer no insight)

Cut off the thick top and bottom of the orange and remove the pips. Chop roughly and put in a food processor. Blitz until fine. Add the sugar and blitz again. Add the egg, juice and melted butter and blitz some more until combined. By now you should have a regular Blitzkrieg happening. 

Sift dry ingredients into a large mixing bowl.

Tip in orange mixture and fold together until just combined. Note - don't blitz, just fold.

Spoon mixture into greased or lined 12 hole muffin pan. Bake at 200 degrees Celsius for 15mins or till golden.

Dust with icing sugar when cool.

Sweet dreams.

This morning, at around 7.15am I had the most pleasant dream. In it, I had a boyfriend. Said boyfriend was someone I went to school with in real life.

Rewind eight years (where the flip are my twenties going?) - he was the year above me and he was a dreamboat. Also, he was super smart. He did no homework (or so his nonchalant air conveyed) in our 3/4 psychology class but still aced everything. Anyone else I’d have found this irritating but with Tony* it just added to his all round perfection. He was uber cool - a bit broody, and intellectual. Too cool to play football and other low brow stuff like that. You know?

I was not alone in my adoration, everybody was aware of his total hotness. As far as I can tell his appeal was universal.

I wouldn’t want to brag, but he said hello to me a couple of times, and like, we were in the same psych class so yeah, we were pretty tight.

Fast forward eight years and it’s becoming a quaint memory. Lost in the mélange of youth. Couldn’t tell you what he even does these days. Mind you, half the time I can’t tell you what I do these days.

So my dream seemed to come from nowhere, particularly as in some respects I don’t feel like the partnering type. At least not now. The thought of having someone around often seems more annoying than anything else. I like doing what I want, when I want. Is that so very Gen Y of me? But this dream provided a sharp reminder of the pleasantries of having someone to lean on, or in this case a slim, strong, stylishly clad torso to wind my arms around as we departed a totally rocking party. It was nice.

The dream was shattered by my hideously piercing Nokia alarm tone.

From 8am-5pm I made coffee and put food on plates at dear little Tartine. Today, a fair percentage of the clientele were men calling in to collect provisions, which they employed to show their significant other that although they could not, or would not cook, they hadn’t forgotten the meaning of the 9^th May 2010. It may be Mothers Day, but it seems to be as much about partners saying thanks as well as the children.

Helping the customers carry culinary loot to their Ferrari’s (I’m not kidding – hence the no cooking) my dream swirled around and around in my head.

My thoughts drifted to food (surprise! I like to keep you guessing) and the types of things it might be nice to share with a person you quite like.

Make this. Its pretty delicious, dead easy, and will be a sure fire winner with people you are trying to impress in the romantic sense. Not that I would know, I’ve only ever made it for my mum, my brother, and my friends. I just have a hunch is all.

Raspberry Clafoutis

½ cup almond meal

½ cup milk (do use full cream, it’s better)

butter, for dotting and greasing

½ cup caster sugar

2 cups or thereabouts, raspberries (frozen are fine)

3 large eggs

pinch of salt

1/3 cup plain flour

icing sugar, to dust

In a small saucepan, bring almond meal and milk to a simmer. Remove from the heat and leave to sit for 1 hour.

Preheat oven to 180 degrees Celsius (if I knew how to do the little degrees sign I would).

Butter a 25cm shallow pie dish. Sprinkle the dish with 1tbs of the caster sugar. Dot with a few little pieces of butter. Scatter raspberries over the dish.

Beat eggs, salt, and remaining sugar till well combined. Squash almond meal into the egg mix through a sieve. Add cream. Beat well. Sift flour into egg mixture and beat until smooth. Pour mixture over raspberries. Don’t panic, it will look super runny but it’s supposed to.

Bake for 35-40 minutes or until set and a bit golden. Let it cool for a while then dust with icing sugar.

French people make traditional clafoutis with cherries so you could do that too. Whatever appeals. The raspberries are pretty nice though.

This dish is well suited to romance:

Because it’s French, and they love that stuff.

Because it can be made in advance and whipped out after your candlelit dinner for two and drizzled       with a bit of cream.

Because it’s perfect to cut into wedges and take on a picnic to somewhere you can sit in the waning  Autumnal sun and watch red leaves dance to the ground around you.

Not that I’ve thought much about what I would do/make if I had any romantic prospects.

Bon appétit.

* His name has been changed to protect his identity.

You say Hungarian, I say impossible.

This is from Easter. But who cares, it didn't work anyway. 


Yeast is not my friend. Stop it you filth mongers, I don’t mean like that. I’m talking baking.

It’s Easter. A lovely pondering sort of time of the year. Family, friends and all that if you’re lucky. 

I gave up pondering home made hot cross buns this year. I’ve made peace with the fact that I haven’t got the dough side of life at all worked out.

Why then, did I think it wise to attempt a traditional Hungarian Easter treat – the poppy seed scroll which yes, like hot cross buns, involves yeast, proving, kneading etc?

Madness. The Easter spirit overcame me, as did the seductive food styling of Australian Gourmet Traveller magazine. April edition 2010. Damn them and their highly skilled photographers (oh that’s hardly a seasonal attitude – what with all this forgiveness and redemption flying around).

“I can make that”, thought I.

Ignorant fool.

It took me the better part of the morning - nay, day - to make, which is fine, as long as you get results.

You have to knead the dough and let it rise - twice. Well, no rising occurred – at least none visible to the naked eye.

Then you divide the dough in two, roll it out, fill it and roll it up into a cylinder. Then let it rise AGAIN. Remarkably the scrolls seemed to get a little fatter during the hour they sat in the sun on the front verandah. Not sure if the in-the-sun thing was right but I was getting desperate for some movement and yeast likes warm things yeah?

To my utter delight the final product actually looked quite similar to the photo in the magazine. Albeit a little shorter and heavier. Kind of like how things look when I try them on in Country Road – not quite catalogue ready.

As for the taste? I had high hopes because my favourite cake when I was small was Mum’s poppyseed. Turns out poppyseeds en masse mixed with milk and prunes and other stuff in paste form is less than delicious.  Not very sweet and just kind of … not great. Someone should send the Hungarians a CSR sample pack. Could be a whole untapped market there.

Apparently two versions are generally made, the second with a walnut filling. I reckon this would be better.

So, in protest and indignation I’m not typing up the recipe. If you want to look it up, make it, then laugh at my baking inadequacy, be my guest.

I’d recommend instead the dark chocolate, pear and pistachio cake, also in the Easter edition of Australian Gourmet Traveller. Its from Tartine in Melbourne, where I work. And what a charming little establishment it is.

Also the cake has no yeast.

Get some chocolate in ya and Seasons greetings to all our Hungarian friends, or - Boldog Húsvéti Ünnepeket! 

Orange and onion salad

Again, these words date back to summer, but I thought you could have them anyway.

I’VE been babysitting today. So much fun. Two year old children are cool.

I know that my little charge is not actually mine (life is so unfair), but I have to tell you, he is like, SO advanced! After we read a story (Spot, Spot, lovable Spot), he climbed off the bed and put the book BACK ON THE SHELF IN THE RIGHT PLACE! Is this normal? No, I didn’t think so.  Someone call Mensa – we have a boy genius.

So, five not-so-creative retellings of Spot’s First Christmas later, we moved onto the Wiggles.

Now I love a man in a skivvy as much as the next neighbourhood nanny, but lets face it, I’d probably rather watch Gourmet Farmer or something. 

However my interest was piqued by the arrival on screen of the ‘Mandarin Wiggles’. I looked up expecting a see of orange knitwear and a little ditty about the long term health benefits of two fruit, five veg. 

But no, Geoff and his cohort were doing the hot potato - Chairman Mao style.  Hello kids (or, Shalom), we’re the Wiggles and we are politically and culturally sensitive (insert weird pointy Wiggle hand gesture wave thing)!!!!

But the mandarin reference got me thinking of that cute little fruit, and then of its fair cousin, the orange.  I mused over the qualities of this fruit that make it particularly suited to summer. Its vibrant colour, its thirst quenching juiciness and its shape, which makes one think of a bouncing beach ball annoyingly interrupting some melanoma-making-baking down at Elwood on a clear bright day. 

I’ve been reading Maggie and Stephanie who both note that the citrus-ripening season is over the cooler months. But Stephanie does say that some citrus trees will produce ripe fruit all year round. This is certainly the case with the orange tree at home at my mums, which is currently laden with little vibrant balls of goodness.

An orange is fabulous in summer because you can let it run all down your chin then make like my favourite two year old and have a splash in a bucket of water/pool to clean off.

They are amazing first thing in the morning. A flavour explosion to greet the day. Particularly satisfying if the previous night kept you out past Cinderella-o'clock. 

The juice is also good frozen in icy-pole moulds. 

Then there’s the skins, which you could use as a mouth guard during those particularly vicious summer games of petanque and croquet. 

Or you could throw a few oranges - straight from the esky - in the direction of your appreciative boyfriend during the tea break at his cricket match. That is if you a) have a boyfriend, and b) he is of the cricket-playing variety.
    

If the above options don’t appeal, or by circumstance are rendered inappropriate (I don’t recommend throwing oranges at any old cricket player, nor do I recommend donning an orange mouth guard if trying to attract above mentioned cricket playing boyfriend), then you should try this salad.

I’ve been eating this at my Nan and Pop’s since I got my little jelly bean sandal stuck in the swamp when we were yabbying, circa 1990. And before.

A simple dish for summer dinner. It’s good with a BBQ.

Orange and onion salad

Just layer finely sliced onion rounds with peeled and sliced orange rounds. It looks pretty in a glass bowl. Let it sit around and mellow for a while. I sprinkled some fresh mint on top. It was great.

I know it sounds weird, but my brother said he likes the way the orange starts to taste like onion. Me too. It’s good. I find this salad to be the perfect accompaniment to a piece of grilled salmon, or a chop, or most anything you can grill outdoors.

So go get yourself some oranges and eat/use them, in whatever way suits you. 

A freekeh good salad

Right, so for the bulk (‘bulk’ being the operative word) of December/January/February, it seems all I did was eat. And I’m not talking tofu and tahini – think brandy sauce, mince pies, shortbread, and more recently, plain old toast with lashings of butter and homemade jam.

I fear that this way of living will very soon, if it hasn’t already – prove problematic. I won’t be able to even fit inside the door of those uber cool tiny Melbourne bars, let alone attract that broody muso/actor type (Axle!!! Give up Summer Bay and come back to Melbourne!!). No amount of cocktails and mood lighting will be able to save my social life. Wait… who am I kidding? I rarely frequent those places anyway! But the fact remains, it’s time for a food overhaul.

Yesterday I strolled the streets of my home suburb, which happens to be overrun by skinny rich people most of the time but whom blessedly are still away at their divine beach houses, pretending to care about their children while the nanny also has a holiday.

So, I strolled the tumbleweed streets in search of a skinny latte and some skinny bread. Spelt loaves on special! Rejoice! Oh no, they were mouldy. Is the ghost of the dead lady from the two fat ladies trying to tell me something? “Embrace your inner minke!!!”. “NOOOOOO!!!!!” She cried. My fledgling determination maintained its hold and luckily I found a penicillin free loaf at the back of the shelf.

I kept strolling, bought a pair of sandals to match my new I-promise-I’m-not-wearing-this-just-to-hide-my-new-Michelin’s maxi dress, and headed for home. Pondering what to have for lunch. Hmm…cream is out, butter is out, yummy mayonnaise is out… where have all the good foods gone???!!!

I settled on this: 

Cook some freekeh (or other virtuous grain, like burghal), according to packet instructions. Then toss in a bowl with some grated fresh beetroot, chopped preserved lemon, chopped rocket and mint, and some salt and pepper. Mix in a vinaigrette of olive oil, lemon juice, and a little sugar, and you’re done. Of course, you could use any herbs you like.

Put a pile in a bowl and crack open a tin of tuna to have with it. Yum.

I like to think my nutritious lunch made up for the bread, butter and creamy potato salad I wolfed down later for dinner. Hey, I was at a birthday party. What was I to do?

This morning I was back on the band wagon. I polished off a bowl of my favourite muesli – untoasted of course – with fruit and yoghurt. Go me.

Have to run, I’ve got these brown bananas in the fruit bowl just itching to go into a cake. Hold the cream cheese icing.

Figs for jam

This post is a little outdated as I wrote it in February, but I thought it may still be of some use as some fruits have a second showing in autumn, so jam making is not just a summer pursuit. 


Hello, I come to you from the heavenly wilds of far west Victoria. I'm home on the farm and I couldn't be happier. 
I rose early this morning before the sting of the February heat kicked in. I took my yoga mat outdoors and stretched and breathed deeply in the shadow of the majestic red gums, taking in the expansive paddocks - just harvested - and the quiet meanderings of a mob of sheep.


KIDDING!


When I rolled out of bed I boiled the kettle, had some toast with jam and again lamented the loss of the 9:20am cooking segment on the now defunct 9am with David and Kim. 


Having said that, I have spent a decent amount of time outdoors on this trip, ferrying pea straw from Nan and Pop's back paddock to our back garden with mum, and I have been very aware of the the aforementioned red gums, sheep and general peace and tranquility of the place my family is blessed to call home.


Back to the jam I mentioned briefly above. When not outside up to my ankles in straw and sheep poo, I've been inside standing over a bubbling pot of fruit and sugar.  


The fruit of the moment is fig, which arguably makes the best jam of all time. Figs come into season in summer, and some varieties also fruit in autumn. 
I'm extremely lucky to have an unconquerable supply of figs direct from Nan and Pop's orchard. Consequently we have a store of fig jam in the top cupboard which looks like outlasting the Mayan calendar.
But I know figs can be expensive to buy. Markets can be the way to go, and keep your eye on the price regularly. Lately I've noticed them for sale in supermarkets for around $8 per kilo. A bargain indeed.
The cost of the fruit can render fig jam a bit of a luxury, so maybe only give away bottles to people you really really like!


The thing to remember when making jam, as I learnt from my Nan, is the old "pound for pound" mantra. One pound of sugar to every pound of fruit. Having said that, figs are an exception. At least according to this recipe - again from my wonderful Nan! 


So if you're lucky enough to land yourself some figs, give it a try. The old IXL really won't cut it after you've made your own jam.


Nan's Fig Jam


1 lb figs - ends removed and chopped 
3/4 lb sugar 
Juice and pips of one lemon
6 tbs water


Cook the figs in a large pan over moderate heat until they have collapsed a bit and softened. 
Increase heat to high, add the sugar, lemon and water. Boil fairly rapidly, stirring frequently, until the jam starts to adhere to the sides of the pan in a way that looks a bit jammy. Probably around 20mins. 
Put a small blob on a saucer which has been chilled in the fridge. Sit for a minute. If the jam wrinkles when you push your finger through it. Voila! Jam ready. If not, let it cook a few minutes more and repeat. 
You will have to feel your way through this phase a little. Cooking time will vary for each batch, depending on the ripeness of the fruit.
When the jam is ready, ladle into hot sterilised jars. Be careful. Hot jam is ... hot. And it will burn you. Pop the lids on at this stage as it helps create a nice seal.


There you have it. Totally delicious old fashioned jam. It really is very easy. 
Once you've mastered this recipe, mix it up a little by substituting half the sugar with brown sugar. The end product is a dark jam with a lovely soft flavour. Particularly good on fresh bread with blue cheese. Even better if you add wine to the equation and mull over how amazingly productive you've been in the garden all day. 

Passionfruit - it puts the summer in autumn.

It's March. Summer is gone, the mornings are crisp. Pleasantly so, but confusing wardrobe-wise. To jacket or not to jacket?

And so, our year rolls on. Once again I missed the Moonlight Cinema boat, I've sadly nearly missed the picnic season, and I've thankfully escaped the swimsuit season and can put my bathers back in the bottom drawer where they belong (is that a gentle autumn zephyr outside or the collective sigh of relief of all Elwood's beach goers?). People are starting to ask about soup at work, uni homework has hit with a vengeance and I'm longing for the Easter break.

But it's not all hot cross buns and casseroles. 

Enter passionfruit. All that purple and yellow screams summer, but happily it's also in season in March. As if to soften the blow of the inevitable arrival of winter. 

Admittedly passionfruit don't generally feature heavily on my shopping list. They play a cameo role at best. But a lovely lady-with-a-baby I know has a bountiful vine in her yard, and so my charge and I scratched around one afternoon and collected the perfect fruit that had fallen to earth. Ok, I collected, he ate grass. But whatever, the sun was shining, there was fruit all around, we were in backyard heaven.

I went home that day a richer woman. Six passionfruit richer. Got me thinking about ye olde days. Perhaps they had it sorted with that whole barter economy thing. Suits me. I'd give up cash for food, such is my lust for it. I give you my child minding services, and you give me fresh produce. I guess the terms and conditions could get tricky though. One hour of babysitting equals how many passionfruit? 

My happy fresh fruit bonus led to all kinds of fruity food imaginings, but in the ended I opted for a simple cake. I had a little play around with a basic butter cake recipe. It worked pretty well, have a go and please tell me what you think. 

Passionfruit Butter Cake

125g unsalted butter

1/2 tsp vanilla essence

3/4 cup caster sugar

2 eggs

1 1/2 cups SR flour 

1/2 cup yoghurt + 2-3 tbs milk

Pulp of 3-4 passionfruit

Cream butter, vanilla essence and sugar till pale and creamy (taste it, all that butter is freaky I know, but delicious). Add eggs one at a time. Add passionfruit pulp. Stir in half sifted flour and yoghurt, then the remaining flour, yoghurt and milk. Spoon into a ring tin and bake in a moderate oven for 40mins or till light golden and a skewer comes out clean. 

When the cake has cooled somewhat make a runny icing to drizzle over from 2 passionfruit, a little butter, icing sugar and hot water. A nice runny icing will be almost more like a glaze which I like. But if you lean more towards the spreadable icing way of thinking, then of course make it thicker.

When all is said and done in the kitchen, put the kettle on and take a slice of cake out into the sun. Close your eyes, eat, and muse over the wonder of the big orange ball in the sky that keeps us earthlings warm.

So go grease that ring tin and have yourself a final fling with summer. Mmm passionfruit. 

Hello, let's eat!

Would I like to write? Yes, I would. But what to write about?

I really like to eat, and I like to make food, and talk about food, and look at food, and think about food. So maybe I should write about food?

I’m just a student. Neither laden with cash, nor well versed in the peculiarities of fine dining. Although, I did eat at Bistro Guillaume last year. Fabulous. I was so mesmerised by the whole vibe of the thing that I got lost trying to find my way out of the unbelievably sumptuous-yet-not-gaudy bathrooms.

So, it seems that all I have to write about is the food I eat day to day in the course of my normal life, and what it means to me.

I realise that food, good produce, and all things seasonal is extremely on trend at the moment. But I can give honest assurance that I have loved food my whole life. From the early years when I nicked frozen white bread from the Westinghouse with my brother after school, to delighting in the pre-packed and decidedly rubbishy nature of plane food on a long haul flight not so long ago – that glee also shared with my brother. Throughout my life food has been a constant. Well obviously, otherwise I’d be dead. But you see what I’m saying? I love to eat.

I’m also aware that meanderings on food and life have been penned before. You know, letting your personal trials and tribulations intermingle with tales of Sao biscuits and Ol’ Smoothy cheese. Was that book called Toast? But so be it, I’m going to do it again.

To kick off I’ll tell you what I ate today. I started with muesli topped with strawberries (so good right now) and yoghurt, with extra cinnamon and sesame seeds (did you know cinnamon can help lower your blood sugar?).  And a cup of coffee. I had to shake the milk first because it’s that heavenly, old fashioned organic stuff and the cream floats to the top. I don’t mind. It reminds me of all that cow milking and carrying of gorgeous silver buckets that I never did in my childhood.

I’m currently on uni holidays and so I’ve been home at mum’s in the country a fair bit. I’m on a train back there right now. I was only in Melbourne a few days, reluctantly. I like to spend my study break pretending I live full time at home on the farm.

My brother bought the muesli supplies while I was away at home, AND did a load of washing. Fancy!

I bought some salad at a swanky supermarket (the ‘s’ in swanky being optional) just near our place in Melbourne this morning. I’ve got it with me in a plastic container on the train. I’m hungry, but I’m afraid it will stink the whole carriage out. Maybe a heap of people will get off at the next ‘regional centre’ and I can eat freely. Or maybe I need to recover the boldness of my youth, when I was undeterred by the sulpher like aroma eminating from my lunch box. Mmm…egg sarnies!

My auntie is picking me up from the train station, I’ll have to ask her to swing by the supermarket so I can grab dinner supplies for mum and I before we leave town for the hour long drive home. Perhaps a piece of salmon and salad? I might have to buy a blue cooler bag.

Worst luck. The train is still full of people. Don’t they know I have a container of store bought tabbouleh to devour and critique? Hang it, I think I’ll risk it.

As a dear friend and I like to say, life is a journey from one meal to the next. Savour it.