Green mango salad

Waiting for a piece of fruit to ripen, for the exact moment that it will spill its glorious juices down your bare, sun-warmed arms must, surely, count as one of the greatest pleasures of late summer. Peaches, nectarines and mangoes, at that stage of near collapse, are best tackled bent over the sink, feet planted well back, fingers licked clean and the stone sucked dry before moving on to the next. Holiday fruit, perfect, just as they are.

Happily, there are other ways of approaching the mango. Ones well suited to a southern hemisphere August.

Tart, unripe green mangoes make a fabulous crunchy salad, one that is fresh, sharp and surprisingly moreish. A wake-up call to the palate, one that I cannot get enough of at this stage of the season. This is a bastardized recipe, reminiscent rather than authentic; an attempt to capture the flavour and fragrance associated with warmer, exotic, South East Asian climes. I made it up. It does feel authentic. Serve it on its own by all means, but it is particularly good with fish.

Spring arrived early late last week, seemingly a gift brought by my mum from Sydney, and though she wanted the fierce cold, I’d been dreaming of warmer days and limbs freed from their wintry confines. So thank you mum, for bringing the weather with you and for loving whatever concoctions were placed on the dinner table.

Patience is the key to success here – you need to carefully slice the green mango into very thin julienned strips with a frighteningly sharp blade and you really do need to pick the individual leaves from your bundles of herbs. Do this, and you’ll be rewarded handsomely.

Green mango salad - for 2-4, as an accompaniment
If fish sauce isn’t something you eat, you can use a combination of light soy sauce and umeboshi vinegar to create something admirably akin to its unique taste. A quick trip around your Asian grocer should give you everything you’ll need here.

Dressing:
Juice of 1 lime
1 tablespoon of grated palm sugar or dark brown sugar
1 small clove of garlic, crushed
Nam Pla (fish sauce - see above for a vegetarian alternative), to taste

Salad:
2 green mangoes
1 bunch of Rau Ram (Vietnamese mint)
1 large bunch of coriander
1 small bunch of mint
2 shallots or ½ small red onion, peeled and very thinly sliced
1 tablespoon of crispy, fried shallots

To make the dressing, mix the lime juice, palm sugar and crushed garlic together in a small bowl. Add the Nam Pla to taste, starting with a teaspoon and working up to a maximum of 1 tablespoon. Set aside.

To make the salad, peel the mangoes - an ordinary potato peeler works well. Slice off both ‘cheeks’ as close to the seed as possible and slice into long, very, very thin julienned strips. Cut away anything else you can get similarly long strips from and slice in the same way. Place in a salad bowl.

Wash the herbs and dry them well. Pick the leaves carefully and patiently from the stalks, discarding any that aren’t perfect. Add the picked herbs to the mangoes and toss in the sliced shallots and pour over the dressing. Turn over and over to distribute the flavours and serve in little piles, garnished with the crispy fried shallots for a bit of crunch.

Rainbow chard

A pink tongue of rainbow chard stalk.

Chopped and sauteed with onions, garlic and those crinkly, dark green leaves.

For a crunchy filo pie with currants, golden pine nuts, some feta and lots of salty, moreish, home-made preserved lemons.

Awards time

A few weeks ago Amanda from the always beautiful Figs, Olives, Wine nominated me for a Rockin' Girl Blogger Award. Amanda's focus, her abiding passion, is food and wine from the shores of the Mediterranean, food that is seasonal and deceptively simple. A woman after my own heart. And she's writing a cookbook.

Amanda's words about Nourish Me floored me to be frank, so much so that I've been sitting here contemplating who I would nominate for some time. Though no longer a girl and certainly not one who knows how to 'rock' anymore, it's the acknowledgement of a job well done, of capturing something that rings true with a reader, that lies at the heart of this award. I'm nominating three blogs that I find to be inspired reading.

So, in alphabetical order, a big thank you goes to:

Stephanie at The Elegant Sufficiency. What can I say about this stylish blog? Stephanie has opened her heart to her readers on many occasions, painfully at times and yet still manages to write eloquently and compellingly about both food and place. She hosts round-ups of great blogging and scouts out some of the best recipes on the web. Stephanie tagged me for my first ever meme. I'm glad to be able to return the favour.

Johanna at Green Gourmet Giraffe. Johanna is a long-time vegetarian who isn't afraid to try new combinatons; who loves her cookbook collection and whose enthusiasm cheers me endlessly. My favourite thing? Her eclectic and always fascinating musical selections (at the bottom of each and every post).

Kathryn of Limes and Lycopene. Kathryn's blog has been a long-time friend to me. Kathryn, a nutritionist who cuts through some of the health nonsense, has a calm, clear voice that always makes for great reading. Got a health related question? Need more energy? Kathryn's your woman.

Now, I know how these things work...you are by NO means required to pass this along girls. It's simply my way of saying thank you.

Blue soup

Poor Bridget.

Working for a now defunct chain of booksellers, I picked out a copy of Bridget Jones Diary from the rickety and appallingly dusty Picador stand. ‘Sounds like a laugh’, I thought and duly took the book home (contrary to popular belief, staff in book shops don’t get to read all day – though they should probably spend a little more time wielding the duster round the Picador stand, obviously).

For the uninitiated here’s a brief run-down. Bridget, working in publishing, 30-ish, single and a bit of mess, falls for her charming but slimy boss Daniel. After a few romantic mishaps and by over-coming her own pride and prejudices (yes, there are some rather direct links with Jane Austen), she falls for the right man, who seemed like the wrong man, and lives happily ever-after. Well, sort of.

Fielding had tapped into something many women my age were feeling. Like many of my ‘singleton’ friends, Bridget with her disastrous, hilarious self-obsessions made me, at the time, feel just a bit less pathetic. As she aired her calorie, nicotine and alcohol worries in her diary, mine was filling up with spookily similar, but no less hilarious, issues.

Though it may not be my favourite film, Bridget does have its glorious moments.

photo courtesy of the British Film Institute

There’s one scene in particular that makes me want to cry out to Poor Bridget. She’s cooking a birthday dinner, a wildly exotic and complicated menu designed to show off her ‘skills’ as a ‘cook’ to her dearest friends. Just when she thinks she’s got things under control, aided by generous gulps of ‘helpful’ wine and vodka, our heroine peers into the leek soup which has become…blue leek soup. Never, girls and boys, tie your leeks together with blue twine.

Cringing but giggling nonetheless, I’m happy to report that the film version IS as much fun as the book. Bridget’s become a favourite of my teenage step-sons who love her use of the word ‘f**kwittage’. And the knickers jokes. And the fight scene (you’ll know what I mean if you’ve watched it – if not go out and borrow it right now. Seriously. There’s nothing funnier than seeing Hugh Grant fighting like a girl. Brilliant).

Tom (one of her nearest and dearest): Well done Bridge, four hours of careful cooking and a feast of blue soup, omelette and marmalade. I think that deserves a toast, don't you? To Bridget, who cannot cook, but who we love…just as she is.

And don't you, just as she is?

Blue soup – for 4
Well, not quite. Leek and Two Potato Soup would be more accurate. The ‘blue’ here comes from the beautiful Purple Congo potato, in the form of blue-ish croutons added just before serving to preserve their unique colour and create a little textural difference. There’s not a lot to disguise in a recipe as simple as this, so make sure you use sparklingly fresh produce.

4 large leeks, white parts only
675g (1 ½ lbs) of organic, waxy-fleshed potatoes
2 tablespoons of butter or best olive oil
1.5 litres (6 cups) of water
Sea salt
Olive oil
250g (about ½ lb) of blue potatoes
1 bunch of chives, snipped finely

Wash the leeks well, then shake dry and finely chop. Quarter each waxy-fleshed potato lengthways and then thinly slice (if your potatoes are organic, don’t bother to peel them).

Preheat the oven to 220 C (425 F).

Melt the butter in a large, heavy-based saucepan. Add the leeks and waxy-fleshed potatoes, cover with a lid and sweat over a low heat for 10 minutes.

Add the water to the saucepan with 1 ½ teaspoons of sea salt and bring to the boil. Reduce the heat to a simmer, partially cover with a lid and cook until the potatoes fall apart (about 30-35 minutes).

Meanwhile, lightly oil a baking sheet. Slice the blue potatoes into quarters lengthways and slice into pieces just less that 1cm (1/3 inch) thick. Toss with just enough oil to coat lightly, arrange them in a single layer on the baking sheet and bake in the preheated oven for 10 minutes. Remove the baking sheet, carefully turn the potatoes and return to the oven for 10-15 minutes. When ready, sprinkle while still hot with a little salt.

Puree the soup in batches. If it’s too thick, add a little more water or milk or even cream to reach a consistency you’re happy with. Ladle into bowls and garnish with the blue potatoes followed by a showering of chives.

This is my entry to a food-blogging event called Food In Film, being held by the one and only Susan,
The Well Seasoned Cook.

Turnips

Turnips, blushed a delicate shade of violet.

Spring. It can't be far now.

Market find

Just when you think winter's become dull, that you can't face another turnip,

Cavalo Nero, some sweet little beetroots and...

Brussels sprouts on the stalk turn up.

I know I can trust Johanna for sprout ideas, but any ideas for those tops?

She's a surprising thing, nature.

Do you think she knew I was getting jaded?

Black bean broth

Sometimes leftovers are a pain.

But sometimes, just sometimes, they are a boon.

Tinned beans are a thing of the past around here since the purchase last year of a good quality, sturdy and, most importantly, safe pressure cooker. In less than half an hour we can have perfectly cooked cannellini beans, tossed while still warm with a finely chopped mixture of garlic, fresh parsley and pine nuts. In twenty minutes, black (turtle) beans are ready for a chilli, heartily spiced then served with shards of oven-crisped pita bread, dollops of cold, thick yoghurt and creamy avocado dice.

Quite often though, I look at the broth the beans have cooked in and despair just a little. It’s full of flavour; full of goodness. Though tipping the liquid onto the garden is an option, the one most often resorted to, wastage of late has made me feel, well, wasteful. Maybe I'm getting old.

Last nights’ chilli yielded a delicious and workable amount of broth, flavoured with kombu (I always cook beans, regardless of cuisine, with a small piece to help digestion), 2 whole shallots and a large pinch of asafetida powder. Some of the beans dissolved just a little, satisfyingly thickening the whole, and I deliberately held back a spoonful of the beans to make something today. A soup, cooked with a large handful of tender, shredded gai laan (Chinese broccoli) leaves and topped with a sweet/spicy salsa. It’s great. Greater still is the peace of mind actually using leftovers can bring.

gai laan leaves

Black bean broth with greens and salsa
This is one of those flexible recipes therefore it is difficult to give exact quantities. It’s dependent entirely on just how much bean broth you have leftover – so gauge your servings as your hunger dictates. One litre (1 quart) or so of broth will feed two to three people quite happily. Reserve a large spoonful of the beans and place them back into the broth until you’re ready to cook the next day– it will give the soup a little more body. Use any greens you like. Spinach, silverbeet (chard) or sorrel would all work as well as the gai laan leaves.

½ avocado, peeled and diced
Small handful of cherry tomatoes, diced
1 tablespoon of sweet chilli sauce
1 teaspoon of olive oil
1 small onion, finely chopped
2 teaspoons of cumin seeds, ground
1-2 cloves of garlic, chopped
Leftover broth from cooking black (turtle) beans
A large spoonful of the beans (optional)
A large handful or 2 of greens
1 tablespoon of tamari, or more, to taste
Bread, toasted, to serve

To make the salsa, mix the diced avocado, tomatoes and sweet chilli sauce together in a small bowl and set aside.

Heat the oil in a saucepan. Add the onion and cook over a medium heat until translucent (about 5 minutes). Add the cumin and garlic, stir fry for a minute then pour in the bean broth and reserved black beans. Scrape the bottom of the pan to release any golden bits and bring to the boil.

Meanwhile, shred the greens into ribbons. When the soup boils, reduce the heat to a simmer and add the greens. Simmer for 5 minutes, or until the greens are tender. Add tamari to taste and simmer for a moment or two longer. Taste and add a little more tamari if you feel it is needed. Serve in deep bowls with a large helping of salsa spooned on top.

gai laan, flowering

Breakfast

A breakfast smoothie of one small banana, a handful of frozen blueberries, the juice of two oranges and a spoonful of organic yoghurt.

One tablespoon of flax seeds, pulverized in the old coffee grinder.

Blended until as smooth as possible.

Learning to like breakfast again.

Winter

By the time August comes around, the deep winter blues generally start to set in like the weather around us. Kathryn at Limes and Lycopene is writing an inspiring series of posts this month featuring achievable daily hints to help alleviate the blues and get you feeling better about both yourself and your health. Even northern hemisphere residents, now feeling the effects of summer heat will no doubt be keen to get on board. Though six days in already, head over and check out Kathryn’s suggestions for better well-being.

A risotto

Two Sundays ago, I sold the last bundle of books in retail for (hopefully) the last time. It’s official. I am now an ex-bookseller. Yesterday, the last, windy day of July, was my birthday. And my best friend, also an ex-bookseller, though she sensibly escaped many years earlier, flew down from Sydney for a few days of restorative dog-walking, tea-drinking and, of course, celebrating. A long and slightly sozzled birthday lunch on Friday at Vin Cellar was in order. How lucky I am.

A Saturday night in required something home-made and wintry for a dinner eaten on our laps, huddled around the fire. It’s not often that I would suggest a recipe for risotto here. Everyone has his or her own preferred style of preparation; his or her own preference for the type of rice used. Personally, Carnarolli works for me, but I refuse to enter the potential minefield of snooty rice arguments – plain old Arborio works pretty damn well too. So here, despite any misgivings, is a delectable, sloppy and oh-so-rich risotto, tinted a delicate shade of faded rose-pink. Just when you think it’s going to be too sweet, too soothing, the pungent cheese wakes your palate and the chives add a layer of freshness to each bite.

Dare I admit that I often use stock cubes in risotto? In my defense, I can enthusiastically recommend Marigold Swiss Bullion Powder, championed by many great cookery writers. So there, I’ve said it, thumbing my nose at tradition and awaiting a barrage of scorn. Do you think any less of me as a cook? While I’m at it, you might as well use the best mascarpone you can find – Elgaar Farm's organic one is beyond belief.

One final thing: if you’re concerned about animal rennet in cheese, do not use a blue unless you can be absolutely convinced that it’s okay by reading all labels. A stinky goat’s cheese will be different, but no less good.

Wine-poached pear and blue cheese risotto – serves 4-6
Adapted from a recipe in the magnificent Enjoy by Nadine Abensur. Serve with a salad of sharp-flavoured, bitter leaves, dressed like this.

5 ripe, firm pears
150ml of drinkable red wine
150ml of drinkable muscat or port
2 points of star anise
1 litre of vegetable stock, plus a little more
1 tablespoon of butter
1 tablespoon of olive oil
2 red onions, chopped
1-2 cloves of garlic, crushed
400g of risotto rice (use what you like)
150-200g of blue cheese, or 200g of equally stinky goat’s feta
4 tablespoons of mascarpone
1 bunch of chives, snipped
Pepper

Peel the pears, cut into eighths and cut away the cores. Place in a small saucepan with the wine, muscat and star anise and bring to a lively simmer. Cook at this pace for 10 minutes, then fish out and discard the star anise and set the pears in their cooking liquor aside.

Heat the stock or water in another saucepan over a very gentle heat and keep warm.

Melt the butter and oil together in a large, heavy-based saucepan over a medium heat. Add the onion and fry until translucent, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and fry for 30 seconds before tipping in the rice, stirring constantly, until the grains are well coated in the fat. Lower the heat. Pour in the stock, one ladleful at a time, stirring often and only adding more when the last lot is absorbed. Pour in the pears and their cooking liquor and gently stir until the grains are perfectly cooked.

Crumble in the blue cheese and, if you think the risotto needs more liquid, up to one more ladle of hot stock. Clamp the lid on tightly, remove from the heat and leave to rest for 5 minutes.

Serve in bowls, sprinkle with a generous showering of chives and top each serving with a tablespoon of mascarpone. Grind over some pepper and pass the grinder around for others to add a little more.